Long Way Out, page 24
“How sweet!” Tess remarked, with a broad smile. “Those gay boys always do the right thing, don’t they.” Russell didn’t respond. Pressure welling around his eye sockets was spreading back and around his ears, down the back of his neck, over his shoulders and under his armpits, onto and across his upper torso. It was as though someone had lowered an invisible lead blanket onto his chest. This wasn’t a coronary episode; although, without a doubt, his heart was aching. This was yet another plunge into depression.
Russell had long been aware that he was a prime candidate for psychotherapy. Still, he’d persistently put off seeking treatment. This reticence was not related to any potential expense; his company health insurance would have covered it. He knew that, in order to receive any substantial benefit from counseling, all of his cards would have to be laid face-up on the table. That meant being forthright about his same-sex attraction and compulsive extra-marital ventures and, ultimately, facing a frank professional assessment.
But he was in dire pain; and not just physically. The broken ribs and punctured lung were only piling additional agony atop the psychic struggle of trudging through day after day in the dual personas known as Russell Deacon. His physical discomfort might even have provided some welcome distraction from this anguish, being as it was, a constant reminder that he was still alive. Still, seeing no escape from a maze of his own construction — at least none that wouldn’t cause incalculable ruin — only one solution was making sense. And, on this day, as his wife handed back the get-well card from a group of compassionate, queer softball players, he was contemplating an early exit from what seemed an impossibly tangled thicket of predicaments and private misery.
Russell had come to the conclusion that he was an abject failure in his most important life roles: husband, father, and decent human being. He’d been a selfish, self-serving liar, an egoistic pleasure-seeker, a careless, debauched hedonist. What would his parents, or his wife, or his wife’s parents or, perish the thought, his sons think of him if they ever found out? He had lurked along park pathways, loitered outside public restrooms, and entered triple-X bookstores, all to answer a base, animal impulse. The only difference he could see between himself and a chimpanzee at the zoo was that he had yet to fling his own feces at someone. No vision of the future appeared remotely acceptable. Although just 45, with his life’s diary barely half-written, turning the page to begin a new chapter seemed too heavy a lift.
Russell had a substantial life insurance policy, with a death benefit large enough to support his family comfortably for a decade. A drug-blurred mind and a melancholic heart told him that Tess and the boys would be far better off with him out of the picture. Surely, they would grieve his passing. But, eventually, they would thank him for making the ultimate sacrifice. Best of all, they would never have to suffer the ordeal of being introduced to his hidden self. If he ended it all without revealing his shadow identity, he would die untarnished, a knight in shining armor. Russell had grown weary of protecting himself. It was time he thought about protecting them... from a very inconvenient, unpleasant truth.
As Russell brainstormed exit strategies, excitement bubbled up at the myriad possibilities. Not only would suicide be a new adventure, it would solve everybody’s problems in one single action. Why hadn’t he realized this before? Of course, he’d be taking the easy way or, as some say, the coward’s way out. But, in this circumstance, the easiest, most expedient thing had every appearance of being a sure win-win. Thus, the coward would be remembered as a hero. So, why not?
“Babe,” Tess began.
“Yes,” responded Russell.
“I don’t know how to say this. So, I’m just going to say it.”
“Okay.” Suddenly, Russell’s heart was racing. He had no clue as to what he was about to hear.
“I’m... I’m really worried about you.”
“Okay. What do you mean?”
In a list of subjects Tess would ever want to address, this one was last, and scribbled as an afterthought, in pencil, in the tiniest, cursive script. To her credit, she bit the bullet, took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and looked into her husband’s eyes. “I... well... I think you should see somebody.”
“See somebody? Like...?”
“You know, like a counselor, a therapist.” Having put the subject out into the glaring light of day, her tone became more assertive. “I think you should get counseling. Seriously.”
“Alright.” Russell found this suggestion somewhat ironic. Tess was not a particularly empathetic person. And, her own personal experience with therapy had not been particularly pleasant, let alone productive. “Because?”
“Babe,” she stated. “You’re obviously depressed.”
“And, what’s new about that?” The cynical nature of this quip only served to reinforce her diagnosis.
“Don’t be glib. This isn’t something to joke about.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And, don’t say you’re sorry either. Just... just... just listen to me! I love you. I’m worried about you. I hate seeing you like this.”
“I’m on pain pills,” he argued. “I’m stuck in this bed. I can’t get comfortable. My head is all... you know, messed up. Why wouldn’t I be feeling a little bit down?”
“But you’re not just a little bit down...”
“What are we having for dinner?” Thirteen-year-olds typically lack the awareness and restraint to inquire if they might be interrupting. Tess stopped mid-sentence and shifted her attention to Hank standing in the doorway. Having commandeered the floor, the boy continued, “Are we gonna have dinner, or what?”
“I’ll be down in a minute, Hank,” Tess replied.
“Okay, Mom,” Hank griped. “But I’m starving. And you always go berserk when I snack before dinner. So...”
“Your mother will be down in a minute, Hank.” Oddly, this momentary flash of anger toward his self-centered, firstborn son served to bolster Russell’s spirits. He was back in his comfort zone, in the familiar role of paternal disciplinarian.
“Okey-dokey,” muttered Hank, in a snide note of resignation, before making his retreat.
Tess returned her attention to the patient in bed. “Thanks,” she said, patting the back of his hand.
“For what?”
“For backing me up.” Tess and Russell didn’t always agree on parenting tactics. So, when they fell into sync, she genuinely appreciated his support. “I guess I’d better...” Tess said, cocking her head toward the door.
“Yeah, right. Can’t let the little prince starve.”
“You’ll think about it?”
Russell didn’t have to ask what she was asking him to consider. “Yes,” he said. “In fact, I’m inclined to give it a shot.”
“I’m so happy to hear you say that.” Tess’s tear-filled eyes confirmed her statement. She, however, hadn’t the first inkling as to what her husband agreeing to therapy could lead to.
Russell’s internal to-be-or-not-to-be debate had taken on a new dimension. The issue that, two minutes earlier, had seemed so cut-and-dried was once again fraught with nuance and moral ambivalence. It was becoming apparent to Russell that his permanent absence would not be a clear win-win after all. One aspect he’d previously neglected to put on the “con” side of the ledger was leaving Tess to single-parent the boys; most notably, to deal with Hank’s surliness. Doing that would be extremely unfair — unforgivable, in fact. At this inflection point in the boy’s development, Tess needed his partnership. And, without a strong father figure, Hank might permanently lose his bearings and spend the rest of his life adrift. Russell couldn’t possibly consider vacating his parental role in the household until he was relatively certain that the truculent teen was out of the woods and headed in a more stable direction.
So, with the suicide route forestalled, Russell found himself at a critical crossroads. One sign pointed toward a continuation of the status quo. This pathway, up until a year ago, had served its purpose. Now, however, every step Russell took further into the queer wilderness seemed to make the ground beneath his feet more unstable. Continuing down that course meant that more precarious stretches lay ahead, increasing the odds of being found out, or some other unimaginable catastrophe. The other sign, the one labeled “Therapy,” veered off onto heretofore unexplored terrain. Both choices were formidable. Only one, however, held the potential of pleasing Tess... in the short run, at least. That factor, as it turned out, tipped the scales.
TWENTY-SIX
Exiting the medical building, so light on his feet, Russell might have been bounding across the surface of the Moon, pulled by gravity far more forgiving than that of Planet Earth. If he thought he could have pulled it off without suffering a dagger stab of pain in his still-healing rib cage, he would have clicked his heels.
He’d been fretting the appointment for weeks. Sitting on the sofa in the waiting lounge, filling out the requisite forms — page after page of invasive, personal queries — had only served to worsen his anxiety. “Russell?” He looked up from the clip board in his hands to behold the kindest face he’d seen since Mrs. Murty on the first day of third grade. Tallish, with long, straight, shoulder-length, grey hair, Dr. White was dressed tastefully in black stretch slacks and a sweater with a subdued, geometric pattern, reminiscent of a Mark Rothko painting.
“I’m still...” Russell stammered. “I haven’t finished...”
“No worries,” she said, in a voice that sounded like hot cocoa tastes on a cold, December day. “You can do that later. We’ve got things to talk about.” Russell’s nervous knees wobbled, as he rose to follow the psychologist down a short hallway adorned with impeccably framed art and vintage photographs. She ushered him into a tidy room, no larger than twelve-by-twelve. A faux-leather loveseat was positioned against the outside window, flanked by end tables, each supporting a lamp and a requisite box of facial tissues.
“Good. Two boxes of Kleenex,” Russell joked, “I might need ‘em both.”
“Well, that’s what they’re there for,” responded Dr. White. “Please...” She motioned toward the loveseat.
“You want me to sit?” Russell inquired. “Or, lie down? This is all new to me.”
“Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
Russell perched himself on the edge of the middle sofa cushion, as if he might not be staying long. Dr. White skootched back in her wing-backed chair, upholstered in calming tones of umber and avocado. Smiling pleasantly, she shed her flats, tucked her legs and feet under her and observed. With slow seconds of silence dragging by, Russell felt like a rare, endangered zoo animal under observation. “So, what’s next?” he asked.
“You tell me,” she said. “What brings you here? What’s on your mind?”
“Well...” he began, sliding back into what he assumed would be a more comfortable posture but, instead, wincing and clutching his still-tender chest.
“Something wrong?” She seemed genuinely concerned.
Pleased to have the story of his fractured ribs as an icebreaker, Russell quipped, “Well, long story short, I failed to get out of the way of a charging bull.”
“Wow, sounds painful,” she said. “Want to tell me about it?” Russell began sharing his passion for coaching baseball and how co-managing the office softball team had provided him a healthy outlet, until a violent collision on the base path put him out of commission; temporarily, he hoped. “That must be difficult,” she remarked.
“Yeah,” Russell responded, “It’s been rough... tedious, really. But... I’m on the mend, as they say.” Feeling foolish that the good doctor might think that his inability to actively participate in his athletic hobby was his primary reason for seeking therapy, Russell segued to a more substantive subject. “My wife and I... Tess and I — we’ve been married for fourteen years now — have two sons...” Sharing the various parental challenges he and Tess had been having with Hank siphoned off a major portion of the session time. Beyond that, Russell shared that he’d been feeling enervated in the work place, while intimating that Tess, although a beautiful person and a dedicated life partner, tended to see him as a two-dimensional caricature and basically refused to appreciate him as a whole human being.
He left the appointment very much looking forward to next week’s opportunity to continue unloading his grievances. Having someone listen, comprehensively and objectively, can’t help but make a person feel better about everything. He’d taken an immediate liking to Dr. White. And, in one single session, she was already beginning to win his trust.
“Did you talk about me?” This was the second thing Tess asked. Her first query was the obligatory, “How did your therapy session go?” which elicited a glowing report from Russell.
“Only to say what a fantastic wife you are,” he told her, giving her a loving peck on the lips.
“Exactly what I wanted to hear.” She wasn’t kidding. It was what she had come to expect from her perfect partner in their perfect marriage. “You’re the best husband ever.”
“Let’s not go overboard, Babe,” he kidded. “There’s probably one, maybe even a couple-a guys out there who could give me a run for my money.”
“Well, I’m happy with the one I got,” she replied. “I’m not looking for anyone else.”
Russell felt obliged to respond in kind, to tell Tess that she was the best wife in the entire universe, that she’d always be his one and only love. Instead, he punted. “I really like her... Dr. White.”
“That’s great,” Tess responded. “But, you like me better, right?”
“We’ll see,” he teased. “I’m gonna reserve final judgment on that.”
“You are so bad!” Tess chirped, swatting his behind with a dish towel.
“Ouch!” he protested. “Be careful. I’m still recovering from a head-on collision.”
“Seriously, though,” she said. “I’m really glad you’re doing this. I think it’s super, super great.”
“Me, too, Babe,” he responded. “I really mean it. Hey... look...” He nodded toward the sliding glass doors and placed his arm around his wife’s shoulder. Automatically, she slipped hers around his waist. The happy couple stood in their kitchen, watching as, out in the backyard, Rory wound up and fired a brisk fastball across the lawn and into Hank’s mitt.
“Steeeeeerike!” Hank called out in umpire speak, before tossing the ball back to his younger sibling.
“Ain’t that somethin’?” Russell queried, rhetorically.
“Apparently, miracles never cease,” his bride replied. A moment passed. Then, she had an idea. “Maybe we should do it tonight.” Once again, Russell knew the proper response. And yet, his tongue failed to give shape to the words. He forced his lips into a creased smile, letting that provide the answer.
It was 11:05 PM when Tess, her naked body still warm and moist from the shower, slipped under the covers. “Are you awake?” she whispered, reaching a hand around her husband’s inert body to check the status of his private parts. Russell was indeed awake. His genitals, however, remained cold. He pretended not to hear her.
≈ ≈ ≈
Russell’s manic, first-therapy-appointment high proved to be short-lived. As the weeks of sessions rolled on, he found it increasingly more difficult to hoist himself out of bed in the morning. Without opening his eyes, he’d grope for the snooze button on the radio alarm clock to mute Morning Edition, only to repeat this action every time Bob Edwards’ voice shook him from his slumber. Only when his bladder insisted on being emptied did he feel sufficient motivation to change his posture from horizontal to vertical. Then, after plodding to the toilet half-awake, he’d return, tumble heavily onto the mattress, and crawl back under the covers. “Just one more dream,” he’d mutter to no one. Sleep had become Russell’s one and only pleasure. Visiting the unconscious provided escape from an increasingly burdened heart, while offering distraction from a void still unfulfilled.
≈ ≈ ≈
Mary Ann rapped softly on Russell’s office door. After waiting for 10 seconds with no response, she turned to walk away, but changed her mind, mid-stride. She knocked louder the second time. Still hearing nothing from inside, she relayed a warning: “Pull up your pants, Buddy. I’m comin’ in.” She peeked inside to find Russell seated at his desk, back hunched, his jowls and eyes drooping under gravity’s pull.
“Hey...” Russell’s greeting was anemic. “What’s going on?”
“How about lunch?”
“Yeah. No,” he muttered. “Thanks. I really don’t have much of an appetite. Besides...” He lifted a policy document from his desk, providing evidence that he had work to do.
What Mary Ann wanted to say was that she was worried about him, that he could always count on her for a compassionate ear. Instead, she asked, “When’s your next therapy appointment?”
“Tomorrow.”
“How’s it been going?” This query was somewhat intrusive and she knew it. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.” Mary Ann missed the Russell she’d come to know prior to his injury. He hadn’t just had the wind knocked out of him. He seemed to have lost the breath of life.
Russell knew it would be impossible to sum up his therapy experience in a few sentences. But, in his present malaise, even a spontaneous, sociable lunch seemed onerous. Still, he thought, having a friend to talk to might be worth the effort. He swallowed hard and made a conscious attempt at brightening up a notch. “Okay,” he said. “Screw it. Let’s grab lunch.”
“Maybe you’ll feel hungry by the time we get there,” Mary Ann suggested. On one hand, she was looking forward to spending some long-postponed, one-on-one time with her office confidant. On the other, she harbored a natural sense of apprehension. She knew from experience that no one can take on another person’s burden. And, of late, Russell appeared to be lugging around an entire dumpster crammed to the rim with emotional detritus. Maybe, she could convince him that at least a portion of his load could be set aside for the time being. That would relieve her from having to assume the role of emotional Sherpa.
