“Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.”
—ANNE LAMOTT
Nobody knows what to do next.
Kevin and I refuse to leave Adam’s room. We know too well what might happen if we did. I doze on and off while Kevin paces. Eventually he slumps into a chair and puts his head in his hands. And just sits.
I think he’s probably crying. I draw my knees to my chest, sink my teeth into my bottom lip, and watch his shoulders shaking. I’ve always envied his ability to hold in his emotions. To cry so quietly no one knows he’s doing it. How many times over the years has this happened? How many times has he released such torment, anguish, pain, and sorrow, and I’ve never known?
God, help him.
Help us both.
I don’t have energy for more than the brief prayers I keep repeating. Inside, my spirit is groaning. God knows, surely, what we need in this moment. Yet it is a challenge to trust and stand on faith. Tears trail a slow path down my cheeks as I sit in silence and wonder what the next few hours might bring. Wonder what to say to my son when he wakes. How to get him through this. How to get us all through it. And all I see when I close my eyes is Shelby’s small casket being lowered into the ground.
I’m not doing this again, God.
Old anger surfaces. We prayed for Shelby. Prayed harder than we ever had in our lives. And still . . .
“Ma . . .” A low groan comes from the bed and I’m out of my chair at once.
“Adam! Oh, baby.” I can barely speak through tears and relief, but I know I can’t give freedom to the sobs that scream to be let out. His eyes are bleary and filled with fear, and I don’t want to frighten him further. “It’s okay, sweetie.” I brush back his hair, feel his cool forehead, and lean in to kiss it. “You’re okay.”
“Am I in the hospital?”
“Yes. But we’re here. Everyone’s here.”
Kevin huddles close, slips an arm around my waist, and rests a hand on Adam’s head. “Hey, sport.” He blinks back tears and smiles.
“Dad.” Adam’s eyes fill and his bottom lip begins to quiver. “I’m sorry.” Once he starts crying, he can’t stop. Huge, heartbreaking sobs rip from him, rip through me, and pummel me with guilt. Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t I do something?
What kind of mother doesn’t know her son is on the verge of suicide?
What kind of mother . . .
Kevin maneuvers the side arm of the hospital bed down, sits, and scoops Adam into his embrace. Adam holds tight and cries harder.
It’s the final push that sends my emotions hurtling over the cliff into deep waters.
I spin away and stumble toward the chair Kevin vacated moments ago. Hold on to the arms and hang on with all the strength I have left. I let one sob out in a quick breath, then gulp the next back down. It’s hard to steady my breathing, to control the overwhelming need to give in to the tension I’ve bottled up since Beth’s phone call, but I have to. I have to be strong.
Take a breath, darlin’.
I imagine Brock’s voice. Imagine his arms around me in that moment as I fight for calm.
Okay.
I can do this.
The doctor checks on Adam and lets Zoe come in, and the three of us huddle around the bed. He’s looking better and we’re told he’s no longer in danger. He drifts in and out, but eventually opens his eyes again and asks Zoe to sing.
When they were little, every time Adam was scared, Zoe would go to his room, snuggle in bed with him, and sing. Usually songs from the latest Disney movie they’d seen. Sometimes she’d just make up her own.
Today, for some reason, she picks a hymn. “Amazing Grace.”
And it is perfect.
My throat hurts and my eyes burn by the time she’s done. Adam finally falls asleep and Kevin makes the hesitant suggestion that he drive us home.
Snow has turned to drizzle. Light drops dance in the glow of the headlights as we drive through darkened streets, the car splashing slowly through puddles. We are battle-weary warriors returning from the bloodstained field.
Kevin stares straight ahead, hands clenched around the wheel. He’s got the radio tuned to light jazz and keeps it low. Zoe huddles in the backseat, and I gaze out the window at the dark neighborhoods I know so well. Past the park where I pushed my kids on swings and watched them play. Houses where my friends sleep. Past the elementary school, yellow buses lined up in the parking lot. Past the church we attended as a family.
Before we stopped being one.
The car slides effortlessly into the driveway I haven’t seen in so long. We enter through the front door because the garage is too full of junk we haven’t decided what to do with. Inside, I inhale the familiar: wood polish and pine scents. Somebody has cleaned.
Kevin carries in my bag and his duffel, turns on the lights, and I look around. Nothing seems out of place, everything neat and tidy, just as I left it. My home. The place I loved so much for so long, and then couldn’t wait to get away from. I’m not so sure I want to be here now, now that I know what has happened. Now that I know the disturbing depths of my son’s emotions. Emotions he hid so well from us all.
“I’m going to my room.” Zoe hangs up her coat, swings her backpack over her shoulder, wipes her eyes, and hugs us both. I hug her tighter than I normally would.
“Try to sleep, sweetheart.” Kevin’s voice is hoarse as he folds her against him. She starts crying again, which sets me off. Him too.
“Wake me if . . .”
Kevin shakes his head and somehow smiles. “None of that. He’s going to be fine. You heard the doctor.” Zoe’s wide eyes lose their fear almost at once. “We’ll wake you when we hear something. They said to check in around nine. You need to rest. We all do.”
“I know.” She sniffs and smiles. “Are you going to stay here?” she asks him, then throws me a cautious glance.
He clears his throat and looks my way.
“Of course he is.” It seems the logical response, but the minute I say it, I have second thoughts. “I mean, if you want. You don’t have to.”
Kevin almost rolls his eyes, then takes off his coat. I shrug out of mine and reach for his. Zoe trudges upstairs, her door closing softly.
And I lose what little control I had left.
My knees buckle, but Kevin has his arms around me before I hit the ground.
“Okay, take it easy. You’re okay.” He picks me up and releases his breath against the side of my face as he carries me through the living room. Gently he places me on the couch, wipes my tears, and stares at me through sad eyes. “Savannah.” Then he finally says what he’s thinking. “Do you want me to call Dr. Clarke?”
“For me or Adam?” It’s a loaded question, I suppose, but for some reason it makes him smile.
“I think Adam’s in good hands right now. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“I’m fine.” I’m not. Not yet. But I will be. And I have to believe that for my son as well. A million scary thoughts race through my head, pushing and pulling and trying to find their way out, but none of them make the slightest bit of sense. “I thought . . . he . . . might . . .” I can’t say it.
“I know.” Kevin gives a shuddering sigh, his eyes glimmering. “But he’s okay, thank God. We didn’t lose him, Savannah. We’ll get him through this.”
“How?”
He moves down the couch away from me. Turns on the lamp on the side table and leans back into the deep cushions. “I don’t know.”
I don’t even remember what the doctor said now. It’s all a jumble of words and feelings and total helplessness. Today, as long as Adam remains stable, they’ll move him to a psychiatric ward. He’ll be evaluated and treated appropriately. He’ll probably have to stay for a week, maybe more. But I just want him to come home.
“They’ll call us if—”
“They will. But you saw him, Savannah. Sound asleep. He won’t know we’re gone.”
I take a few deep breaths and lace my fingers together. It’s then I realize I’m not wearing my rings. I took them off a few days ago when I was cleaning. Slowly I lift my head and lock eyes with my husband. He’s also staring at my hand.
Kevin blows out his breath and looks away. “Do you want tea? I don’t know if there’s any food, but I can look. And you should try to sleep a bit.”
“Tea. Okay. I can make it.” I start to move but he turns to face me with a frown.
“I may not have ever cooked a turkey, but I do know how to boil a kettle.”
“Kevin . . .”
He shakes his head and leaves the room before I can say another word.
“Wonderful.” I lean over my knees and breathe deeply. My thoughts won’t settle. No way will I be able to sleep. I wander back through the hall and find my purse, fish out my phone, and check my messages. It’s going on five in the morning. I tap out a brief message to Brock, letting him know Adam’s okay. As I enter the kitchen my phone buzzes. It’s Brock, texting me back. Figures he wouldn’t be asleep. He’s probably been in front of his computer since the minute he got home.
I look at the message, make sure my cell is set to vibrate, and shove it in the pocket of my jeans. Kevin has set out tea, found an unopened box of melba toast and a jar of strawberry jam.
“I’ll have to go to the store.” I’m thinking out loud.
“I can go later. Make a list.” He sits at the table, scanning his iPhone. Slowly he looks up, staring at me through eyes that hold a hundred questions. “Did you call Alison?” His voice is shaky.
“Alison?” I pull my fingers through my hair and sit. “Why the—” And then I remember. “Yes. We were looking for you.” I pull the teapot toward me and pour out two cups with an unsteady hand.
He’s still staring, incredulous. “Why would you call her?”
“I didn’t. My father did.” Bitterness balls in my throat. “You can tell her everything’s fine and we won’t be bothering her again.”
Kevin puts down his phone, mutters a low curse, and runs a hand down his face. “I wasn’t with her, Savannah. I haven’t talked to her since she left town. She sent me a message to say you were looking for me, that there was some emergency. She wanted to know what was going on, that’s all.”
“Kevin, I don’t care.” I sip my tea and settle into this feeling of indifference that seems to have moved into my heart.
He dumps a spoonful of sugar into his tea and stirs. He never takes sugar. I doubt he even realizes he’s done it, but I’m not about to point it out.
“I left you three messages on the house phone up there, Savannah. I figured you might not hear your cell, so that way at least you’d know where I was. Then I was stuck at the hospital with my dad, first in emergency, then getting him settled in the ward. I left as soon as I got your message.”
“Sorry.” I shrug, not sure what to say. Things can’t get any worse, really, so I suppose it doesn’t matter what my response is at this point. “I never check that answering machine. You should have called my cell or sent me a text. I’m getting better with it.” Thanks to Maysie. “How’s your father?” My in-laws are older than my parents and their health has not been good the past few years. Since Kevin and I separated, I haven’t kept in touch. But neither have they.
“Grumpy. But not in as much pain when I left.” His fingers scratch the stubble on his jaw. “I don’t think I’ll tell them about Adam yet. If I tell them at all.”
“I don’t know if he’d want anyone to . . .” The reality of the past twenty-four hours slams into me like an out-of-control tractor trailer. “This is an absolute nightmare.”
“Yeah.” He reaches for a piece of melba toast, snaps it in half, and lets it fall onto the white plate in front of him. My phone buzzes. Probably Brock, but I don’t want to answer it.
Kevin holds my gaze for a long moment. “Aren’t you going to get that? It could be the hospital.”
Could be, but I doubt it. Reluctantly I reach for my cell and scan the screen. “It’s not the hospital.”
Kevin sits back with a grunt. Musses his hair and swings his gaze across the room. “Answer it.”
My chest is too tight for words, but I manage to hold a brief, albeit strained conversation with Brock while my husband sits across the table, watching me. We don’t say much and I hang up quickly.
“He was worried.” I put the phone down and cradle my mug of tea. I’m so tired it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open, but I’m still running on adrenaline. Still not sure I could sleep.
Kevin nods slowly, slides a little lower in his chair, his expression dark. “Is it true? What he said at the hospital. The brain tumor?”
Tears fill my eyes again and I dab my cheeks with a Kleenex. “Yes.”
Silence smothers the room like early-morning fog. The sky grows a little lighter. Kevin opened a window earlier, just a crack to let in some fresh air, and dawn songs from the birds I used to feed filter through into the kitchen. I wonder if there’s any birdseed left in the cupboard.
“Savannah? Is he going to be okay?”
I look back at Kevin, the worry creasing his forehead, the haunted look in his eyes, and the dark shadows under them that make me wonder when he last slept well. I have no clue what he’s thinking, and I’m not so sure I want to.
I shrug and spin my phone in a circle. “He’s been told it’s terminal. I don’t think there’s anything more they can do.”
Kevin sucks in a breath and scratches his head. “I’m sorry.”
I stare at him in surprise. He seems sincere. “Yeah. Me too.” I don’t want to talk to him about Brock. “He asked me to apologize for what he said to you at the hospital. He wasn’t thinking straight.”
Kevin massages his jaw. “Neither was I.”
My thoughts drift to Adam again as I look at all the photographs pinned on the door of the fridge, held in place by an array of colorful magnets the kids collected from our many family road trips. “Adam told Zoe he called your cell on Saturday. That a woman answered.”
“What?” Kevin narrows his eyes. “What woman?”
“I don’t know, I thought you might. Apparently he didn’t stay on long enough to find out.”
He moves his plate around and shakes his head. “Since I was at my parents’ house, I’d say it was either my mother or my sister. Which Adam would have found out if he’d asked who he was talking to.” He props his elbows, presses his hands against his forehead, and groans. “So he thought . . .”
“Don’t go there. This isn’t your fault.” I say it quietly, not sure I really mean it. Not sure I’m ready to support him in this. Not yet.
Kevin doesn’t speak. Just sits back and settles his gaze on me. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has a hundred mistakes to make up for.”
“Don’t I?”
“Savannah . . .”
“I don’t want to do this now.” It’s all I can say without tears. We sit in silence for a while. Then I have to ask. “Why didn’t you tell me Adam was failing his classes? I assume you knew by the time you came up to the Berkshires on Christmas Day.”
Kevin closes his eyes and emits another low groan. “I wasn’t keeping it from you intentionally. I planned to talk to you. But then things got crazy up there. I thought when I got Adam on his own, when we went skiing, he and I could talk and figure it out.”
“Did you?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, my throat dry. “Did you figure it all out, Kevin? Because clearly, Adam didn’t get the memo.”
“You are putting this on me.”
“No. I’m not. I’m just . . .” He’s right. I am directing my frustration at him. “That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t angry with him, Savannah.” His eyes flash a little dangerously. “We had a good conversation and he promised to try to do better. He seemed happy enough. I never imagined—”
“No, why would you? Neither did I.” It’s more than I can contemplate, more than I can take right now. “What have we done?”
“Not we. Me.” Kevin pushes up the sleeves of his sweater and gives me a grim look. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is my fault.”
I wave off the comment but can’t come up with words. He reaches for his mug and takes a gulp, then screws up his nose in disgust, and unbidden laughter bursts out of my mouth.
Kevin stares. “I put sugar in that.”
“You did.” My shoulders shake with the effort it takes to control sudden giggles.
“You saw me.” He tries to look angry but a grin escapes.
“I did. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry not sorry.” His smile feels like aloe on blistering sunburned skin and I soak it in. Kevin holds my eyes for a long moment. “If I could go back and change it all, I would.” His grin is gone and my laughter fades.
“Really?” I break his gaze and study the pictures on the wall instead.
Why can’t I just give the man a break?
When I look back at him, I see he’s thinking the same thing. “You’ll never forgive me, will you?”
I lean over the table and put my head in my hands. “Let’s not do this now, Kevin. We’re stressed and exhausted and we probably shouldn’t be attempting conversation.”
“Right.” He glances at his watch, then back at me. His expression is stony, like I’ve hurt him somehow. “I’ll dump my stuff in the guest room and take a shower. You really should rest. I can wake you in a couple of hours.”
“Okay. I’ll try.” I slide my chair back and get to my feet. It’s hard to think. Hard to formulate words that make sense. Because nothing about this does.
Suddenly the gong of the grandfather clock in the hall echoes through the house.
Crisp and clear.
The sound reverberates through me and wakes something akin to hope. I meet Kevin’s eyes again. “You fixed my clock?”
The antique mahogany clock was a gift from my grandmother a few years after we were first married. She knew how much I’d always loved it. We had a heck of a time getting it up here from Georgia. I had to convince Kevin to put out the money for transportation, but he finally did. Eventually it stopped keeping time properly and never sounded quite the way I remembered it in my grandmother’s home.
“I found a guy to come here to the house.” Kevin gives a small smile. “Polished it up real nice too.”
I asked him so many times to look into getting it fixed.
“Savannah, if you ask me about that stupid clock one more time . . .”
I suppose I could have found someone to fix it myself, but it was the principle of the thing.
Stupid, insignificant issues I was too stubborn to let go of.
So many of them.
“Thank you.” Two quiet words spoken in a moment that somehow holds more meaning than I think either of us knows what to do with. Hesitation hovers over his face, but then Kevin reaches for my hand, holds it tight, and nods.
I doze for maybe an hour and then wake with a start. The room I once shared with my husband seems strangely foreign, the bed a little unfamiliar. Memories hang heavy. Good ones. Bad ones. I wipe sleep from my eyes and widen them as things come into focus.
Kevin is curled in the lounge chair by the window. Watching me. Or he has been. Now his eyes are closed and he’s breathing deeply. He’s changed into sweats and a T-shirt, his dark hair damp. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen him wear it. A lock curls over his forehead.
It’s been so long since we have shared this room that his presence startles me. The realization makes me sad.
After Shelby died, we slept sporadically. I’d wake at all hours, pace the house, clean, read, watch TV. Kevin would get out of bed and sit in that chair. Sometimes he’d stare out the window. Sometimes he’d pick up a book. Sometimes he’d watch me sleep. I asked him once why he did that.
“Because knowing you’re there, knowing you’re okay, somehow makes me believe we’ll get through this.”
And suddenly the sight of him sitting there this morning makes me smile.
I slip out of bed, grab a blanket, and tuck it around him.
My hand hovers over that errant lock of hair. I study the face I know so well, have loved so long, and wonder whether forgiveness is truly possible. Wonder whether I’ll ever trust him enough to let him take me in his arms again, kiss me, and love me like he used to when things were good. When things were the way they’re supposed to be between a husband and wife.
Memories play with my mind and stir old feelings. An inexplicable longing surges through me.
Kevin shifts in the chair and my heart jumps.
His eyes flutter open, land on me for just a moment before they close again, but a smile slides across his mouth. “Thanks, Savannah,” he mumbles, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders.
I let out my breath and find myself smiling too.
This man.
What he’s put me through.
But I know right now in this minute that despite it all, he still owns my heart.
Whether I want him to or not.
And I must choose what to do with that.
I huddle back under the covers and hope for another hour of sleep. When I wake again, Kevin is gone.
After my shower, I check the time and wonder if it’s too early to call the hospital. I do it anyway. The nurse is kind. Adam’s had a good sleep—is still sleeping, in fact. I ask her to tell him that if he wakes we’ll be there later this morning.
In the hallway, everything is silent. Zoe’s door is closed and I assume she’s still asleep. As I pass Adam’s room, I stop. And stare.
“Oh no.”
To say Adam had trashed the place would be a massive understatement. Drawers are tipped out. His mattress flipped on its side. Things thrown all over—clothes, books, trophies, a lamp, picture frames—Kevin crouches in the middle of the mess, tossing broken items into a black garbage bag.
“Don’t come in. There’s glass everywhere.” His eyes are bloodshot. I have no idea how long he’s been in here, when he started, or what it looked like before. He chucks an empty pill bottle in the bag and swipes a hand across his eyes. I’m wearing slippers so I venture forward, take a deep breath, and wonder when it will be easy to breathe again.
“I want to help.” I move across the room and start folding clothes. Putting things back in their place. “We can’t bring him back to this.”
“You know he might have to stay in the hospital awhile. When you . . .” Kevin clamps his mouth shut and shoves a ripped-up note-book in the bag. “Never mind.”
He’s remembering the weeks I was hospitalized after I tried to kill myself. I never really thought about what he must have gone through that day and the weeks and months that followed. I was too caught up in myself. Trapped by my own grief and turbulent soul that refused to calm. By the time I got tired of my misery and decided to live again, it was already too late to fix what was long broken.
I push my hair over my shoulders, stare at the floor for a long moment, and measure my words. “Kevin.” He snaps his head up and locks eyes with me. “It’s okay to talk about it. About what I did. If you want to. I’m not that person anymore. I’m stronger than you think I am.”
His blue eyes shimmer and he looks away. “Okay.” He braces his hands on his knees and lowers his head. “We can talk about it. But not today.”
We move around the room in silence. Picking up, throwing out, trying to fix things that can’t be fixed. I make up the bed and my foot hits something sticking out from underneath.
A shoe box.
I pick it up and set it down on the bed and stare at it. Kevin stands behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. Maybe we’re violating Adam’s privacy, but I lift the lid.
Pictures of Shelby. A drawing. A pink ribbon. A few cards.
The order of service from her funeral.
“I didn’t know he had this,” I whisper. It’s so similar to Kevin’s, the box he retrieved that night so many weeks ago. “Did you?”
Kevin takes the box, closes the lid, and places it back under the bed. “Yeah.”
He did. I can imagine him helping a young Adam, selecting the pictures, watching him put things into that box. “Don’t tell Mom, we don’t want to upset her.” And I imagine Zoe has one too.
“We did it all wrong, didn’t we?” I whisper. “I shut everyone out. I wouldn’t talk about her. About Shelby. Wouldn’t let you in . . . the kids . . . Oh, Kev, what have I done?” The truth hits me with the force of a raging waterfall, waking me from a deep sleep. “I did this. I did this!”
The room starts to close in and I fold my arms against the pain that threatens to take me down again. Breathe. I have to force myself to breathe. Deep, calming breaths. In and out. But harrowing sobs have the upper hand.
Kevin stands behind me and pulls me backward into his embrace. He doesn’t speak, just holds me while I cry. His own tears wet my neck.
Eventually he turns me around to face him. “We’ve got to stop this. This incessant blame game. My fault, your fault. It’s not helping. You did not do this, Savannah. You hear me? We’re not going down that road again. We’re moving forward.”
“This is too hard. Too much.” I search Kevin’s anxious eyes. “Isn’t it?”
He takes my hands in his and pulls me close. Close enough for his lips to brush mine if he wanted. “I don’t know . . .” He trails a finger across my forehead and down the side of my face, and his eyes light in a way I haven’t seen for a very long time. “Maybe it’s just enough.”