Leaving the World (43 page)

‘You mean, you asked to speak to him.’

‘No, I mean he called me at my private practice in Mountain Falls. We had spoken twice before. I don’t sense it’s anything that dire. But he does need to talk through some things with you.’

‘You evidently feel that, clinically speaking, this would be a good thing for me to do,’ I said.

‘I feel . . . he’s your lawyer and you simply should speak with him.’

So I accepted a call from Alkan the next day.

‘I’m glad to hear you survived your accident. After everything you’ve been through . . .’

‘It wasn’t an accident, Mr Alkan. It was an attempt to kill myself. Botched like everything else I do.’

‘I’m certain that’s an overly harsh statement.’

‘To what do I owe this call, Mr Alkan?’

‘You may have heard from Dr Ireland that Adrienne Clegg decided to drop all charges against you . . .’

‘Yeah, I heard that. And what caused this Pauline conversion?’

‘I had a talk with her lawyer – and made it very clear that I would eviscerate her if she dared take action against you.’

‘So she completely backed off?’

‘Better than that . . . she signed a document drafted by me, saying that she would never take any legal action against you and that all debts accrued by Fantastic Filmworks were not your responsibility.’

‘Well . . . thank you.’

‘You are most welcome. But there are a couple of other things to discuss. The cab company . . . their insurers phoned me with an offer.’

‘An offer?’

‘A compensation offer.’

‘I don’t want their money.’

‘Be that as it may, they still offered—’

‘I don’t care what they offered.’

‘In situations like this one – and given the age of your daughter – the amount is never—’

‘Did you hear what I said, Mr Alkan? I don’t want their money.’

‘It’s one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’

‘Give it back to them.’

‘Surely you’re being a little rash here . . .’

‘Don’t tell me what I am – or am not – being. I don’t want their damn money. Period.’

‘I’ll give you a few days to consider that.’

‘Tell you what – accept their offer, but give the money away.’

‘Miss Howard . . .’

‘You heard what I said: give it all away.’

‘To whom?’

‘Is there a charity for parents who lost a child?’

‘I’m sure there is. I’d have to do a little digging around . . .’

‘Well, that’s who it goes to.’

‘I really wish you’d consider this for a few days.’

‘Why? I might change my mind.’

‘All right then.’

‘By the way, what do I owe you for your services for all this?’

‘Nothing. As you’re making a charitable donation here I’m waiving my fee.’

‘You’re just doing that because you feel sorry for me.’

‘That’s right – I do feel sorry for you. As anyone would.’

‘Anything else we need to discuss here?’

‘Your life in Boston. When are you planning to come back here?’

‘I’m not.’

‘Isn’t that a slightly premature decision? I mean, New England State has been in touch with me. They do want you to return as soon as possible. They consider you a most valued member of the department. Of course, I can’t force you to do one thing or another. But I do know, from my discussions with your department chairman, that the university is willing to put you on fully paid compassionate leave for the rest of the year.’

‘I don’t want their money either.’

‘It’s being paid to you as we speak. Not only are they being very understanding, they’re also showing real concern for you.’

‘My mind is made up. And there’s something else I want you to do for me. I want you to find a realtor and sell my apartment. Get rid of everything. Give away all the furniture, the electronics stuff, the books, the CDs. The lot. And then sell the place.’

‘Where do you want the money to go?’

‘Your call. Just give it away.’

‘Jane . . .’

‘Don’t try to reason with me, Mr Alkan. Don’t try to tell me I need more time to figure out my next move and all that blah, blah, blah. Sell the apartment and do whatever you want with the money.’

‘I simply can’t do that.’

‘Get me the necessary paperwork and you can.’

A silence. Then: ‘All right, Jane. As you are the client I have no choice but to follow your instructions. I’ll send all the relevant papers to the hospital.’

‘Thank you.’

‘One last thing. Your friend, Christy, has been in touch with me regularly, trying to find your whereabouts. She seems genuinely concerned about your welfare. Will you speak to her?’

‘No.’

‘She did tell me she was your closest friend.’

‘That’s right. She is my closest friend. But I won’t speak with her.’

‘Mightn’t it be worth your while to—?’

‘My decision is final, sir.’

‘Very good then. I’ll FedEx everything in the next few days.’

‘Please get them to me as soon as possible. They’ll be kicking me out of here in fourteen days.’

‘And then?’

‘We’ll see.’

The documents arrived forty-eight hours later. An extended form from Standard Life Insurance, in which I agreed to accept $150,000 from the company in exchange for never making another claim against them ‘in this matter’ again. There was also a document agreeing to the transfer of said $150,000 to the Samaritans. (‘After some research I decided that they were the best of the organizations dealing with the bereaved and anyone else thinking about taking their life.’) And there was a power-of-attorney form, granting Mr Alkan the full legal right to do whatever the hell he wanted to do with all the proceeds from my apartment . . . and anything else to do with my financial life.

I signed both forms and gave Nurse Rainier $30 in cash and asked her to FedEx them all back to him.

Having signed my life away I felt a strange sort of calm. I knew what all my next steps would be. Just as I knew that, with only twelve days to go before the insurance ran out, Dr Ireland would be doing her best to make certain I was on the straight and narrow in time for my release.

‘I must come clean about this and tell you that I telephoned your lawyer in Boston,’ she said. ‘He did inform me about the contribution you made to the Samaritans. That’s most admirable.’

‘Glad you think so.’

‘He also told me you asked him to sell your apartment and give everything away.’

‘Bet you find that less “admirable”.’

‘Just troubling, to tell the truth. I mean, say you decide to return to the Boston area and recommence your job at the university?’

‘I’m not certain what my next step will be. But fear not, I won’t be buying another car just to ram it into another snowbank.’

‘Glad to hear that. Your friend, Christy, called me. She’s incredibly concerned about you and actually wanted to come out here to see you.’

‘But you talked her out of it?’

‘I said that, given your somewhat fragile state – and your refusal to have any contact with the outside world – it mightn’t be advisable.’

‘Thank you for that.’

‘She told me she lives in Oregon – which is less than a day’s drive from here.’

‘I’m not ready to see her.’

‘But she told me she was with you in the weeks after Emily—’

‘Correct,’ I said, cutting her off. ‘But that was then. And now . . .’

‘Are you afraid of seeing her because of your failed suicide?’

‘Yes, absolutely. But also because . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Because I don’t want . . . need . . . the kindness of others.’

‘You mean, you think you don’t
deserve
the kindness of others because you still wrongfully blame yourself for—’

‘You’re not going to convince me otherwise. I know what happened . . . and I have no alibi against that.’

She reached under her chair and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. She uncapped the pen and starting drawing on it. Then she showed me her handiwork – a small blackened dot surrounded by a large circle.

‘Know what this is?’ she asked.

‘Haven’t a clue,’ I said.

‘The black dot . . . that’s the world. And the circle . . . that’s the grief you are suffering. In other words, your grief makes the rest of the world appear minute.’

She flipped a page and started drawing again, then showed me this new diagram: the same-sized circle, but a black dot that had trebled in size.

‘Now, in time – and, as I have said during so many of these sessions, it will take a considerable amount of time – your grief will remain the same, but the world will get bigger. And when that happens—’

‘I’ll be a happy camper again?’

‘You’ll never be that. What will happen is that life will reimpose itself and force you to re-engage with it. The world will seem larger.’

But I said nothing. I just shrugged.

‘In the meantime,’ Dr Ireland said, ‘you would benefit from as much support as you are willing to accept.’

‘You mean, once the insurance company kicks me out of here.’

‘Your physical condition is very much on the mend. Dr Menzel tells me your eye is going to be near-fully functional in a few weeks – and the orthopedist is also very pleased with your progress. But I do worry that, if you are left on your own, you could psychologically regress . . .’

‘As you said, it’s not a simple “fix”.’

‘But say your friend Christy took you in for a while . . . ?’

‘No sale,’ I said.

‘Hear me out, please. Christy told me she has plenty of room at her house in Eugene, Oregon. She is more than willing to drive out here, pick you up, and put you up at her place for as long as—’

‘I don’t want to be beholden to anyone.’

‘This is not a matter of being “beholden” to anyone. This is – put baldly – trying to save you from yourself.’

‘Good luck,’ I said.

I dug my heels in on this one. Though Christy tried ringing me every day I refused to take her calls. I also informed Nurse Rainier that if she was to show up at the hospital I wouldn’t “receive” her.

‘Because Your Majesty is otherwise engaged,’ Nurse Rainier said. ‘Feeling sorry for herself.’

‘Think what you like.’

‘Believe me, I will. Especially as I know exactly what you’re going through – and how easy it is to think that isolation is the only solution. But, as I learned, if you find yourself in hell, the only thing you can do is keep going.’

‘I’ll always be in hell.’

Nurse Rainier just shrugged.

‘You can think that – and if you want easy answers, I can get five different men of God in here within the next half-hour and they’ll sell you a bill of goods about the paradise to which you’re bound if you accept that telephone call from Jesus. They’ll probably tell you that once you get to the other side, you’ll meet up with—’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Been there, done that – that’s why. I can’t give you bromides, Professor. I can’t give you much in the way of hope. Except what I told you before: if you’re going through hell, just keep going. Though if I were you, I’d also think about staying with my friend in Oregon for a while.’

Christy continued to ring the hospital on a daily basis – I continued to refuse her calls. Just as I also wouldn’t speak again with Mr Alkan – though he too phoned regularly.

Until you decide simply to reject the act of self-persuasion – of telling yourself the agony will, in time, be manageable – and bow to the inevitable.

So I counted off the days. I took my pharmaceuticals and had my sessions with Dr Ireland and did even more intensive physio once the cast came off, and readjusted my damaged eye to life without a bandage. All the while I prepared myself for the denouement that could not be sidestepped.

And so it came to pass – exactly twenty-eight days after my ‘accident’ – that I was turned loose from my convalescence. On the morning of my departure I had one last talk-fest with Dr Ireland. It was clear that she feared for me.

‘I regret having to discharge you, Jane. Should you feel at any time, day or night, that you cannot cope, you must call me and talk things through.’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘I wish I could believe you . . .’

‘Believe what?’

‘Believe that you won’t give in to despair. We all have to travel hopefully . . . even when events dictate otherwise.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

I organized a taxi to pick me up at the hospital. Nurse Pepper insisted on giving me one last bath – and telling me that she hoped I would find ‘the benevolent hand of a higher power’ guiding me wherever I went. Nurse Rainier insisted on escorting me out to the waiting taxi. As the driver loaded up my suitcase and helped me into the back seat, she thrust a plain wooden cane on me.

‘Brought this along as a little goodbye gift. Something to lean on.’

‘Thank you . . . for everything,’ I said.

‘I don’t want your thanks. I just want you to survive.’

I asked the cab driver to take me to a Holiday Inn on the edge of Mountain Falls. En route to the motel, I asked the driver to stop at a pharmacy. There I bought a bottle of one hundred and twenty Tylenol PM tablets. Then we continued on to a liquor store, where I scored a fifth of vodka.

The guy insisted on helping me in with my bag, even holding my arm as I leaned on the cane and I hobbled towards the hotel reception.

‘How many nights are you planning to stay?’ the woman behind the desk asked me.

‘Just the one,’ I said.

‘You don’t have a vehicle?’

‘No.’

The Holiday Inn was a motel arrangement – you drove right up to the door of your rented room. The cabbie – a guy in his forties with thinning hair, wearing a check hunting shirt – again insisted on bringing me to its portals and helping me inside. It was a classic Holiday Inn with shit wallpaper, shit carpet, shit bedspread. I peeled off two twenties from my small wad of cash and handed it to him.