December Boys (13 page)

“Jay?”

“I’m sorry.” I started to stand. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

She gestured for me to sit down.

“Have you been having more panic attacks?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? You must’ve run out of medication a while ago.”

“I don’t want to be some pill popper who takes drugs every time he’s in a bad mood.”

“You have a condition.”

“I don’t have a condition.”

“You have an anxiety disorder. You can call it something else if you’d like. There’s no disgrace in receiving treatment when something beyond your control is affecting the quality of life.” She waited for that to sink in. “How is your relationship with your wife? Your job? Friendships?”

“I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“When people with anxiety disorders experience prolonged episodes, it makes thinking rationally difficult, impossible. The skills they’ve relied on their entire lives short circuit. They behave irrationally. Which can push away those they love. This compounds feelings of isolation. A ‘fight or flight’ hyperawareness kicks in, and everything becomes dire.”

“Dire? You mean like when you’re on a mountaintop, and someone is trying to kill you and your brother? You mean dire like that?” The sarcasm didn’t come out as cutting as I intended.

“Yes,” the doctor said. “Like that. Unfortunately, Jay, because of what you went through, what you saw, what you experienced the last few days of your brother’s life, you are still trapped there in many ways. This feeling of being trapped is what causes you to panic. There are medications that can quell the worst of it. Now if you want to try a different type of medication—”

“I don’t like taking drugs.”

“How much have you been drinking?”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

“I’m guessing more than a few beers every night, though, right? Self-medicating is still medicating. Why were you waiting on my front steps this morning?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Has something changed? A new development that brought on these attacks?”

I let it all pour out—the Olisky case, Brian and his dead drug-addict brother, the fight with Jenny, my wife taking urgent action to visit her mother in Burlington in the middle of the night and bringing my son along for the ride, the yuppie neighbor, Stephen, the clerk at the courthouse, Nicki, North River, and Judge Roberts’ dubious record. And of course I invoked the sins of the Lombardis, whose crimes I couldn’t accept had gone unpunished, even in death.

“No wonder you’re having panic attacks,” Dr. Shapiro-Weiss said. “Those events you’ve described are a microcosm of what you experienced last year. It would be like a Desert Storm veteran suddenly finding himself back on a battlefield.” Before I could protest how ridiculous a comparison, she held up her hand. “No, you’re not in the Army, and I am not undermining what real soldiers go through. What I mean is, both cases can trigger the PTSD.”

“You think I have post-traumatic stress disorder?” I wanted to laugh. Only I couldn’t.

“Jay, I want you to stop qualifying your anguish. What you experience is unique to
you
. You don’t need to gauge your feelings and pit them against how much someone else suffers. Personal pain is just that: personal. And, yes, what you went through with your brother last year, and even before that—losing your parents, having to assume the role of caretaker at such a young age—all these events are traumas.” She set down her pad and pen and
leaned in. “None of this makes you weak. I know that is what you think. But it is not true. I’ve had ex-NFL players sitting in that chair, six foot five, three hundred and fifty pounds, sobbing because they watched their dad hit their mommy when they were small boys and couldn’t do anything about it. I’ve had police officers who thrust themselves in to do-or-die situations every day, putting their very lives on the line, because once upon a time they couldn’t save a sister or a friend and this is their penance. These are strong people. Trapped in a hell of their own making because of events beyond their control.”

“Big difference when you’re a kid and can’t fix a problem. I’m thirty-one years old.”

“Which is why I used the soldier analogy. Trauma is trauma. Effects can be cumulative. You’ve reached a tipping point. Whatever happened at work and in your personal life has dredged up memories and emotions you’ve kept buried for a long time. You ignored them, and now feel like you should be able to fix everything if you can only do a better job, control outside circumstance more.” The doctor positioned her hands, miming stranglehold. “But you can’t. This isn’t about willpower. This isn’t about toughness or resolve. This isn’t about skill sets. This war raging inside you is about reconciliation. Learning to accept the past, make peace with your loss. Your brother’s habit was
his
problem. From everything you’ve told me, you did everything you could to save him. This is the hard part for someone like you to understand. And by ‘someone like you,’ I mean someone who
is
strong, someone who is resilient, someone who is used to fighting the fight on his own. Recognizing that you can’t do it alone is not a sign of weakness.” Dr. Shapiro-Weiss paused for emphasis. “It is a sign of strength.”

* * *

The doctor sent me off with a new script for lorazepam, an antianxiety pill, which I filled at the pharmacy on the way home, feeling self-conscious and judged when the pharmacist asked for an ID because it’s “a controlled substance.” Walking back to my truck, even before I stuck one under my tongue, I felt better. I remembered Chris once telling me how the only time he felt like himself anymore was right after he’d copped, when he could pat the dope in his pocket. Didn’t even need to fix. The real relief came knowing he had the drugs. I’d never understood what he meant before.

I tried to appreciate what Dr. Shapiro-Weiss had said, about how there was a difference between a doctor prescribing medication for a patient and a junkie shooting dope to get high—about how the strong sometimes need help; every tragedy wasn’t my fault. I wanted to believe these things but had a tough time. I stopped at the grocery store for another twelve-pack, just in case.

When I unlocked the front door to the house, I could tell Jenny wasn’t back. Didn’t matter that I didn’t see her car in the driveway or that all the lights were off, the rooms silent. I could feel the emptiness, the loneliness. It cut like a hot knife through the gut of a dead deer.

I stripped off my clothes and hit the shower, cranking the heat, steaming the bathroom. I turned the water as scalding as I could stand, as if I could flay the ugly parts away. Two hands planted on the tile, I let it rain over me for a long time.

When I stepped out, I was ready to curl up in bed and pass the fuck out. Then I heard Jenny’s voice.

“Jay, you here?”

I slung the towel around my waist and rushed into the kitchen, sopping wet, slopping footprints in the thick carpet and across the hardwood floor. I was so glad she was home. Everything that had been wrong in my world would be set right. In seconds I’d
see my son, my family would be back together, and I could set about reassembling the janky parts that had spilled inside me. All I needed was that opportunity.

Except it wasn’t Jenny.

“Sorry,” Nicki said, pointing at the door. “It was unlocked. I saw your truck . . .”

“Do you ever think of calling first?”

“I didn’t think you’d pick up if you saw my number.”

“So instead you just walk into my house?”

She stifled a giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Looks like someone’s been hitting the gym.”

I realized I was standing there half naked.

“Wait here,” I said, gripping the towel in place. I made for the bedroom to slip on my jeans.

“You have any coffee?” Nicki shouted.

“In the cupboard,” I shouted back. “Knock yourself out.”

I couldn’t find a clean shirt. With Jenny gone, my laundry was piling up. Every tee shirt in the hamper smelled like rotting cheese. Nicki shouted something again, but I couldn’t hear. I headed back into the kitchen, shirtless, slicking back wet hair with my fingers.

“What did you say?”

“I wasn’t flirting. I just meant you’re in pretty good shape for an old man.”

“I’m thirty. Which isn’t old. And I’ve worked outdoors all my life. You don’t need a gym to stay in shape if you’re not a lazy fuck. But never mind about my body.” My cheeks burned. “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Nicki spun around, leaning against the counter, arching her back and letting her shirt rise enough so that I could see her belly button, stomach tight as a snare drum. “Nope. Fired.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“Got caught looking in to Judge Roberts’ sentencing again?”

“Making ‘unauthorized’ photocopies.” She even did the fake air quote thing I hate.

“Some people never learn.”

“Yeah,” she said, flatly. “I don’t think they knew what I was photocopying. You have to log in at the courthouse with your employee ID number every time you make a Xerox.”

“Fascinating.”

“Funny thing was, I wasn’t even looking into Roberts. Just some peripheral stuff. Places they ship kids out of state. I hit my limit of acceptable photocopies, apparently. Everyone’s a bean counter. Do you know how many kids get sent out of state? To private prisons? Kentucky. Arizona—”

“I don’t care, Nicki.”

“You don’t care?”

“Nope.”

Nicki pointed at the blank space on the kitchen table. “Where are those photocopies I left with you?”

“Threw them out.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I said. And when she wouldn’t relinquish the expression of disbelief, I added, “Doesn’t matter.”

“The lives of hundreds of kids don’t matter?”

“Don’t make it sound like they’re all innocent little cherubs. You don’t get arrested unless you break the law. You don’t get sent before the judge unless you did something wrong.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“Cynical is one thing. I didn’t take you for such a heartless
bastard. The other day, you seemed so concerned about your friend.”

“I told you. He’s not a friend. My company insured his mother. Business.”

“A nerd locked up in North River for a joint?”

“And lying on an insurance claim, yeah. Attempting to defraud a company out of thousands of dollars. Kind of a big deal. And you don’t know how long he’ll be in there. He could be out in a week.”

“Bullshit. You read that report I left.”

“Maybe I did. So what?”

“Then you would know that the average stay at North River is three years. Three years for shoplifting hair products. Trying to buy beer underage. A joint. And that’s the
average
. Meaning there’s kids in there a lot longer.”

“And shorter. Because that’s how averages work.” I wasn’t so hot at math, but I’d retained that much from high school.

“Come on, Jay. There are lives being ruined, irreparable harm being done.”

“Not. My. Problem.” I opened my arms, revealing my joyless, messy, rented house. “I have bigger problems to worry about.”

“Your wife still hasn’t come back?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

Nicki stepped toward me. “Why do you hate me? What have I done to you?”

“I don’t even know you enough to hate you! But since you asked. You’ve done nothing but fuck up my life since the day I met you. You keep bugging me with this . . . bullshit! I don’t know what you think I can do. I’m a junior claims investigator at a two-bit insurance company. I don’t have any access to court records or a pipeline to the police. And by the way, next time mention you’re dating a cop.”

“I told you. I’m not dating a cop. I’ve never dated a cop. I don’t know any cops! Do I look like I’d date a cop?”

“Well, one of them sure seemed to know you.”

“Think about it. You and I were digging around—”

“I wasn’t digging shit.”

“Fine. I was digging. But you don’t know Longmont. It’s an old-boy network. Judge Roberts has those pigs on payroll. He was sending a message.”

“About what? You’re the eager beaver, the nosy one. I’m just a guy trying to do his job.”

She went to touch my arm. I pulled away.

“You’re scared,” she said.

I jabbed a finger at her face. “You are nuts. You are one of those crazy, psycho girls. If I had a pet rabbit, I’d lock it up. Come home and find it boiling in a pot on the stove one day.”

“Huh?”

Of course she was too young to get the cultural reference. I grabbed her hand. “See, honey, it would never work out with us.”

We both turned around at the same time when we realized we weren’t alone.

I hadn’t even heard the door open.

M
Y WIFE SEEMED
more perplexed than anything, although her confusion didn’t last long. She stuck her keys in her purse and acted like a normal person. I introduced Nicki as “a friend from work,” even though Jenny knew everyone I worked with, having just suffered through NEI’s Christmas party a couple months ago. I was standing, dripping shirtless, holding hands with a girl young enough to be my student if I were a college professor. Except I wasn’t any professor.

Nicki mumbled a polite hello, and then gathered her handbag and excused herself, quick as possible. Took her twelve seconds to get out the door, although her exit felt more like a never-ending, drawn-out scene from a Lifetime movie.

When we were alone, Jenny said, “We have to talk.”

“I know how bad that looked, but it’s not what you think.”

“Okay,” she said.

“I’m serious. I just met that girl. She works—worked—at the Longmont Courthouse. See, there was this kid. Well, first there was this woman. Who had a policy with us? Olisky. Donna Olisky. She said she was driving, but it was really her son. Remember? I was telling you about him? The accident? Brian. The kid with the brother who died, the wrestler? Anyway, I was checking up on that, and that girl, Nicki, she uncovered some strange shit about this one judge who’s been sentencing kids to a sketchy juvie. Place
called North River. Minor offenses. I mean, they’re minors but the crimes are no big deal. Shoplifting. Some drugs, too. She wanted my help. That’s it. I swear.”