6. Ezra
Ezra
He dipped the tip of his paintbrush into the old coffee mug he used to clean them and swirled it around.
WORLD’S GREATEST DAD, the mug said in cheerful block print.
It was from the Mayflower Shop in town, before it became a high-end home goods store, back when Main Street in Chatham boasted more toy stores and five-and-dime shops than designer boutiques and galleries.
The mug was a gift from his daughter, Amy, given on Father’s Day, many moons ago.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had more than five minutes of Amy’s time on the phone.
His daughter was always so busy, far away in Seattle.
Since she’d broken the news that she and the grandkids weren’t coming out this summer to visit, the distance seemed almost unbridgeable.
Ezra sighed. From the edge of his patio the morning light was golden, the bay below mesmerizing.
Both should have been ample inspiration for his painting, but inside he felt nothing but gloom.
It was translating to his canvas. That morning’s acrylic was a careless series of gray strokes, interrupted only by tinges of blue and brown.
All of it morose. None of it representative of the pristine view before him.
Ezra understood that his strained view of the outside world had more to do with what was going on inside, particularly in his mind.
As a neurosurgeon, he was well acquainted with the science of the brain, at least what had so far been discovered.
And he held too much esteem for the mighty organ to assume that they’d even scratched the surface of that science.
With its complicated map of neurons and synapses, all of which controlled the body’s deepest inner workings, the brain was as marvelous as it was mysterious.
But the mind—well, that was another animal entirely.
And that’s where Ezra’s problems lay. The mind was where the memories were stored.
The feelings that kept him awake at night.
The sad thoughts that floated into consciousness and hovered like a raincloud.
These things could not be measured in electrical waves nor detected on a scan. Still, the evidence was there.
Lately Ezra had been forgetting the lyrics to his favorite Sinatra songs.
Then there was the painful tingling sensation that radiated through the soles of his feet any time he contemplated his future.
Most recently, and probably most distressing, Ezra had stopped tasting food.
It was as if the food had a volume button and someone had muted it.
Whether Ezra doused his eggs with hot sauce or squeezed too much lemon on seafood, it all tasted the same to him: bland and sad.
It was why he’d given up cooking anything different or eating out at a restaurant. Why bother?
Painting, it seemed, was all he had left.
But lately even that was fading. His older works, paintings done while Rachel was still alive and that she’d insisted on hanging up wherever there was wall space in the house, were wholly different.
They, too, were landscapes, but how bright the color choices, how vivid the details.
Once, a visiting friend of Amy’s who ran a gallery on Newbury Street had offered to show his work.
“You’re quite good,” she’d told him. Ezra had chuckled self-consciously before politely declining her offer.
“If you ever change your mind,” she’d said, handing him a business card before she left.
He had not. Ezra saved the occasional bout of ego for his work in neurosurgery.
He had never liked a fuss, never sought the limelight whether handling a delicate surgery in the OR or seated before a homemade birthday cake; he much preferred to bask in the light of those he loved.
Painting was something he did for himself; it was the one place he expressed his joy with abandon.
When he looked back at his earlier pieces he saw where he’d once poured his bottled happiness onto the canvas.
Now, standing before his easel, there was no denying he’d entered a new period.
Unlike the masters he admired, this was not a period of artistic experimentation or social expression.
This was about his state of mind. It was about shadow and shade and an impenetrable darkness he could not shake.
It didn’t require his medical degree to diagnose: Ezra was depressed.
As a doctor, he comprehended the protocols.
Medically, he could, should, schedule an appointment with his general practitioner.
He could request a psychiatric evaluation or seek a prescription: oh, the candy-land of drugs available these days.
Therapeutically, he could try counseling.
Companionship. A walk in the woods, or in his case, out of the woods.
These practices were sound and backed by science.
At the very least, in his most basic humanness, Ezra could simply get out of his house for the day.
He could drag himself into town and among the living.
Grab a nice seat and a cold beer at the Squire and start a conversation with the person on the next barstool.
Attend a Chatham A’s game and cheer with the crowd.
Join the Eldredge Library book club he’d seen advertised in the paper.
After all, he was living in New England’s tourist hub during its highest season.
There were people and places aplenty for a lonely man.
The thing was, Ezra didn’t want to do those things.
He’d already met the best person of his life, his wife, Rachel.
Together with their daughter, Amy, he’d already lived a life so full of beautiful ordinary things: noisy family dinners, elementary school soccer games, sitting through dance recitals so eternal he once thought, If one more tiny dancer twirls onstage for another solo I will die right here, right now.
There were also less ordinary things: skipping off for a weekend in Paris, their first trip without Amy.
Building their dream home in Newton, and then selling it to retire.
And here, running down the steep wooden steps to the water for late-night skinny-dipping.
Rachel’s idea, of course. When was the last time Ezra had taken those steps down to the water?
He could not recall. The treads were probably rotting now; he could picture the wood warping, the nails pulling away from the stringers. How symbolic, he thought.
No, Ezra did not need to seek new happiness.
He liked the old happiness he’d had, and he’d made peace, mostly, with the fact he could not get it back again.
He would not seek to reinvent himself or reimagine his life.
Such foolish thinking, ripe with disappointment.
The only reason Ezra had survived this long as a widow, beyond his stubborn German heritage and his unavoidable penchant to preserve life, thanks to his medical training, was his daughter, Amy.
Amy and those beautiful grandchildren. But now Ezra had a new plan.
If she were not already dead herself, Rachel would kill him. If she knew what he was planning, and he feared she might, she would have none of it. But Rachel wasn’t here. And neither was Amy, really, anymore.
When Ezra thought about it (and he really had, oh, how hard he’d thought), Amy’s life would not change that much without him.
Already she was living it largely without him, all the way across the country, and living it well.
She was educated, employed, happily married, and a wonderful mother.
He tried to convince himself that he had invested all he could in her, and as for any financial uncertainties of the future, he’d arranged for her to inherit comfort and security aplenty.
Ezra did not want to hurt his daughter; truly, he could not bear the thought of that.
But, despite the bottomless depth of his love for her, the terrible truth was that Ezra could not bear to be on this planet any longer.
It is why Ezra would be taking his leave. He would do so neatly and quietly, in a way that appeared natural, for Amy’s sake. In a way that did not trouble anyone any more than absolutely necessary. He had already figured all of these things out. The only thing left was when.
Glancing up at the bright horizon once more and then down at his easel, Ezra lifted the still-wet painting and carried it promptly inside where he disposed of it in the trash.
The trash collectors were coming the next day.
If only he could dispose of the hurt that ached within his bones so easily.
Perhaps this was a sign. Was it time to go?
Should he empty the fridge and dispose of all the perishables? The thought of someone coming in to a fridge filled with spoiled goods seemed unfair, and though he had not chosen a date, why not be practical about things? He had always been practical.
Until now, Rachel’s voice whispered in his mind.
For all the times he’d tried to conjure her, this time Ezra shooed Rachel’s voice away. It went against every fiber of his being, but he just could not have her interfering now; his battered mind was made up.
Rachel, however, would not be silenced. In that case, will you be running the dishwasher before you go? And what about the dishes, once they’re clean? Will you be stacking them neatly on the shelves one last time?
Ezra looked between the sink and the dishwasher. He hadn’t thought about all of that.
And the mail? Will you put it on hold?
Ezra winced, shaking his head at his wife’s insistence. “Please, Rachel,” he said aloud. It was too much.
Please what? Stand by and watch you make the worst mistake of your life?
Her voice was ripe with pleading; it was the very reason he’d tried to turn a deaf ear to it these last couple days.
And yet, despite his conviction about his decision, he could not shut her out.
Overcome, Ezra lowered himself onto a kitchen stool with a soft whump, tears spilling from his eyes.
Enough. He would do it tomorrow. The garbage and dishwasher and personal belongings be damned. It was all just stuff, none of it holding any meaning to him anymore. What did any of it matter?
Outside, from the corner of his eye, Ezra caught something as it passed by the glass door. He turned, hoping it was just a stray deer wandering by. He hoped it was not another painful sign from Rachel. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone?
But no—it was that dog. The wretched shaggy dog from next door, back again. What was wrong with people these days? Filled with outrage, Ezra hopped up so sharply from the kitchen stool that it fell out from beneath him. Ignoring the clatter, he strode to the patio slider and flung it ajar.
The dog, who had lined itself up against one of his best flowering shrubs, froze, its rear leg in mid-lift.
“Get out of here!” Ezra shouted, pumping his fist. His voice, roaring from his throat, was not his own. Nor was the gesture, his fingers clenched angrily against the sky. But the rage was so great it propelled him through the sliding door and across the patio right up to the loose dog.
The dog, smarter than it looked, lowered its leg and darted away. Head turned and eyes locked on his, it slunk to the other side of his patio. Ezra followed. And then the toe of his shoe caught the lip of the flagstone.
He felt the fall come, his feet flying out from beneath him, the ground rising up to meet his face in slow motion. And then, suddenly, the flagstone was sailing toward him. He felt the contact: both hands, his cheek, his left shoulder as he crumpled against it. And then everything went very still.
Slowly, Ezra rolled onto his back, taking stock of his limbs. He had no idea where everything was, but it all seemed to be still attached. There was no hot white pain of a broken bone. All there was was blue cloudless sky overhead. And then, something else.
His bright view darkened like a solar eclipse when the big dog came to stand over him.
Ezra winced as it sniffed the air above him.
And then, the dog having sensed that he was not exactly a threat in this state, came the wet press of its nose.
On his forehead, down his cheek. The wet nose stopped at the side of his head, and then there came a lick.
“Ouch.” Ezra put his hand to his cheek. It was bleeding, just a little.
The dog looked down at him. Its eyes were big and round and green. Ezra had not known dogs could have green eyes. The dog kept watching; it seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
“I wouldn’t have hurt you,” Ezra whispered, finally.
Carefully, Ezra lifted himself to a seated position. The knee of his trousers was scuffed, and slightly torn. He could already feel the bloom of a bruise by his cheekbone. But the world was not spinning and he did not feel sick. Good signs, he told himself.
The dog, meanwhile, stayed where it was, its placid gaze still on him.
“May I?” Ezra asked, reaching out. He felt a little unsteady.
The dog stood very still.
Gently, Ezra looped one arm over the dog’s shoulders and shifted his weight.
In that way, very slowly, Ezra gathered his feet beneath himself and rose to standing.
Here the world did wobble a bit, and when he felt it spin he also felt the dog press reassuringly against him.
“Well,” Ezra said, resting a hand on the soft breadth of the dog’s head.
When he recovered his wits, Ezra went inside for a glass of water. He cleaned himself up at the kitchen sink, blotting the small cut on his cheek with a paper towel. When he came back outside, the dog was still waiting.
“Alright then,” he said, heading gingerly across the yard in the direction of the inn. The big dog followed.