Fire & Water (21 page)

“Did I hurt you?” His remorse-filled eyes pleaded with me. “The baby. Is she okay? God. Please tell me she’s okay.”

I combed his thick curls with my fingers. This was my Jake—my tender lover, my playmate, my friend. This was the man who tasted every kind of leaf in the baby garden making sure none were too spicy for a tender tongue.

“She’s fine. We’re both fine.”

He pulled me toward him, his face resting in the crook of my neck. “Forgive me, Kat. Forgive me. I was just so— I just had these ideas in my mind and I couldn’t—”

“Shh. It’s all right now. It’s over.”

He melted into agonized sobs.

As Jake wept, his body jerked in deep spasms while his hands clung, claw-like, to the sleeves of my sweater. I looked up in desperation at the nurse who’d accompanied me into his room.

“You all right, Mr. Bloom?” she asked.

Jake kept sobbing.

She made a notation in his chart and changed an IV bag that hung above his head. She whispered, “Give him a little while. It’s all just sinking in for him.”

I wondered how long it would take for it all to sink in for me. When the nurse left the room, I felt overexposed and vulnerable.

Jake finally calmed, I assumed because of whatever was in the IV bag. Even through the fog of medication, his begging continued. “Take me home, Kat. Take me out of here. This place is for crazy people. I can’t stand the sounds I hear through the walls. I want to crawl into our bed and hold you. Everything makes sense when you’re holding me.”

“We need to get you strong.”

“Anything. Just get me out of here.”

The last of Jake’s words were sluggish. I could see him fighting to keep his eyelids open. Soon the hold he had around me wilted and he withered back into the mattress. I watched the fluttery movement of his eyes under his closed eyelids. I pulled away and leaned over him, kissing his forehead, then slipped out of his room.

* * *

Back at UCSF, I listened to Mary K’s soft snoring. She’d been in recovery for a couple of hours. I’d already read the hospital’s outdated magazines, as well as the book I’d brought on breastfeeding and sleeping tips for parents of newborns. My mind was a constant hum. I turned the pages of my book, but didn’t remember anything I’d read. Mary K stirred and moaned. She whispered a raspy request for a drink.

“Only a sip.” I raised a cup with a bent straw to her dry lips.

She swallowed. “All of it?” she whispered without opening her eyes.

“No, just a sip.”

“All of the foot, Murphy.” Her eyes were slits.

I nodded. “Yes. And your shin. They saved your knee, though. Andra says it’ll make fitting a prosthesis much easier.”

“Damn,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Littleton knows about all of this?”

“Hospital grapevine. She came to see you earlier, but you were still asleep.”

Mary K turned her face to the wall. “Let me be alone for a while, Murphy.”

“But—”

“I won’t get all morose on you after this. But I’ve got to have a little while, can you give me that?”

I kissed her forehead. “Sure. I’ll come back later.”

“Tomorrow,” she said without turning toward me. “Come back tomorrow to take me home. I don’t want to stay here.” Her shoulder rose and fell with a deep sigh. “Being a patient blows.”

* * *

“But I’m ready to come home right now,” Jake said, looking out the window of his hospital room. “I don’t belong here. Kat. The people in here are crazy. One guy is convinced he killed Judy Garland. One woman thinks she’s Queen Victoria and eats her own shit. Surely you don’t think that I’m—”

“No, Jake, no.”

“Well
they
do. They can’t keep me against my will. It’s not like I’m going to go spray a McDonald’s full of bullets or something. I broke a few fucking windows. Windows in my own house!”

The pounding in my chest startled me; the baby rolled in response to what must have been a surge of adrenaline. For two days, Jake had been so calm, so
himself
, but the doctor’s suggestion that he stay another two weeks had revealed shadows of the feral creature within. Between Mary K and Jake both busting for a premature discharge, I felt like screaming. But Mary K’s discharge didn’t fill me with dread.

Suddenly, he put both hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Please don’t tell me you think I’m one of these people.”

I looked down, thinking about the janitor who’d been cleaning smeared feces from the wall when I came in that afternoon. Surely Jake, the multilingual, world-recognized artist—the man who’d wooed Japanese officials and charmed my family, the father of my child—could not belong with these people.

“No, of course not. But you’re not well enough to come home.”

He clutched my arm and brought his face up close to mine. “I’m me again. We’re going to be fine. I just let myself get too run down. I lost track of you. You’re my touchstone.”

Running between the two hospitals, I’d not mentioned Mary K’s surgery to Jake, and my initial intention of confiding in Mary K about Jake seemed pointless in light of what she was going through. I’d spent the past days trying not to look at the vacant spot at the end of Mary K’s left leg and enduring her snapping at me if I inquired how she was feeling. She accepted little help and had threatened to kick me out, as she’d promised, but she also seemed glad I was there. I had been with Jake during visiting hours. Each night it grew harder to leave him behind. As Jake returned to his former self, I’d begun to feel a softening of the hard stone that had been lodged in my chest. But now Jake was frightened me all over again.

I pressed my palm against my belly, feeling what I thought was a knee or an elbow as it traveled across my abdomen. Jake knelt by where I sat and pressed his cheek against me. The baby instantly calmed and focused her bubbly movements to where Jake’s cheek rested.

“It’s okay, Ryan,” Jake said. “I promise I’ll be a good daddy.”

* * *

My body had become a timepiece, a countdown for the arrival of a monumental change in my life. Sharing this baby with Jake had once seemed like the happiest possibility I’d ever known, but now the idea of my baby being born struck terror in my heart.

In all the hours of sitting with Mary K while she recovered, watching movies and eating meals, I’d formed the thoughts in my mind a dozen times. But any time I tried to confide in her, a dry and brittle crust formed over the words and they lodged in my throat. I told myself it was because of her health—the time just wasn’t right—but in truth, I knew that Mary K would only tell me that Jake was crazy and that I should get out.

I went to Murphy’s Pub, thinking I’d talk to my family. But once I got there, my loved ones swarmed me with hugs and pats to my growing belly. Alice had crocheted booties. Dad was building a rocking horse that Tully would paint in circus colors. Dr. Schwartz grew wistful and reminisced about when I was little. Days passed, and still I couldn’t tell them about Jake’s condition.

My family would flock to my support and I knew that. Mary K would defend me with ferocious protectiveness. But none of them really understood Jake or how we loved each other. I felt utterly alone.

Back in my office at UC, I found myself longing for someone who understood Jake, someone who could help me think clearly. In the privacy that my cubby of an office offered, I dialed the number of Jake’s administrative assistant in New York to find out how to reach Burt.

When I finally reached him at a hotel in British Columbia, Canada, Burt’s voice nearly burst through the telephone with exuberance. “Hey Kiddo! Your voice is a lovely song for these weary ears.” We’d talked on a number of occasions when Jake had dodged his calls, and we’d developed a playful repartee over the months. “How’s the little nipper?”

“Hi Burt,” I said. I swallowed, trying to summon the next phrases I’d vowed I would not squelch. I couldn’t talk about the baby. My silence sent a signal for me.

“Kate, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Is the baby all right?”

They were simple questions, yet the fact that Burt was the first person to ask them of me sent me into a fit of unexpected sobs. I covered my mouth with my palm, trying to stifle the sound of my weeping.

“Oh, darlin’, what is it?”

Finally, everything I’d been holding in came bursting from me, a tsunami of words fueled by a storm of panic. I told him about Jake’s descent, his obsessive drawing, his sleeplessness. Then I described that horrible night in our garden and his current condition in the psychiatric ward at General.

After listening to the whole, sordid tale, Burt finally sighed. “I’m so sorry, Kate. I really thought this might be behind us.”

I spilled every unspoken thought I’d had for weeks. Everything about Jake. Everything about Mary K. Burt listened to it all with the patience of a priest in confessional. “Oh me,” he sighed.

“What am I going to do, Burty? The baby will be here so soon. They want to put Jake on lithium. They want to put him in long-term care. He’s furious. I don’t know—” I swallowed and summoned up some of the words that scared me most. “I’m so afraid.”

“Shh,” he whispered, “It’ll look better soon, I promise.” His soothing words calmed me. “I’ll have his medical records forwarded and give a release to his psychiatrist in New York so he can talk to your guy there. That will help them with the treatment plan and keep them from misdiagnosing. I still have a durable power of attorney, so a phone call will do it. I’ll be on the next flight to San Fran. Not to worry.”

I pummeled Burt with questions about Jake’s history. Hospitalizations. Breakdowns. He’d had a few, some attributable to impetuous youth, others sounding more ominous, but nothing sounded quite as bad as what I’d witnessed. And Jake, long ago severed from his own family, had trusted Burt with power of attorney to take care of him. “I don’t want people to hate Jake,” I admitted.

I heard what sounded like a soft growl through the phone, a sound I’d learn indicated that Burt was thinking and selecting his words carefully. “Jake Bloom is my dearest friend. This is a rough patch. He’s had them before, but no matter what, he’s still Jake. He just needs our help to come back. That’s all. A psych ward must be making him batty. He needs to be home with us, the ones who love him and understand him.”

My throat ached and I could barely swallow. “Thank you,” I croaked. “Thank you, Burt.” The telephone’s mechanical sound whirred in my ear. “Burt. Do you think I’m crazy to be with him?”

Seconds thrummed by. “Love is equal parts miracle and insanity. Jake is a windstorm you’ll have to weather, but he’s also the best, most loyal friend I’ve ever known. I think you’d be mad not to love him, too.” Burt cleared his throat and I wondered if his eyes were damp as he spoke. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, kiddo. Just have a good meal so that nipper can grow good and strong.”

I listened to the dial tone for a while, unable to hang up and sever the connection to Burt. I rested my head on my desk. Exhaustion was heavy blanket and sleep soon fell upon me.

* * *

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Dr. Murphy.” The whites of Dr. Bhanu Gupta’s eyes stood out against his charcoal skin, giving him a look of constant surprise. The slight man stood in front of his dented metal desk and held out a plastic chair for me. “I must say that it is against my recommendation that your husband leave the hospital right now. I have told him this.” The music of his native India gave everything Dr. Gupta said an anti-rhythmic lilt that was at once melodic and a little frantic. “While his progress has been remarkable, I am not yet confident that his mood is fully stable. He could be benefiting from an extended stay in a therapeutic setting.”

I pushed down the sense of panic that rose in me when I thought of taking Jake home. Sitting with Dr. Gupta, humiliation brought heat to my face. Under normal circumstances, he would be my colleague, not someone treating a member of my family. I donned my most professional demeanor, smiling and modulating my voice. “With all due respect, you can’t seriously believe that my husband belongs in this population. He was depleted, sleep-deprived, and severely dehydrated. What he needed was rest and fluids, and this week in the hospital has given him that. He’s agreed to use medication as necessary to regulate his sleep. He’s no longer dangerous or delusional.” What I said was factually accurate, but the falseness of my bravado rang in my ears. I heard myself fighting for something I wasn’t even sure I wanted.

Dr. Gupta’s voice was gentle and patient, somewhere between the Dalai Lama and Yoda. “Dr. Cohen was very thorough in her assessment and recommendations over the phone. I concur with you and with her. Mr. Bloom’s current mental status does not qualify him to be kept against his will. His condition is improved. But he has declined the full medication regimen that is indicated.”

“You mentioned lithium. You can’t be serious. He’s not a psychotic. He’s obsessive, and that gets compounded when he’s depleted. After this week of rest, he’s back to his normal self.” The voice that emerged from me was one I recognized; one that argued treatment plans in utilization review meetings. But in those meetings my voice was buoyed by confidence in the truth. In Gupta’s office, it was all façade.