Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rachel Dixon’s wife, Sandy, a psychiatric social worker, was the one who recommended Emily and I see Dr. Beena Patel, a licensed clinical psychologist who’d done extensive work counseling grieving couples.
Emily was skeptical but compliant; I was desperate to try anything that might help us ease the pain.
When we step into Dr. Patel’s office, she holds out her hand to welcome us.
Her sari, honeydew green, is draped over a white short-sleeved T-shirt, her hair is salt-and-pepper.
“Please sit down,” she says, indicating the gray-and-white-striped love seat opposite her matching armchair.
Once we’re seated, I reach over and take Emily’s hand, a gesture she tolerates for about five seconds before she withdraws it.
This does not escape our grief counselor’s watchful eye.
“May I first of all offer you both my deepest condolences,” she says. Emily and I nod, mumbling our thanks. “How long ago did the accident happen?”
“Twelve days ago,” Emily says.
From the other side of the room, I hear what sounds like a train whistle.
“I put some water to boil just before you came in,” she says.
“Tea? I have chamomile and jasmine.” Emily declines.
I say either one. “Let’s have jasmine then.
” She takes two small cups from a shelf, lifts the kettle off a glowing hot plate, and pours the steaming water into a colorful teapot.
“Ah, the aroma of jasmine always carries me back to my childhood in India.”
“India?” I say. “Really? I would have guessed Scandinavia.” Emily looks over at me, disgusted. I apologize, explaining that I make stupid jokes when I’m nervous.
“No apology necessary,” Dr. Patel says. “I like jokes, especially silly ones.” She cocks her head and gives me a benign smile. “And there’s no need to be nervous, Corbin. This is a safe place for you both.”
I nod. Ask whether she could call me Corby.
“Of course. Now, I understand you’ll be appearing before a judge for sentencing in several weeks. Correct?”
“Yeah, although I’ve already been drawn and quartered on Facebook and Twitter, as my mother-in-law has dutifully reported to Emily.”
Dr. Patel looks at Emily, who looks away from her. “Well, that is not the case here, Corby. My job is to help, not judge.” Emily rolls her eyes.
Trying to break through my wife’s resistance, I say, “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I deserve to be judged. I put both our kids at risk when I started drinking while I was taking care of them.”
“And drugging yourself, too,” Emily mumbles. “Don’t forget that little detail.”
Dr. Patel looks back and forth between us.
“Right,” I say. “And Niko died because of it. Emily, the shame and guilt I feel—the pain this is putting you through—is going to be a life sentence for me. And it should.” I turn from my wife to Dr. Patel. “But there’s a bigger picture.”
“Meaning?” Dr. Patel asks.
“That I’ve been a loving father, too. A pretty good father up until—”
“Until you weren’t!” Emily snaps. “Don’t make yourself sound like Father of the Year. Or like you’re a victim because of what people are saying on Facebook. Because you’re not the victim, Corby. Niko was.”
Close to tears, I snap back at her. “You think I don’t know that? You think that’s slipped my mind?”
Dr. Patel waits for one of us to speak, but when we don’t, she says, “Let’s take a breath. I think our tea must be finished steeping. I’ll be right back.”
While we wait, Emily checks her phone and I scan the degrees on Dr. Patel’s wall. Oxford University, the University of Chicago. There’s a plaque from the National Alliance on Mental Illness, a teaching award from Yale.
When she’s back, I nod toward the wall. “That’s a pretty impressive collection you’ve got up there,” I say.
“Well, I’m afraid my accomplishments in the kitchen are much less so,” she says, placing a plate of cookies on the table in front of us. “These are nankhatai —Indian butter cookies.”
I take one; Emily doesn’t. Dr. Patel says she’d like to turn to Emily now. “Corby has told us that his feelings of shame and guilt will be ‘a life sentence,’ but—”
“That’s typical. Our son is dead, but he’s focused on himself.”
I flinch but don’t respond. “Tell us what you’re feeling, Emily,” Dr. Patel says.
“What I’m feeling? I’m feeling so overwhelmed with grief that I have to remind myself to breathe. That I have to force myself to get out of bed in the morning.”
“That’s understandable, and good for you that you’re making that effort,” Patel says. “What other feelings are you experiencing?”
“Anger. Confusion. Guilt. And that’s just for starters.”
“It’s understandable that, this close to so profound a tragedy, your emotions would be all over the place,” Patel says.
“Please don’t call him ‘a tragedy.’ He has a name: Niko.” She looks over at me. “ Had a name,” she says.
“So noted,” Patel says. “Now I’d like us to examine your anger a little more closely. Would that be all right?”
Emily sighs impatiently but finally nods.
“Good. Thank you, Emily. Let me first tell you that I have done grief work with other mothers who have lost a child. If the death was unexpected, rather than anticipated because of the child’s terminal illness, these mothers, understandably, feel angry about a situation that has been thrust upon them out of the blue.
Some of these grieving mothers direct their outrage at fate or, if they are women of faith, at God because they feel He has betrayed their devotion to Him.
Depending on the circumstances surrounding the death, others feel angry with themselves or with their child’s father. Can you tell us what or whom—”
“Corby!”
“Because?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Dr. Patel suggests it might be useful if Emily says what she needs to say directly to me. When she turns to me, I brace myself, determined to face her.
She keeps me waiting, but I can tell from her rapid breathing that her anger is rising.
“You betrayed my trust,” she finally says.
“I assumed our kids would be safe in their father’s care, but Niko’s not here anymore because of your stupid self-pity.
‘Oh, poor me. I lost my job and can’t find another one.
And now I have to take care of our kids because we can’t afford daycare.
Boo-hoo. I might as well just get wasted. ’?”
My hands clench up and my stomach tightens, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose it.
When I ask Patel whether I can respond, she nods.
“I started drinking because I was depressed, Emily, not because I resented taking care of the kids. Was it easy being the stay-at-home parent? Not always. But there were parts about it that I really loved. It was amazing to watch their development from day to day. I bonded with Niko and Maisie in a way I never would have otherwise.”
“Too bad they weren’t your priority then.”
“Emily, they were .”
“No, your priority was numbing your self-pity with alcohol and drugs, or as you like to put it, ‘checking out,’ which sounds a lot nicer than getting behind the wheel while you were incapacitated and backing over our son.” She begins to sob.
“And because of that, I’m never going to see him again, cuddle with him, tickle his tummy when I’m changing his diaper and hear his giggle.
I won’t be able to go to his swimming lessons, his T-ball games.
Send him off to high school, then college.
Watch him become whoever he was going to be.
You took all of that away from me, Corby.
You put the car in reverse and stole him from me. ”
I can’t do it. Can’t keep facing her, watching the grim truth come out of her angry mouth, but she doesn’t stop.
I look at Patel, my eyes begging her to intervene, but she lets it go on.
Lets Emily lash out, then wail from the pain.
When Em stands up and walks toward the door, I assume she’s storming out of the session.
But then she pivots, comes back, and sits down again.
Having unleashed some of her pain seems to have calmed her down.
“And the thing that’s so confusing is that I love you and feel sorry for you because of the shame you must have to carry, which I can’t even begin to imagine. But I hate you, too, Corby, for breaking that trust I thought I could rely on.”
“You don’t think I hate myself , Emily?” Calm down. Lower your voice. “Babe, you and I have a history,” I remind her. “And sure, we’ve had our ups and downs, but until recently—”
“That’s a pretty big ‘until recently,’ don’t you think?”
“All I’m saying is—”
“Don’t you dare dismiss my son’s death like that! Don’t you fucking dare !”
“ Your son? He was our son, Emily!” Inhale, exhale. Once, twice, three times.
She sits there, fuming. Glances over at Patel, then turns back to me.
“I get that you were depressed about your career. And that me bringing home a paycheck while you took care of the kids all day wasn’t a great fit for you.
Bruised your fragile male ego or whatever.
But do you think it was easy for me to drive away from them every morning?
Or when I got home, having to give up bath time on school nights because I had hours of work to get to?
Because one of us had to be the grown-up?
And then having to get into bed and listen to you complain about how exhausted you were? ”
“Babe, the arrangement was situational. Temporary until I could—”
“You know what’s not temporary, Corby? One of my babies is dead!
” Her face is flushed, contorted with anger.
“That’s permanent. Do you remember how that doctor advised me not to go to him in that hospital morgue?
But I wouldn’t listen. I needed to see him, be with him.
And now all I can see is his damaged body, my little live wire lying there ashen and still. ”