Conundrum (44 page)

As the car rose floor by floor, I clenched my jaw and my fists, telling myself my fear was illusive. It hit me as I nearly jumped off the
elevator
at the ninth floor that this was what Raff probably told himself every day, all day long—
my fear is irrational. I can just will it away. I can do this on my own power. I don’t need drugs or
chemicals
or therapy.
The mind was a mystery; we want it to respond to our logic, to listen to us, to obey our commands. But as weird as
the expression
sounded, our minds had a “mind” of their own.

I had set out to help Raff, to solve a conundrum that I thought would take away his pain, but after all my digging and uncovering clues, I had failed. My father
had
suffered from depression
,
in some form or another—maybe he wasn’t bipolar or couldn’t be neatly labeled by
the medical community, but he did want to die. For whatever reason, he
had
found it more logical to turn his back on his three children
—
three innocents who depended on him and whom he loved
—
and
kill himself.

And now, twenty-six years later, his own son wanted to kill himself—and leave behind three children who dearly loved him. It made no sense, no sense at all.
Raff was a victim of his mind, trapped in some crazy repetitive time loop that demanded he replay history. Would Kevin, his son, continue the pattern, helpless to control his destiny in the same manner
as
his father and grandfather before him
?
The thought sent shivers up my spine.

Frustration and failure saturated my very being. I had nothing to offer Raff—no magic words, no answers, no vorpal sword he could use to fight the Jabberwock. What in the world was I even doing
t
here? I would probably make matters worse, like one of Job’s would-be comforters who sat beside him and only gave him grief.

No answers, no comfort, no help.

But I had to try.
I had this
crazy
hope that deep in his heart he really didn’t want this role. That he was just waiting for someone to take his hand and lead him off the stage and out the wings of the theat
e
r
housing
this lousy play. That he was so tired out from all his fighting that he was ready for rescue.

After a minute or two of knocking, the guard reached in his pocket for a key ring. He found the
key
he wanted and inserted it the lock, and as the door clicked open, my heart leaped into my throat.

The guard, opening the door
.
 
.
 
.

All this time I
had focused on
finding the door to enlightenment, but seeing it played out now in these unnerving
circumstances
gave me pause.
Did I really want to see what was behind that door? My search for truth thus far had
come at a price—as if along with the unearthed
truth
came
a proportionate measure of pain.

The guard began to open the door.

“Go away!” Raff yelled in a hoarse, frantic voice from somewhere in his office. The guard stopped, with
the
door mostly closed, and looked at me, his eyes questioning my intent. I waved him off with what I’d hoped was a look of confidence.
I can take care of this; don’t worry.
Yeah, right. I wondered for a split second if I should tell him to call for help, get backup or something.
Was I overreacting? I thought of Raff’s tone on the
answering machine
, sounding as if he’d already checked out ages ago.
The only thing I had to offer Raff was my love and
a listening ear
, even if they proved impotent weapons against his
consuming darkness
. What else could I do
?
I couldn’t turn my back on him and wait it out, pretend his pain would go away. I had to accept the fact that maybe his pain would never go away.

The guard
retreated
a few steps and waited, no doubt to make sure I had the situation under control. I noticed a walkie-talkie in a holder clipped to his belt
. He could summon help
i
n
a flash, which gave me a little reassurance.
I pushed open Raff’s door slowly and noticed the room was
nearly
dark
with the lights out and blinds shut.
Raff seemed to be resting his forehead on his desk, and his hair—badly in need of a cut—flung over his face, so I couldn’t see him.

He strung out his words with bitterness. “I. Said. Go. Away!”

I took a few hesitant steps into the office. Raff didn’t move, not a tremble or flinch. I wondered
what
medication
he was on
, if a
n
y, and what it
was doing
to him.
“It’s me. Lisa,” I said as gently as I could, as if my words had
weight
and could knock him over with the slightest force.

Raff kept his head buried. “What do you want?”

“Just
.
 
.
 
.
checking on you. I haven’t seen you in a while
.
 
.
 
.
”

Something like a harsh laugh burst out of him. “Yeah, right. No one wants to see old gloomy Eeyore. ‘It’s my birthday
.
 
.
 
.
’” Raff imitated Eeyore from the Winnie-the-Pooh cartoons
in that low, gravel
ly
voice
. “
‘
And nobody
cares
. No balloons, no song and dance, no presents
.
 
.
 
.
’
”

Raff lifted his face and the pain
shone
so stark and exposed that he almost looked physically wounded, as if someone had struck him.
I drew in a breath and came a little closer. Then I caught a glimpse of something that rested on his desk, directly under his chin.

Fear shot through me as I recognized the out-of-place object he loosely held in his right hand.

How in the world had Raff gotten a gun!

My body seized up
.
I fought
the urge
to lunge at him and wrest it from his grip.
But he saw my mind working and grasped the weapon tighter
, warning me off with his piercing stare
. Neither of us needed to say a
thing
—the gun s
houted out
its own story
, and I didn’t like a word of it.

I
ntense
lassitude fell down on my shoulders, pressing me with heaviness, like
an alien
gravity I couldn’t hold up under. My knees buckled
,
and I dropped to the Berber carpeting and found it hard to breathe. Raff’s unemotional face showed empty eyes—eyes that reminded me of Jeremy’s in that moment when he
’d
walked out of the house and said, “
T
hat’s it; I’m out
ta
here.”
I wanted to find words—words that could help, words that could heal, but I realized they were vaporous and insubstantial. What were words anyway? Sounds
?
N
oises? They held no power—not power against pain like this. Like trying to
topple
a Grizzly with a spitball.

I
burned with self-recrimination. W
ords were all I had
,
and I could think of nothing to say, nothing at all.

Raff looked down at the gun and
swivel
ed it a little, first one way, then another. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I considered running back out and alerting the guard—if he was even still there
—but it would only take Raff a few seconds to lift the gun and blow off his
own
head
in the interim
.

My muscles started to shake
over
my
entire
body
,
as if I had a chill. My teeth chatter
ed
although the room was comfortably heated.

“Just go, Lisa. It’s too late. You can’t save me.” He cleared his throat and added in a mutter, “No one can.”
He was l
ike a man sinking under waves and knowing help would be too late in coming.

“Oh, Raff
.
 
.
 
.
” I knew if I suggested anything, it would tick him off, like pulling a pin from a grenade. His slow, barely perceptible movements belied the hair-trigger nervousness I sensed in the way he fondled the gun.
The moment
stretched
,
and every second, marked by the beat of my heart, felt like the last second on earth. Time had run out
. T
he last grain of sand had
s
lipped noiselessly through the hourglass. Somewhere
chained
in the fortress
of my skewed brain I heard the
W
icked
W
itch of the West cackle, just
an
other minion of the Grim Reaper.
“
I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, and, in short, I was afraid
.
 
.
 
.
”

“Dad never made it this far
.
 
.
 
.
never saw his thirty-fourth birthday. He died a week earlier.” Raff’s face drew in and grew in intensity, as if he were gathering memories and balling them up, making them small and concentrated—potent plutonium that he could chew and spit out
—or choke on
.

“You know,
it’s ironic that
the most vivid memory I have of Dad was the day he walked out on us.
Of all days.
” He paused, his eyes loosely staring at the gun, as if mesmerized by it.

I breathed shallowly, not wanting to make a sound, but had trouble hearing Raff’s muttering through the
clamor
of my
pulse
thumping in my ears
.

“You weren’t there
,” he said.
“
I don’t know where you were
.
 
.
 
.
maybe in bed, asleep,
”

He snorted and shook his head, slow motion, eyes glued to the gun. I sat maybe three feet from his desk and calculated how long it would take for me to leap
up
and reach it. But my limbs were still
weighted
by extra gravity, so I listened to Raff talk, trying hard to hear what he was really saying.

“
I was eight years old. Just a little older than Kevin. I was standing in the hall, in my pajamas
.
 
.
 
.
” Raff sucked in a sudden breath as if he hadn’t breathed in a few minutes and was surfacing for air. His sudden movement startled me and set my heart racing even harder. I tried to calm myself,
to
not appear menacing in any way.
Raff raised his eyes and caught mine in a net. I went limp and refrained from struggling.

“I’m listening,” I said.

He cocked his head, remembering. “He seemed so tall, you know. It was late at night—at least late to me. I had already gone to bed, but I heard them arguing and got up.
Neal was crying—I remember that. Mom was in her nightgown
,
and she was holding him in her arms and he kept crying and wouldn’t stop.
I was thinking, ‘Daddy’s home!’ for some reason. He hadn’t been home much. I missed him, missed him so much.”

Raff shook his head,
going
deeper. His fingers tapped on the gun, his pointer rest
ing
on the trigger. I made myself tear my gaze away from the gun and focus on Raff. I could hear voices in the hall. What if the phone rang? What if someone came in? I knew I had to be ready to leap at that weapon should anything distract Raff at all. But
the
voices and footsteps diminished, then faded. Raff never noticed. He sat up a little straighter and scowled.