The Quiet Room (6 page)
We also began meeting a lot of nice guys. A couple of guys would always just happen by to see if Lori was there. Her job was fun too, helping the Spanish-speaking Miss Universe contestants find their way around the city. One day she came home with Miss Colombia's banner, which had been given her as a thank-you. All my fears melted away.
But the good times didn't last.
Before too long, Lori's moods began to swing again. At times, she would take to her bed, refusing to leave, refusing to go to work. Bringing people home became a problem.
The guys she was dating began drifting away, without saying much to me. When Lori did leave her room, she became hostile and aggressive. I had been set up to date my sister-in-law's cousin. The guy was nothing great to look at, but I liked him all right, and had him over a couple of times. One day when I brought him home, Lori was there.
“What is that thing on your face?” she said to him, with a not-quite-joking air. He had a mustache. “That is the ugliest thing I've ever seen, and you're pretty creepy too.” I was taken aback. I tried to pass it off as a gag, and we left quickly.
Soon, however, it became hard to have people over at all, Lori was so belligerent. You are ugly. You are fat. Why did you come over here anyway? We don't want you around.
Tara was living in her own apartment up by Columbia, and I found myself calling her all the time, wondering what I should do. I tried to talk to Lori's parents too, but it was hard to explain what was happening. Lori's parents had never seen her get really bad. She always wanted them to be so proud of her that she would never admit she had problems. Often she said she didn't want to bother them. What's more, just being with them seemed to make her happy. When they were around she always seemed more normal and the vivacious, funny, lovable Lori would just seem to take over for a while. So they never knew about the days she wouldn't get out of bed. But sometimes I got so concerned myself that I called them. Lori's mother would listen to my stories, and in a very friendly motherly way, brush them aside.
“Oh, don't worry about that,” Mrs. Schiller would say. “Lori is just in one of her moods. It will pass.”
I always felt better after talking with her mother. Her parents knew her a lot better than I did and they didn't think her problems were such a big deal. I was just getting all upset over nothing.
Wintertime in New York is wonderful. And wintertime in New York around Herald Square where we lived is especially magical. Every street corner has its Salvation Army Santa with his bell and brass bucket for change. People with kids and strollers crowd around Macy's to see windows filled with moving figures, ice skaters, ballet dancers and reindeer. Just as the song says, there really are hot chestnut vendors, filling the air with the smell of roasting.
And on every street corner, there are the three-card monte games. One eye out for the police, their games perched precariously on cardboard boxes, these con men prey on passersby. Nearly every New Yorker knows, or quickly learns, that no matter how easy it seems to turn over the right card, no matter how many times the dealer lets you win when the bets are small, no matter how fervently you believe that you are the one who can beat the system, you will never, ever win. The games are completely crooked, and anyone who falls for them is a dope.
One evening in December around early twilight Lori came in. Her eyes were bright and there was a wildness about her, a kind of new energy.
“I lost my bracelet,” she said, distressed.
“Your new bracelet? The one your parents gave you?” Her parents had recently given her a beautiful, and very expensive, diamond bracelet.
“Yes. I lost it,” she repeated.
I thought she had dropped it somewhere, and we would have to go look for it. But that wasn't it at all.
“I lost it at three-card monte. I thought I had them. I thought I could beat them.” She was excited, frightened, overheated. “I used some twenties. I lost them. Then I put down everything in my wallet. I lost it all. I was out of money so I put down my bracelet, and lost that too.” It was clear she was worried. She was upset about losing the bracelet, and she didn't want to tell her parents. But she was also upset that she had lost. She felt invincible. She felt like she should not have lost, could not have lost.
Her funk had turned. Her agitation had begun.
A few days later, she called me. A group of people from work were getting together for holiday drinks in a bar in midtown. Could I join them?
After the Miss Universe Pageant ended, Lori had begun working in the personnel department of a big real estate company. I had wanted to meet the people she worked with, so I was glad to come. Besides, I felt I should keep an eye on her. I just didn't know what she was likely to do.
There were over a dozen people crowded into a small area by the bar, and the mood was jolly by the time I got there. But when I saw the look in Lori's eyes, I knew there was going to be trouble. They had that bright, out-of-control look that came just before she got wild. And it wasn't long before she started lashing out. Because of her job, she had access to confidential personnel files. In a loud voice, she began telling the group just what was in those files.
“You're on probation, and you're probably going to get fired,” she announced to one co-worker, while the others listened on, stunned.
“You asked for a raise, but you're not going to get one because your boss thinks you goof off too much,” she told another.
One by one, she went around the room, dishing up dirt on each person present. Everyone was too astounded to stop her, and in fact, no one knew how. As everyone grew angrier and angrier, I tried futilely to brush it off.
“Lori's such a kidder,” I said to one, before grabbing Lori's arm and making for the door.
On the way home, she grew calmer.
“Maybe I shouldn't have said all those things,” she said to me, looking abashed.
“Lori, you can't do stuff like that,” I said. “You are going to get fired.”
And the next day, she was.
A few weeks later, she got a job selling insurance. She seemed fearless, venturing out into neighborhoods where no other salespeople dared go, into immigrant neighborhoods where she couldn't understand her customers, and they couldn't understand her.
One day she came home with an engagement ring. A Chinese man she had met—or maybe he was Filipino—was in love with her and wanted to marry her. Her father was flabbergasted.
“We've never even met this man,” Lori told me he said. “How can you be thinking of marrying him?” The ring vanished, and the subject was dropped.
I began to think of marrying myself. I wasn't in love with the guy I was dating. But I began thinking: Why don't I just marry him? That way I can get out of here without hurting Lori's feelings. It was crazy. We had signed a two-year lease and I began thinking: There's only nineteen months to go, there's only eighteen months to go … It was like a marathon.
My parents were upset. I was in an intense training program, and having a tough enough time getting through that without worrying about Lori. I was starting to resent her.
The next time she dropped into a funk, it was March, and my brother Brad was there. He had just graduated from law school, and was on his first trip to New York for his firm. He had met Lori before when he came to visit us at Tufts, and at first he acted as if she were the old Lori, joking and laughing. But I could see that he thought there was something a bit odd. For one thing, she wouldn't look him in the eye. And when she did, she seemed so angry.
“I hope it's not an inconvenience my staying here tonight,” he said.
Lori twisted her face up into a grimace. “Life is horrible,” she said. “It wouldn't matter if it ended tomorrow. What's a little inconvenience?”
He laughed. I think he thought she was joking. I didn't. She was dead serious.
Lori began to pace. Down the hall to the bedroom. Back through the living room. Out into the hall. Brad began to realize something serious was up.
“Have I come at a bad time?” he said, during one of her swings out of the room.
“Brad,” I said, exasperated. “She's talking about killing herself.”
“Killing herself?” he asked. “What do you mean killing herself?”
I was so frantic I was almost rude myself. “I mean killing herself like in killing herself.”
He turned worried. “Is she violent?”
“I don't know anymore,” I said.
He took me seriously. The next morning, he told me that he had hidden all our big knives and heavy objects. He didn't sleep though. He was out on our big sleeper sofa, and all through the night, Lori had walked back and forth past the bed, pacing from room to room.
I was getting more and more worried, but not that Lori would hurt me. I was worried she was going to hurt herself. Her highs were getting higher, her lows lower. I asked her how she was doing with her psychiatrist.
“I just talk to him,” she said. “And he gives me medication. But it doesn't help.” We never talked about what it was that needed helping. I never knew. I don't think she knew. And it was beginning to seem to me that the psychiatrist didn't know either.
A few days after my brother left, Lori came in from work. She was upset.
“What's wrong?” I asked. “Did something happen at work?”
She looked different. She was agitated, but at the same time she seemed down, defeated. She pushed by me and went into the bedroom. Leaving the door open, she made for the telephone. She began talking in a loud voice. She was clearly distraught, but at the same time, I couldn't help thinking that she wanted me to hear. After a minute or two I realized she was talking to her psychiatrist.
“I have to see you,” she said. “I'm really, really bad.” It was the first time I had ever heard her talk like that. I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation of course, but it was clear he was trying to reassure her. It wasn't working.
“Please, you have to help me.” She was begging this guy, but he didn't seem to be responding. Her voice got higher, and more and more strident. “You don't understand,” she said. “I'm telling you I'm really bad. I'm not going to make it through the night. Please help me. Please.”
I don't know what he said, but he clearly wasn't going to see her. She was in tears when she hung up. She walked out in the living room where I was standing, and she mumbled something I thought was goodbye.
“I have to go take my pills now,” she said dully. She went into the bathroom and closed the door.
What should I do? I stood outside frozen with indecision. “Lori? Lori?” I shouted through the door. I could hear her moving around inside, and water running. Was she going to slash her wrists? What was she going to do? Then the door opened, and she walked out.
I looked into the bathroom. For weeks I had been keeping my eye on the bottles of pills that her psychiatrist had given her, just checking their levels every day. I didn't know what they were, but I was pretty sure they were tranquilizers, and pretty powerful ones. Up until yesterday, the bottles were nearly full. Now as I looked past her, I saw empty bottles on the sink. I stood right in front of her.
“You took all those pills!”
She nodded. I was stupid with fear. “You took all those pills!” I repeated.
I heard the doorbell ring, and without knowing why, I went to answer it. It was a girl from down the hall, and I shooed her away. “I'll talk with you later,” I said. I had never been so scared in my life. Lori was looking groggy. Was she going to die right here in front of me? What should I do? Who should I call? Who could get here the fastest?
My hands trembling with terror, I picked up the phone and dialed 911.
Marvin Schiller Scarsdale, New York, March 1982–June 1982
It was late at night when the phone rang. Nancy and I were just getting ready for bed. It was Lori Winters, our daughter's roommate. She was so upset that at first it was hard to understand what she wanted. It was something about our daughter, and the police.
“Calm down, Lori,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Calm down. Everything is going to be okay. Tell me what the problem is.” There was a lot of commotion in the background, and she could barely get the story out. Our Lori had taken an overdose, she said. The police were there. So were the paramedics. They were taking Lori to the hospital. She had tried to commit suicide.
“I'll be there as fast as I can,” I said.
Nancy was already sobbing, and shaking. I didn't want to upset her unnecessarily. I played down the news.
“Lori's fine,” I said. “She's going to be fine. She's taken too many pills and she's going to the hospital.” Lori was in no real danger, I assured Nancy. She's just made a little mistake with her medication. Everything will be fine in the morning. Nancy, I could see, was eager to believe me.
Driving with Nancy through the dark of the Hutchinson River Parkway, I more than half believed it myself. There was some misunderstanding, I thought. Lori Winters was just a kid herself. She was getting herself riled up over nothing. My daughter kill herself? That was impossible. Nothing ever happened to her that she couldn't handle. She had just had some little upset, and made a mistake, that was all. All this business about police and paramedics—well, Lori Winters must have been frightened and overreacted.
I had known that our Lori had had problems, of course. She had told us about them in college. She had felt some stress at school, it seemed, and she felt the need for counseling. That was nothing unusual in Westchester. Many of our friends’ children had troubles of one kind or another. Seeing a counselor was just a normal part of life in many families. Lori had seen someone at the university and I understood that she found those sessions to be helpful. She had told me that herself.
She was our oldest child and only daughter. We didn't have any standards to compare her with. It seemed like her problems were just what might have been expected from any moody teenager.
After she graduated, I felt she was in good hands with the psychiatrist we had chosen, a man we knew to be a respected member of our large circle of friends. She would sort out her problems with him, get herself together, and go on with her life, I was certain.
