The Mourning After (30 page)

“Come on, Levon, something more than that.  Had we known…”

Levon finally says, “I’m sorry I lied.” 
There.

“This isn’t a lie, son.  It’s a sin of omission.”

“I did what I had to do,” he says, liberated, free, joyously at peace.

“And that’s some story you concocted,” interrupts his father with a smile. 

A smile?  How could he be smiling at a time like this?

“Dr. Gerald faxed it to us.”

Levon stiffens while his dad continues the interwoven tale.

“Ellen DeGeneres!  Who knew I’d be praising you for the countless hours you’ve sat on that couch watching her show?

“It’s wonderful what you did, Levon,” says his mother. “Dr. Gerald got a call from Ellen’s producers, and they’ve invited him to participate on the panel of experts for rare diseases,
and
they’ve donated money toward his research, so the dogs can be taken care of…”

His dad says, “What a beautiful thing you’ve done for your sister…”

Levon hears what they’re saying, though he misses the feeling that washed over him a moment earlier—one that came from him believing they knew the truth.  The idea was freeing, fleeting, and he wants to get it back.  He wants to take it all back, what he did to rewrite the story, the preservation of dignity, the life-changing sentence.  He wishes for a different kind of truth.

Madeline Keller moves closer to her son and extends her arms around him.  The facts are so near he wonders if they can spread through osmosis.  He allows himself to feel the warmth of her skin and the safety of her grasp.  She doesn’t smell so bad anymore.  It’s not Shalimar but something citrusy that warms his nose.  His father comes close and pats him on the back.  He should be happy and soaring with pride, sandwiched between these two strangers who fill him with such emotion.  Instead, tears roll down his brand new face.

When they pull away from him, his father asks, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Levon didn’t have an answer.

“Honey, I’m proud of you,” she says.  “What you did was really special.”

Levon can see that this is hard for her.  She is smiling and her hair actually seems washed.  She made an effort to style it.  She is less ugly to him, though there are fragments of the damage that will never go away.

That night he writes:

I should be focused on the good that came from today; the look in their eyes.  They are softening and it shows.  But I can’t escape the feeling, the way they held me in their arms together, like a Levon sandwich.  Ha, I always find a way to analogize with food.  When I closed my eyes, the feeling was….well, for someone who overflows with words, it was indescribable.  I closed my eyes to let the feeling seep in. 

I saw this TV show once.  I don’t remember the name.  But the mom and dad were in their bed, their son lying between them.  The kid had to be around ten, the time when it begins to get embarrassing when your parents garner you with so much attention and affection.  They were kissing and hugging the kid, and he was giggling and laughing and absorbing the attention like the vanilla cream between the Oreo cookies.  The mom whispered in the boy’s ear, “How does it feel to be so loved?” and the boy replied, “You know, Mommy.”  But she didn’t.  She turned her head so he couldn’t see.  She tried to hold back the tears, but they just surged down her cheeks like waterfalls.  I wasn’t sure at the time why his response provoked such a reaction; now I think I may have the answer.  If she was like me and hadn’t felt her parents’ arms around her, like I did today, then, no, she wouldn’t know what it feels like to be loved.

Anyway, here I go off.  Tangents.  Tangents.  They were proud of me, and it felt nice, although the reasons were not what I originally thought.  I thought I was finally free from this mess that’s been caged inside my gut, and even though having my parents’ arms around me was the best feeling I’d felt in years, the regret was worse.  The secret I have had to bury is fighting to come out.  I don’t think I can hold it in much longer.

“The other night changed a lot of things for us,” Craig says.

They are seated in Dr. Lerner’s office, and instead of sitting across the couch from him, Madeline is close, their fingers intertwined.

“I want to make this work,” she says.

“It’s going to be hard work,” Dr. Lerner answers.

“This is nothing compared to what we’ve been through.” 

Unmistakable was the look that crossed both of their faces.  They were pleased with their decision though inhibited about showing their devotion to one other. It would take much to rebuild and restore the home they had once built together

“I don’t know,” she continues.  “Holding Levon and having Craig there with me felt right.  My tendency has been to resist; I couldn’t this time.  I couldn’t extract myself from the feeling we are meant to be together.”

Madeline has never before studied Dr. Lerner. Today, she takes in her curls and the moles that Levon had noticed before.  She finds the office—its pale beige and orange tasteful—less off-putting.  She notices that the doctor is on the skinny side.  Madeline can’t imagine how that’s possible when she spends all day on her tush.

Dr. Lerner pretends not to notice Madeline’s stare and says, “I’m happy to see you’ve come to this decision, Madeline.  It’s much easier to walk away from a marriage.  It takes far more will to make one work.”

“I’ve lost too many things. I don’t want to lose any more.”  She looks at Craig when she says, “We need to take it slowly.  We need to get to know each other again.”

“And yourselves,” Dr. Lerner adds. 

“I suppose that too.  I’ve thought a lot about what you said, and I see how it’s not all Craig’s fault.  I contributed to his emotional detachment.  I haven’t been the most attentive wife.”

“That’s a difficult admission, Madeline.  It must have taken a lot of reflection for you to come to that conclusion.  This is particularly good for Levon,” the doctor adds.  “I have been worried about him.”

Craig is usually the one to respond to the mention of Levon.  This time, Madeline perks up.

“I think something else is going on with him, something we’re all missing.  He holds back in our private sessions in a way that worries me.”

His father says, “Levon expresses himself more effectively on the page.  Talking hasn’t always been easy for him.”

“This is more than a shy teenager withholding.”

“During our last few sessions, he has been very upset.  Most recently, we barely talked before he became inconsolable.”

“Can you tell us specifics?” Craig asks.

“I can give you a summation of his issues, though I cannot repeat to you what Levon and I discuss.  In order for me to help Levon, he has to know that he can trust me completely.”

“And his issues are…,” Craig beckons.

“Number one, he has lost his brother, and he is blaming himself.  That’s tough on anyone. For a teenager who doesn’t have a sense of self within his family unit, it exacerbates the problem.”  She pauses before putting her pencil behind her ear and says, “You’re probably wondering what that means.”

They both nod.

“Levon is stuck.  There’s grief and guilt about his role in the accident, and it’s compounded by his belief that he’s invisible within your family.”

Last week, Madeline would have shouted out one of her derisive remarks, questioning the validity of Lerner’s accusations and telling her to just get to the point.  Today she is humbled and anxious.  She is patient to hear about the son who is becoming more of a stranger with each passing day.

“Much of your time, energy, and attention has been spent traversing between Chloe and David.”

“Are we talking about middle-child syndrome?” Craig asks.

“Levon doesn’t strike me as the classic middle child.  I don’t like to use the MCS label, though for the sake of this conversation I will.  He is not rebellious.  He is good-natured, and I know from our visits that he has deep love for his siblings.  There doesn’t, or didn’t, appear to be jealousy or competitiveness between his brother and him. He loved David.  I think it’s tearing him up inside to live with what he’s done.”

“Is he angry at me?” Craig asks.  “Do you think what I’ve done has affected him?”

“It has scarred all of you,” she says. “But Levon is a wise boy.  I think he understands better than the two of you why your marriage had been in disarray.  As you neglected each other and failed to nurture your family center, you also neglected to take care of your son.”

Madeline is the first to reply.  “It’s been hard for us.  You know that.”

“I’m not talking about the current situation, Madeline.  I’m talking about many, many years of Levon going unnoticed.”

It was the first sentence Dr. Lerner said that made sense in a nonsensical world.  The pair evaluated this slowly.  Nobody moved.  Nobody talked.  Madeline squeezed her husband’s hand.  He whispered, “Maddy,” and his breath caressed her cheek, and she closed her eyes and welcomed the tears.  Madeline cannot defend their actions, but having it explained to her helps her understand what they’ve done.

“What do you think he’s hiding?  What are we missing?”

Dr. Lerner tells them.  “Levon’s keeping a secret.”

It is mid-February, and Florida is chilled with temperatures in the forties and fifties.  Jackets and scarves are yanked out of hiding, and although it has been weeks since the night when Levon’s mom held him close, the temperatures have plummeted in opposition with her temperament.  It is four months since the accident, and her icy exterior has begun to dissolve.  Levon might have accepted full responsibility for the shift in her personality, though he knows that Ellen DeGeneres shares the credit.  First, there was the bun.  It came back.  And Levon noted that his mother was wearing clothing in the morning and had rid herself of the bathrobe that had her wrapped up like an enchilada.  When Sid and Lyd called from New Yawk (that’s how they pronounce it), Levon answered their question in a new way.  He said, “She seems to be doing better.”

A colossal shift is that his father is no longer sleeping in the guest bedroom.  He is the first to comment on the changes in Levon.

“There’s something different about you.”

His mother turns to look at him, unconvinced, and looks away again.

Could it be that I’ve lost like ten pounds
? he thinks to himself.

“I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something.”

Had their hours of counseling really distracted them that much?  All the time they spent repairing themselves and each other, they failed to notice one of the largest changes of all.  He stared at Levon, up and down, for a full minute before the lightbulb went on.

“Oh my God, look at you!  Look at how thin you are!”

This gets Madeline’s attention, and she whips around in great delight.  Levon pretends the bulk of his winter jacket has hidden his weight loss.  When she reaches for his hands and raises them high so she can get a good look, he feels for the first time that he is no longer invisible, even though there was less of him to see.  Madeline is bursting with pride at having a thinner son.  She cradles him in her arms.  Her skin is less white, and it is returning to its usual caramel color.  “This is wonderful, Levon,” she says.  “You look fantastic.”

All Levon has ever wanted was to be noticed for some accomplishment.  Ellen was only the beginning.  He thinks that shedding pounds has shed his mother’s distaste for him.  How he oozes with pride inside his newfound physique.  It doesn’t even bother him that her bun is pressing hard into his cheek. 

Their family has begun to repair itself in the only way it knows how, and for the moment, it has Levon singing inside, although, a short, erratic jingle.

The letter from Brown could not have come at a worse time.  It had been David’s first choice when choices were his to make, and the thick, bulging envelope, with its promising contents filled the entire mailbox. 

Levon retrieved the mail that afternoon.  The Brown logo emblazoned across the top left corner of the packet jumped out at him and sent pieces of junk mail and an important bill or two onto the ground.  Seeing David’s name bold and unconcealed brought forth the truth that Levon had spent months suppressing.  He reached for the metal mailbox to steady himself.

His mother’s car is in the driveway.  He does not have the heart to share the bittersweet news with her.  He’s sure its contents will set her back months. He wishes he can walk over to Lucy’s house, but he knows she is at a yoga class.

Mano is the spiritual guru she has been talking about for weeks, a yoga instructor who also has the ability to heal the inner spirit with his Korean massage table, crystals, and magical touch.  Lucy has been visiting him once a week on the north side of town for private lessons, and what she calls “spiritual cleansings.”  She would talk about Mano for hours—the chakras and moving the negative energy around so it isn’t stuck inside fighting to come out.

“His hands can’t cure this body,” Levon once said, only he was not referring to his physical being.  In truth, Levon was terrified of someone like Mano.  The way Lucy explained him, he sounded like a clairvoyant, someone who could look into her eyes, read her thoughts, and see inside her soul.  He was afraid of what Mano would find in his own eyes and that kind of vulnerability scared him. 

Pushing through the doorway of his house, he holds the envelope from Brown close to his chest and wills his mother away.  Chloe is watching TV.  He can hear the sounds of her favorite television show,
The Suite Life of
Zack & Cody,
filtering through the air.  The envelope is burning his skin, searing right through his shirt.  He puts it in his backpack where he fears it might explode and take the house down with it. 

His mother calls from upstairs and asks him to feed his sister.  Levon checks his watch, and it is time for her cornstarch.  Carrying his knapsack into the kitchen, he drops it onto the floor by the island and begins opening and closing cabinets in preparation for Chloe’s feeding.  His nerves are on high alert, and he is afraid his mother will march in, trip over the pack, and she, herself, will explode.  He places the box of Argo cornstarch on the counter and measures the powder.  He looks back at the floor to make sure the bag is still there and that the zipper is still closed.  He searches another cabinet for the boxes of sugar-free Kool-Aid, and he realizes they are out.  He measures the water, knowing that for Chloe it will taste like chalk.  His bookbag is still there.  His mother is still upstairs.  Turning to Chloe’s mixture, he fuses the water and cornstarch in a purple sports bottle.