Fire & Water (22 page)

From a silver pot etched with filigree, Dr. Gupta poured tawny tea into a porcelain cup. In the shabby surroundings, the tea service seemed strangely civilized. He nodded to me, offering a cup, and I shook my head. “I know this is a matter of great tenderness, Dr. Murphy. Your husband’s diagnostic picture is addressed only partly with rest. With manic-depressive illness, the cycle is bound to return. Whereas in a state of hypomania he can be productive and even creative, this episode of psychosis exceeded the definition of simple hypomania. Without medication, a return to this psychotic state is, well—” Dr. Gupta’s inky black eyes found mine. “Please forgive me, but the return of his mania is inevitable, and his history, as described to me by Dr. Cohen, would indicate that, untreated, it can become even more severe.”

Those words,
manic-depressive illness
,
psychotic
episode
, made Jake seem like some kind of a monster. Ryan would be here in just weeks, and the thought of Jake in his current state, with our newborn, made my hands shake. Though everything that the kind doctor was saying made logical sense, accepting the idea that what Jake was suffering from was a mental illness felt like swallowing broken glass. “You don’t know Jake. I’ve never met anyone more energetic in my life. To be manic-depressive, you have to have depression. Depression doesn’t begin to describe him. He’s talented, intelligent, decent, gentle, loving. The medication they gave him when he got in here made him a zombie. He can’t stand that.” I heard the defensiveness in my voice. “He’s an artist. If he hadn’t ever had a grandiose thought, he wouldn’t have been able to create the art that he has. If grandiosity is illness, three-quarters of the surgeons I work with should be on lithium.”

“I am a great admirer of your husband’s work. Certainly no one would want to medicate that away. Often the spark of such magnificent artistic creativity is accompanied by a, how shall I say—” the doctor stroked his chin with slim fingers, “—a
flame
of madness. This disorder is baffling, especially when patients are so intelligent and talented. He could go years without an episode.”

“With all due respect, I’m worried about his state of mind if he stays
here
for long. Jake simply does not belong here.” I stood and snatched up my purse and drew in a slow breath to calm myself. “Our baby will be born soon, and we want to go home and focus on that. A healthy focus and proper diet and sleep are what Jake needs. I can monitor his medications and insist that he see you for follow-ups.”

Dr. Gupta stood and extended his hand with its bird-thin wrist toward me. “I can see that you and your husband have made your decision. I will sign his discharge papers, with the notation that you have declined the recommended treatment and that discharge is against physician recommendations. I am concerned about your managing him alone, Dr. Murphy. Not that you aren’t perfectly competent, of course, but given your pregnancy, I—” He paused and looked deep into my eyes. “I am here if you need anything.”

“His friend—our friend—Burt, will be here tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

How many times had I given this very lecture to patients leaving the hospital? I’d written AMA—
Against Medical Advice
—into charts to cover hospital liability and to leave a trail of information for whatever doctors would inherit the case when, inevitably, the uncooperative patient returned. My gut tightened. This doctor was wrong. He’d seen Jake in his worst moment. He just didn’t know the Jake I knew.

* * *

The next day, Jake lingered for a moment at our front door. His chin sank to his chest and his hair hid his face.

“Don’t worry. It’s all been fixed,” I said, rubbing his shoulder. “The glass is all back and the carpets are cleaned. It’ll take your touch to get it back to what it was, but the garden is back in order. The crew was able to salvage most of the plants and the furniture was unharmed.”

“I don’t care about the house.” He wrapped his arms around me and swayed, bringing his lips to the nape of my throat. “I could’ve lost you,” he whispered. “Nothing else matters, but if I lost you and the baby I’d just want to die.”

“We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

The warm light of the house welcomed us and drew us toward its glow. Now, back in the beautiful piece of art that Jake had made for me, I finally felt at home. The beveled glass in the kitchen windowpanes fractured the light into ribbons of color that danced on the wall and floor, tugging us toward the kitchen with its northwesterly view. The towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, anchors of strength and beauty, reminded me of all that remained unchanged.

We exchanged polite formalities as we settled, bad movie dialogue between strangers not knowing what to say. Only when we went into the kitchen did something familiar begin to emerge. Jake hunted in the cupboards and refrigerator. I sorted the mail. After a few moments, a soft hissing sound came from a skillet on the stove and the smell of warm butter filled the room.

“There’s not too much to pick from in the fridge,” Jake said when he brought our plates to the table. “But I can make eggs.” He set my plate in front of me and my stomach growled in response. The caramelized onions and tangy Swiss cheese made my taste buds vibrate with pleasure. Before I knew it my plate was empty, and I looked up to see Jake, chin in hand, watching me, a serene smile on his lips.

“What?” I said, my voice muffled. “I can’t help it. The baby was hungry.”

He reached and took my cheek in his hand and pulled me toward him. “It’ll be okay, Kat. I’ll do everything to make it okay.”

Swimming Among the Stars

In the first weeks after Jake returned home from the hospital, he honored the distance I silently demanded. During the days we exchanged fleeting, tender affections. At night, we slept in the same bed but with a canyon between us.

I tried to confide in Mary K or my family, but each time the words turned to dust in my throat. When I thought of how the story might sound out loud, I could imagine only one reply from Mary K:
What are you—nuts? Get the hell out, Murphy
.

Jake took responsibility for everything and agreed to a course of medication. He saw Dr. Gupta twice a week. What more could I expect? If he suffered from Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, or cancer, I’d stay beside him. I tried to stay peaceful for Ryan, my little, unhatched bird.

As I entered my third trimester, Jake reemerged as an artist, the buds of ideas beginning to take form through the thinning fog of medication. Burt arranged a sizable commission in British Columbia. It would be two-and-a-half days of work without any guidelines or limitations, with a public showing at the end of the third day. Photographs of the installation would be featured in
Art Nomad
. VIPs had been invited to see the installation and attend a reception afterward.

My OB okayed me to fly through my seventh month. “We need this trip, for us,” Jake pleaded. “I’m back to myself. I’ve been home for nearly a month. For us, Kat?”

* * *

From the window of a small private plane, the chain of British Columbia’s clear blue lakes was a string of sapphires among emerald hills.

Burt met us at an airport owned by a group of wealthy Canadian businessmen, one of whom was on the Arts Council and owned the plane. Burt gave me a warm embrace. “How’s the little nipper?”

“Fine,” I sighed.

Burt had stayed with us at our house the first two weeks Jake was home from the hospital. Somewhere along the line, Burt had become not just the best friend of my husband, but a friend to me. He was the only person who understood what Jake and I had been through.

“Hey there, Jake-O,” Burt said extending his hand. Though the two men were about the same height, Jake was a willow and Burt a mountain. “Feeling all right, mate? This isn’t too soon?” he asked.

Jake’s eyes jumped to mine. “We’re good, Burty.”

“Good to hear it,” Burt said, his enormous hand resting like a rib eye on Jake’s shoulder. “So here’s how it goes. Our hosts are putting you two up at a private villa. Staff will deliver meals, but promise to remain otherwise invisible. It won’t be a bunch of blue bloods wanting to constantly rub your elbows.”

“Thanks for that,” Jake said.

“Private beach on a little lake all to yourselves,” Burt continued. “You’ll have to do some hobnobbing at a party the evening of the installation, but that’s it.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said. Jake put his arm around my ever-widening waist.

“How’s the old percolator?” Burt asked tapping Jake on the temple. “Got your vision yet, mate?”

Jake’s face broke into a grin. “Burt can’t just trust the process. Always wants to know the plan. But what would be the fun in that?”

“Fun, ha! I just wish your
process
happened more than a few hours before I have to fly a crew to the site, that’s all. I’ve reserved forklifts and dozers from a local contractor, have art interns at the ready—whatever your
process
might require. We’ve got three days of clear weather for you to work your brilliance.”

“Poor Burty,” Jake cooed. “Carries all the worries for us.” Jake turned to Burt. “Cancel it all. No equipment. No materials. Keep the volunteers for gathering natural elements, but they’ve got to make themselves silent and invisible while I work. Just you, your wading boots, and your silly old camera. Kat and our little passenger are my muses, and nature has provided all I’ll need.”

Burt’s eyes glistened under his golden brows and he clutched at his chest. “Leave the rest to you? Those words’ll be the death of me, mate.”

* * *

I woke the next morning to a pink dawn and an empty bed. A note rested on Jake’s pillow.
Gone to work. Ordered room service. It’s waiting in the kitchen for my girls. Eat up. Call this number for a ride.
Love, love, love
.

In the quiet, the fears that I’d been squelching seeped into my waking thoughts. Jake was fine now, back to himself. But I could not pretend I hadn’t seen the other part of him. This man—this amazing, adoring man—had disintegrated into the feral creature I’d witnessed amidst the wreckage of our garden. But I also could not deny that I loved him, helplessly, and that we were about to have a child. My mind churned with Burt’s reassurances that Jake had long periods, years, without episodes of any kind, and then years more where only mild episodes occurred.
Yes
, I reassured myself.
We can control this
.

I hurried through a shower and munched on fresh croissants, then got a ride to the first in the chain of pristine lakes. Tucking myself behind a cluster of birch trees near the shore, I was out of Jake’s sight. For two full days—time that passed unmeasured—I watched with fascination. Burt wandered nearby, his camera ready. Burt and Jake walked on parallel paths toward their own version of art; Jake creating the sculpture that would last only an instant, and Burt making it last on film. At times over the two days I’d sleep or take slow walks, but whenever I returned to my perch, I was entranced anew. Art students scampered like silent stagehands, gathering all manner of twig, flower, shell, feather, and stone, keeping a wide distance between themselves and Jake. Birds chirped in the trees and fat bumblebees buzzed, but no human sounds could be heard.

While he sculpted, Jake was oblivious to anything other than the visual poetry he created. He walked barefoot along the shore of the lake, his pants legs rolled up. He kicked the water. He gathered leaves and petals of spring wildflowers, tucking them into a huge burlap pouch that dangled from his belt. Occasionally he’d squat or sit, examining whatever he’d discovered so closely it seemed he might pull out a jeweler’s eyepiece. He arranged what he found into patterns on the shore. All the while, Burt snapped photographs.

On breaks, Jake emerged from his trance and bounded over to me, checking on my comfort, kissing my belly, bringing me small flowers and shells he’d found until I’d amassed a collection of treasures. On the second morning, he came to me with a surprise, appearing very much like a little boy with a secret. Finally, he pulled his hand from behind his back. In his open palm rested a tiny gray egg with green specks.

“Look, Kat,” he said grinning. “Now that I have you I find these abandoned everywhere. Like you said. They’re about a perfectly designed future. About potential.”

Ryan made a gentle roll within me, reminding me that she was
our
little hatchling. I tucked myself into Jake’s arms and pulled his hand to my side. Together we stood, relishing together in our daughter’s movements.

At lunchtime on the third workday, Jake looked in my direction, and for the first time he called me into the field of his work. “Kat, come look!”

It was my first close look at the works he’d created. I wandered along the shore for my own private showing of what the crowd of invited guests would tour in just hours. Trails of yellow-green leaves and blue flower petals wove together in a serpentine chain that led to another chain formed of gray birch bark and black twigs. The bark and twigs led to a series of stacked stones. One stone was coated in fuchsia flower petals, standing out from the otherwise gray-toned wall.