CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The summer had been long and hot that year, and by stark contrast, the Fall, though still young, had already begun to be bitterly cold, temperatures plunging into the low twenties at night, the highs during day barely breaking forty. Halloween was fast approaching--just in four days, this year falling on a Wednesday, and young kids were stocking up on costumes, face paint, and props for their costumes, as well as thermal clothing to wear underneath them. Candy dishes were filling up, and carved pumpkins were appearing on doorsteps throughout the residential sections of Glenwood.
Mark groaned and stumbled out of bed to a bright, white-skied day. The plastic cup his mother had gotten from the doctor was sitting on the bureau beside his door, waiting to be filled. Now that he was back home from the hospital, one of his new, daily routines was to pee in a cup and have a lab test it for substances. He hated having to do it--it was so demeaning, he thought bitterly.
After he filled the cup and brought it downstairs, he slipped out the front door and got into his car.
Mark wasn't the sort of person to listen to authority figures, especially about the type of friends he should or should not hang out with. It wasn't difficult for Mark to figure out that every single one of his friends were regular drug users, but that reality was not about to stop him from being around them. Dan, the star football player, the proclaimed stud with usually more than one girl figuratively hanging off his arm smoked dope; Drew, the mysterious skinhead who was also a closet anarchist also did; and Joey Parrish, the popular boy, the man's man of course did. All of these people, including their girlfriends, found nothing wrong with using drugs to enhance their "fun" on a week-to-week basis.
After being released from the hospital, he found himself wandering back to those previously frequented places-- the bar downtown whose waitresses thought Mark and his friends were college students, overlooking their ridiculously crude fake id's; the field behind the junior high school that was no longer in use; Dan's house; and just about anywhere where getting loaded could be kept secretive.
On a Saturday afternoon, he drove for about fifteen minutes through the winding hills of Glenwood's residential streets, not sure where to go, before deciding to go up to Dan's house.
Dan's house looked like a beach cottage, made of unpainted wood and situated with large front and back decks that were on stilts. The garage was huge and covered entirely the level underneath the house, making it a three-level building. It was a common place for Dan's friends to hang out because his parents were rarely home, and when they were, they always turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to what was going on amongst the kids.
As Mark pulled up into the carport, it looked like no one was home. He parked the car, turned the key and slipped out of his convertible gracefully. After he ambled up the rickety wooden stairs that creaked with each step, making his way to the front door, he tried the knob and it was open. He stepped inside unabashedly.
"Hello? Dan?" he called. He heard some footsteps and the muffled sound of some far-off laughter, but no one came to the front. The air smelled thickly of cannabis.
He plodded through the house, peeking in rooms and moving in the direction of the subtle noises. When he reached the back parlor, he opened the door to find Dan and Beth sitting quietly on the tan, leather sofa, sharing a pipe filled with crushed hemp. Dan was shirtless; Beth wore only a man's flannel shirt, with nothing on her legs or feet. She was clearly not wearing any underwear.
"Mark, my boy! You finally got out! Tell me, what's it like to be out of the funny farm?"
Mark stood there for a moment, stunned. "Tell me Beth spilled something on her clothes, and you offered her your shirt," Mark said, not blinking.
Beth said nothing. Her icy stare said everything.
Mark rushed over to Dan, balling up his right hand into a tight fist, grabbed him roughly by the neck and hit him hard on the left side of his face. Dan reeled backwards and looked about ready to topple over until he regained his balance. He held his face, cradling it, hunched over. "What the hell are you thinking?" he cried, his voice coming out in gasps. "I'm twice as big as you and I could kill you if I wanted!"
"Then do it, you son of a bitch," Mark dared.
Beth raised her voice. "Stop being such assholes, you guys," she said. "Fighting is stupid and pointless. You're friends, remember?" Then she turned to Mark and started walking towards him. When she had approached him and was close enough for Mark to feel her breath on his face, she took the tip of her finger and traced an invisible line on his chest. Before she spoke, she gave him a sexy stare. "What we had was a good thing, Mark," she said, in a breathy voice. "But don't you remember? We broke up weeks ago, and I'm a free woman now." She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. "Stop all this fighting and this jealousy. That same freedom goes for you, too."
He caught his breath, his heart pumping with adrenaline. He wanted to speak, but somehow he couldn't find the words. After a moment, all he could manage to say was, "I said we should take a break, not break up forever."
She pouted. "Don't give me a double standard," she said. "You jumped into bed with that little girl practically the same night we called it quits. And besides," she said, with the beginnings of a smirk on her face, "I'm not sure if I ever want to be in a relationship with you again now. While you were away, I had some time to think about things. I thought about things a lot."
Mark's heartbeat was slowly returning to normal, even though his anger level was not. He stepped back, throwing her hand away. "Is this what you were doing when I was in the hospital?" She raised her chin, not answering him. Dan was cowering in the corner, his eyes steely. Mark's eyes flicked from one person to the other. "I see it is."
"Oh, lighten up," Dan said, still cradling his cheek. "It's not like you didn't know we were together before you guys ever went out."
But Mark didn't stay to listen. He turned on his heels and sailed out the front door, not even glancing back when Dan called, "If you tell Courtney, I'll break your neck!"
Mark went to sleep that night and slept like a two-ton boulder was resting on top of him. If he had any dreams, he couldn't remember them; either he was too exhausted, or it was something in the pot he'd smoked earlier in the day. He toyed with the idea that it had been laced with something. After the run-in at Dan's house, he'd driven to a nearby park, found a solitary spot in the soft green grass at the edge of a large field, the view of it obstructed by several large trees, and smoked a medium-sized joint all by himself. He woke up Sunday morning wishing that the night had been six hours longer.
Mark never went to Church. His parents had been raised Catholic, and were not given the choice as to whether or not they should attend Mass; subsequently, they made it a point to give Mark the freedom to choose whether or not he wanted religion in his life. As a young child, he often wondered about the existence of a God, but as a young man, he gave up wondering and basically hated the idea that one might exist-- if He were to, in Mark's estimation, He would have to be the cruellest, most unmerciful Being that ever was, given the life that Mark had been handed out.
Mark yawned and ran his fingers through his grimy hair. Another new, unwelcome routine Mark now had to endure was to see a squinty-eyed therapist who looked like he needed a fresh pair of bifocals. Mark had a dim memory of his mother slipping into his room late at night, after he'd gone to bed and reminding him that he had a therapy appointment in the morning. He had no memory of what he'd said to her, or whether she'd stayed and talked to him or simply left, but he knew that she had come. He was not looking forward to the session. The psychologist smelled like cheap Stetson and wore a plaid, button-down dress shirt with wool pants that were cut too short. Much the professor type, his beard was mostly grey, but on either side of his mouth, two large swipes of brown made his face look like a painter had taken a brush to it (Either that, or he didn't know how to use his Just for Men). His glasses were thick and goggle-like, yellowing with age, and he rarely ever smiled, even though his countenance was friendly and jovial. Mark hated being forced into a relationship with a man he'd never met before, and when it came right down to it, a man he disliked.
He'd had two sessions already with the Ph.D psychologist, Dr. Murphy. His office was situated downtown in a two-level building wedged between a corner grocery and a package store, grouped with the offices of three other counselors. It was small and cramped, decorated to the hilt with two padded chairs and a loveseat, with a multi-colored circular rug on the floor. The walls were donned with framed academia, as well as artwork and poetry. Potted plants sat on the windowsill by the window, and by the loveseat, a set of pipes and tobaccos. Dr. Murphy's desk sat in the corner, cluttered by papers, phone, rolodex, folders, and framed photographs of his family-- stills of Dr. Murphy sitting with his short, dark-haired wife and two small children of similar coloring. They smiled broadly into the camera, hugging each other, portraying the quintessence of a well-adjusted family. Mark could picture him wearing a smoking jacket and slippers, a pipe in one hand and a newspaper in the other, as he read by the fire in a log cabin, his children playing at his feet.
The first time they had met, Dr. Murphy had leaned in close, after a thoughtful silence, and said, "You lied while you were in the hospital, didn't you?"
Mark had stared blankly. "I don't know what you mean."
The man had pulled at the hairs on his chin. He had squinted his eyes so that they were almost shut, and leaned forward. "Mark. Are you going to make this hard for me?" he said, his voice almost a growl. "Are you going to shut me out, and not give me a chance to help you?" He had looked intently into Mark's eyes, then down at his lap to where a manilla folder was lying. Looking through the magnifiers in his lenses, he carefully opened the folder. "You signed a release form so that I could look at the records they had for you at the hospital, and I've been looking at them. You must have lied, because several things in here don't add up."
Mark had been offended by the man's effrontery. "I signed the release form because I had to, not because I wanted to."
He had looked up, his eyes magnified by his goggle-lenses and blinked his eyes, as though to clarify his vision. "Well, surely no one held a gun to your head," he commented, and Mark bit his lip at the man's choice of words. After a dramatic pause, he lowered his voice. "Please don't misunderstand me. There's no have-to here, Mark," he said, pointedly and with a sigh. "Whatever you don't feel comfortable sharing, you just say so, and we'll stop. But if you don't help me, then there's no way that I can help you."
But Mark did not believe him. Besides, he had already put up that mile-high wall that could stop anything and everything from getting in. "What makes you think I lied?" Mark persisted.
The man had shrugged, but not because he was confused. "Don't most people, if they want to get out of a place like that?"
Mark had shrugged, an echo to the man's previous gesture. "I suppose if you want it badly enough."
Now, sitting in his room, staring out the window, Mark quietly got up and slipped down the hall into the bathroom to get ready for the day. While massaging his hair with shampoo, he made great care not to put too much pressure on his scars, which were still sore.
It was a white day again, and cold as it had been the day before. Fresh dew dampened the lawn, for it had not been quite cold enough the night before for a frost.
His mother had taken a dramatic change since the suicide attempt. No longer her constantly critical self, she had started to take shorter hours at work to spend more time at home. She was quiet with him now, not loud and nagging the way she once was, and considerate, especially for her. Mark wondered how long the change would last. He knew that the attempt had come as a shock to her, but for the most part, he had no idea what was going on inside her head for her to act so differently.
Stepping out of the shower, the air was cold, and shivering, he slipped on his bathrobe.
It was a Sunday. He had had a strange first week back at school, and now he had to have his day of freedom stripped away from him so that he could go see a man who was supposed to know what was going on inside his head better than he was. His mother was waiting for him downstairs once he was dressed and ready to go. She quietly handed him a bowl filled with cereal and urged him to eat.
"Therapy today, Mark."
"Uh-huh."
"Is he helping you?" The tone in her voice was soft but persistent; a slight smile curled at the edge of her lips.
He handed her the plastic cup he had filled earlier. "I dunno." He went over to the sink and washed his hands, not looking up.
His mother shook her head. "If he's not helping you we can always find another therapist," she said, and it was evident that she was trying to sound helpful.
He dove into his Wheat Chex hungrily. "What about no therapy at all?" Mark mumbled, after chewing and swallowing a mouthful.
His mother frowned, suddenly. "There's no getting out of it," she protested. "After being in the hospital, you've got to talk to somebody on a regular basis...that's what the social worker recommended. Before it happened, you didn't do that, and things got all stuffed up inside of you. You didn't talk to anyone, not as far as I know, anyway. You surely didn't talk to me."
Mark was surprised at her sudden talkativeness. "How long do I have to see this guy?" Mark asked, his face buried over his bowl.
"As long as it takes. Could be for a long time."
Mark chomped on another spoonful of the cereal. "He's weird, Mom. He thinks I lied at the hospital."
"Well, did you?"
Mark narrowed his gaze, then let it drift to the window. The sky was so white it looked like it was about ready to snow. He let his eyes drift downward, and thought about Meg's harsh words last week. "Why would I do that?"
"You tell me."
Mark heaved a dramatic sigh. "Dr. Murphy is the first person who ever said that, and it was the first thing he ever said to me. You're telling me you're going to trust his word over mine?"
His mother's frown turned back into a smile. "Trust kind of breaks apart when you take a gun to your temple." She tapped the side of the cup filled with pee. "Not to mention finding out you've been taking drugs under my nose and then lying about it."
Mark watched her. Ordinarily, coming from her, those words would have sounded accusatory, judgmental; but now, they sounded almost playful. "My piss is clean," he said. "You'll see for yourself. I haven't done anything since I've been home." But it wasn't. Mark knew that something was going to pop up on his lab test this time, and that he'd have to confront his mother as soon as the results came back.
"We'll see," she said, but she was still smiling.
Mark finished off the last of his Wheat Chex. The empty void in the pit of his stomach was still there, churning, threatening to swallow him up like a black hole. This constant nausea was something he'd grown used to, but what was he nauseated from? He still didn't know. Nervousness? Depression? Or was it a physical ailment that fed into his depression and anxiety?
Once he put his dish into the dishwasher and shrugged into his tattered leather jacket, his mother offered to take him to Dr. Murphy's office. "I'll drive," she said, with a sing-songy voice.
Mark didn't turn her down because he knew that she would insist and insist until either he broke down or she put her foot down. He opened the front door to a cold day and got into the red Toyota with his mom only a step behind him, then they started on the short trip downtown.
She turned to him at an intersection and said, "I hope you talk with this man, Mark. He doesn't look like a whole lot, but I've heard great things about him and I have a hunch about him. I think he's someone you can really trust. He's also someone who can really help you."
Mark swallowed, his throat dry. Of course he didn't believe her for a second. "I'll try my best."
"It's not something you try to do," she said. "It's something you do or do not do."
"Fine," Mark said. "I'll talk to him, if that makes you feel better."
She smiled, and Mark noticed for the first time that her smile was more like a frown that had been forced upward.
When they got to the office, they sat in the waiting room for ten minutes, reading Reader's Digest magazines next to a white noise machine. The walls were sterile white, accompanied by thick, off-white carpeting. Beethoven's Ninth symphony was playing on a small, electric blue boom box which was plugged into the wall.
Then Dr. Murphy opened his door, accompanied by a client who was on her way out. He patted her jovially on the back as they said their good-byes. He was dressed more stylishly today, in a simple black, silk shirt and pants that were the right length. After the client was gone, he waved Mark inside. "Hi, Mark. Come right in," he said.
"I'll be back to pick you up," his mother called softly, picking up her purse and putting down the magazine she had been reading. Mark got up from his seat and passed through the open door.
Once they were both seated and the door was shut tight, Dr. Murphy placed both hands in his lap ceremoniously. "Well," he said, after taking in a deep breath. "How have we been doing?"
Mark sank back into the plush, tan loveseat and felt the dreams and memories spin in his head. He was still hung over from the day before, and he felt unreal. He felt like a ghost, like he shouldn't be here. The image of Meg's lifeless and bleeding body from his dream, days earlier, flashed through his mind. In all honesty, he wasn't doing so hot, either physically or emotionally. To make himself look at ease, he spread out his arms and legs on the loveseat. He gave a halfhearted smile. "As good as can be expected," he said, with a nod.
The psychologist pushed up his goggle-lenses higher up onto the bridge of his nose. He studied Mark's posture, and said in a clinical voice, "The last couple of times you were here we talked about your hospitalization, and subsequently your release...as well as the events surrounding the two. There's been a lot going on for you, Mark, and I imagine that you have a lot to talk about. Is there anything you would especially like to talk about while you're here today?"
Mark shrugged his shoulders, and he knew he probably looked as disinterested in what this man had to say as he felt. "Whatever," he said. Disinterested or not, thoughts of blood and gore were haunting him.
The man sat back and pulled at his beard. "How are you feeling right now?"
Mark shrugged again. "Calm, at ease, relatively happy."
The man squinted his eyes. "Now, why don't I believe you?"
Mark forced a laugh. "Are you still trying to say that I'm lying so that people will let me off the hook?"
He leaned back. "What do you think?"
Mark looked around the room, which was unusually cluttered with papers and stacks of books today. The rectangular window to the right of the loveseat was closed, making the room stuffy, making the air smell musty. "Okay...maybe I'm not happy," he said, resting his eyes on a prickly cactus which was dangling over the edge of the windowsill. "Maybe it was just something to say, like when people ask you how you're doing, they always want to hear, 'fine.'"
"Do you think that's always what people are after when they ask you questions like that?" Dr. Murphy asked.
"Of course," Mark answered. "They never want to hear, 'I'm doing terrible and I wish I were dead.'"
The man coughed. "And is that really how you're feeling right now?"
Mark looked up. He was holding his hands together in his lap. The wall went up again. "No."
"Tell me. If you're not happy right now, then how would you describe what you're feeling?"
Mark flicked his eyes to the counselor. "A little depressed, maybe," was his answer. "But I'm okay." He found himself reeling off answers that served only the purpose of calming people's suspicions about him, instead of really telling it like it was. Was he really depressed? Or was it something different?
The knot, the void in his stomach was growing larger. Mark pressed his fingers to his forehead as though he were pressing back a headache.
But Dr. Murphy was not put down so easily. "You say you're feeling depressed," he said. "But that's kind of a vague answer, even though it's a clinical one. Just like the last two sessions, you're not talkative, and you're not disclosing much. Something tells me that there's something going on with you that you're guarding, but you can't seem to find the resolve to release it, even though you need to. What I'm interested in," he said, "is how you're getting back into the swing of things now that you've been away for some time. Surely you've run into some obstacles, like schoolwork, or relationship issues."
Mark opened his eyes, which had been shut. He thought immediately about Meg, about the way he'd felt utterly rejected by her, out on the football field. He'd been expecting a warm welcome home, only to find that she didn't want to have anything to do with him anymore. "Schoolwork's been piling up," he admitted, intentionally not talking about Meg. "I have to put in extra hours to catch up, and I'm not doing so well."
The psychologist stayed silent and nodded, allowing Mark time to talk.
"It's pretty much the same," he said, "except that I don't hang out with my friends as much, and I don't have a girlfriend anymore. It's just how it goes. It doesn't bother me at all."
"So you're saying you're fine. Even though there's been some changes going on, there's nothing wrong with you."
"That's exactly what I'm saying, even though I was suicidal a few weeks ago. Why can't you doctors accept that that might have been only be a one-time deal?"
The psychologist squinted his eyes. "Chances are that if you tried to commit suicide, then either you're suffering from an ongoing illness, or you had one hell of a temporary insanity going on. If you don't trust me, Mark, then just say so."
Mark looked at him. "I don't trust you."
Dr. Murphy did not look shocked. "You admitted it to me. That's a starting place."
Mark fixed his eyes on the floor, and knew it was true.