Interstate (27 page)

Police say they have all the information they need for the time being and you can see your daughter now if you like, what do you do? When they say that your stomach and limbs get all sick and weak again and you feel as if you're going to pass out. “Margo, please, get off me, I feel ill,” for she's still sitting on your lap. She jumps off and you put your hands over your face and try to think what to do. Police have said “So long, lots of luck, we're very sorry, we'll be speaking some more to you, I'm sure,” and it's just you and Margo in the room with a doctor who'll accompany you to where Julie is if you want to go now and a nurse to look after Margo till you get back. “If you'd rather not see her this minute,” the doctor says, “we've a private room you can rest in and we can also get a cot for Margo.” You haven't told your wife yet and you don't know how you're going to. Margo may want to go in with you to see her dear sister and you don't know if you won't let her. It might be easier for you if she were there and it might be right for her to be there. Your wife would know what to do about it but that would mean you'd have to tell her about Julie. Then after you told her, the question whether should Margo go in with you to see Julie wouldn't ever come up. You'd be dealing just with Lee's despair and she with yours. Despair, that's the word, you don't think there's another one that gets it as well. The feeling: it's utter dejection, total disconsolateness, out-and-out grief. Maybe “grief” gets it as well, so maybe there are two. But what's that got to do with it, just part of the stall. So what do you do? Or maybe Margo will think she should go in but say something like, or not say it, just look it, that she's too sad and scared and sensitive to. She is, you don't want her in, not till your wife's with you. You haven't seen Julie since they rolled her away from you in front of the hospital when you first got here. “Out of the way,” they screamed, and maybe at you, and they could, they were right, for what's your grief and despair compared to them having a second or two more to save her? And they did, what are you talking about, they didn't. How do you see her without cracking up? Going mad and getting as sad as anybody can get—complete grief, that kind of cracking up. Both, all. They no doubt have her all cleaned up and everything like that by now, presentable, and she'll be looking—oh stop it, but you're only trying to give yourself reasons—not “reasons” but some word that means you'll be able to face going in to see her—like a sleeping child. What like a sleeping child? She, she'll be, that's how she'll look. But that's how she looked on the car floor so she'll look, they'll make her look with all that cleaning her up and setting her on the bed in a just-so certain correct way, or whatever she'll be on and whatever way, even more like a sleeping child. And you'll look at her and remember her sleeping peacefully at home other nights or just recently when you went into her room at your in-laws' or fitfully, even, like a week ago when she had fever from an ear infection till your wife gave her some junior Tylenol and you'll want to kiss and hold her and breathe into her mouth which is probably not now like her mouth was or any live mouth is and kiss her skin which won't feel like skin either, you don't know how it'll feel but not like live skin or even like her skin when she was dead in the car. It'll be hard, you think, it'll be greasy, sticky, pasty, scaly, something like that, one of those, two, three. And you'll want to kiss, not kiss but talk to her quietly as if she's asleep or just coming out of sleep—yes, kiss, kiss, no matter what her skin and lips feel like—and tell her to lie still, don't get up, no need to, she's weak, you'll do everything for her, you'll sit her up and get her dressed and other things, you'll carry her and get her out of here, into the car, home. You'll go crazy, that's what, face it, out-and-out completely crazy, so how do you go in and see her, how, you're asking, what the hell do you do, do you know, do you? If you got Margo to go in with you and you held her hand when you went in and throughout it, even when you were touching Julie with your other hand, leaning over, kissing her, always one hand holding Margo's, it'd be easier for you, you know that, but you can't do that to Margo. It'll be bad for her, maybe devastating, more chance it'll be devastating than bad, something she might never recover from, nightmares for weeks at least, a great chance of that you're saying, later in life: “Why'd you force me to go in there with you, even allowed it if I'd asked you to? You should've known what it would do to me, do to anybody my age. It was cruel, stupid, I don't care what state of mind you were in then.” She shouldn't go in, you know that now, but you have to see Julie, don't you? They want you to positively identify her—their words—but you're afraid to see her. Seeing her like that not breathing, and you'll immediately check to see if she's not—her mouth, heart, wrists, temple, neck, ankles, you'll feel, listen, look—will mean she's definitely dead, not coming back. Of course not coming back, you don't believe in that, you mean she can't ever be revived, resuscitated, she's dead, just dead, something you know now but it'll hit you worse then and drive you crazy with despair, crazy with grief, you'll go crazy in there, crazier than you are out here, fall to your knees, fall to the floor, bang your head with your fists, your chest, dig your nails into your skin, your face, claw into it, you'll feel sick, faint, you'll scream scream after scream, you won't be able to talk to your wife on the phone after about what happened to Julie, just that it happened, you won't, you won't even be able to say “Julie's dead, our daughter, murdered, I can't speak anymore,” you won't, they'll put you under some sedation, they'll have to, you won't be able to look after Margo, take care of her for she's going to feel as bad as you, you know that. She feels it now, it just hasn't come out. She loves her sister, adores her, if they're on the street or in a mall or someplace and Julie suddenly can't be seen she says “Where's Julie?” and if you both don't know she runs around shouting her name and looking frantically for her even when you say “Don't worry, she can't be far, she's probably wandered into one of the stores, or she's hiding.” She'll go crazy over it too, you know that and it'll probably be soon. Will you let them sedate her? Yes, you will, but little, little, just enough to tire her so she can fall asleep on her own, but you you'll want them to put out. No good, she'll probably wake up before you and then who'll deal with her? And you'll also have to deal with your wife soon, not “deal” and not “deal” with anything to do with Margo either, but “speak” to her, your wife, and then deal with what comes after from her and between you two and also what to do about Margo and the possibility of sedating her when she starts going crazy over Julie, but you don't know how you'll be able to tell your wife and just deal with it all. For instance, when, what's the best time, what words, so on? Before you see Julie?—you mean “after” you do, so you can say “Yes, she's dead, I've just seen her,” or “I saw her just before in the exam room after the doctors were through with her, absolutely dead”—not like that. No “absolutely” or “doctors through with her,” but problems, questions like that. You say to Margo “Margo, listen to me, this is absolutely important, I know how you feel about Julie—how you felt about her before and how you feel now, ‘before' meaning all those years before and ‘now' meaning now about her and just before—and you know how I do too with all those.” She's standing, you're sitting, and you hug her from behind—you can't see her face, she might be crying—kiss her shoulder and head, press your nose into her back. She's not heaving, but heaving might only be a sign of heavy sobs, and it wasn't why you nuzzled her. You want to turn her around but don't want to because looking at her, even if she's not crying now, you both might crack up. Well, maybe that's good, what you need, but you don't know if it is right now, or for her right now too, especially for you when you have so many things to do including looking after her, and cracking up like that you might not come back from it for hours. So you'll let her turn around when she wants and you shouldn't talk about Julie anymore to her now either, you're too confused to, you might say the wrong thing and make her feel even worse than you're sure she's eventually going to, but you will say more, it's that craziness pushing you. “But, you know,” to her back, still holding her, “I think I'm doing—I'm going—I don't think I want to—I know I don't but I think I'm going absolutely crazy over this, sweetheart, that's it, crazy with sadness and everything else that's the worst about it, and if I do go completely that way, well, I don't think there's anything to stop me from it, much as I want not to, as I don't want to, no words or cures, no person, nothing, not even my deepest strongest feelings to stay well and sane long enough or just sane and well enough to take care of you now.” You didn't say this. There was no response from her, but that's not why. You are holding her, nose to her back, and have been for minutes, but you didn't say any of that. For a few moments, minute or two at the most, you were sitting here thinking you did. Rather, you saw yourself talking, heard yourself too, but you didn't, not a word, you think, maybe another sign of your craziness over Julie or whatever it is. How do you know you didn't speak? It just came to you, sort of like waking up and after a brief bit of befuddlement you suddenly know where you are. “Margo,” you say, you actually say, you think, for her head moves around so she can hear better, or that's what it looks like, “I'm speaking to you now, sweetheart, aren't I?” and she nods. “Just say ‘Yes you are,' or just a ‘yes' so I know for sure, it's important to me,” and she says “What do you mean, Daddy?” “Good, now I'm convinced. You see, before I only thought I was saying, but now I really am, that I think I'm going crazy over this whole thing with Julie, and I can't help it, it's the last thing I want to do right now, but it's killing me, for what happened to her's the worst thing in the world that could possibly happen except if it had happened to you and then it also would have been the worst. The two of you, if it had happened to, would have even been worse, but that didn't happen. In other words…in other words, I'm not making much sense, you can see that—hear it, I mean, which is just an example of my state of mind now, this state of mine. Listen to me: ‘state of mind.' Oh no, this is too awful, I don't want to be alive for it, at least not awake,” and she says “Daddy, you're hurting me, you're hugging too hard,” and you say “Am I? I'm sorry, I didn't know, dear,” and release her and the doctor says “Mr. Frey, is there anything I can do? I'm here to help you both as well as take you to your other daughter when you decide to go, and it'd be better if it were soon,” and you break down and she pats your shoulder while you bawl and the doctor, you don't know what he does, and the nurse who was here for Margo, is she still in the room? Is the doctor just looking at you, at his watch, nurse too? That's no rebuke of them; they've been through these things a lot, in various versions, kids going from brain tumors, kids cut down on bikes, pieces ripped, parts split, parents wailing in the hallways, and they're both probably tired as all hell and they have their jobs to do, right? their jobs, and they want to get them done but do well at them and then go home. This isn't all there is, right? So what are you saying? Ask yourself, what? You don't know. No no, you do, what? No, you don't. You forget where you started off from, and it doesn't matter that you don't know, does it? At this time? What are you, kidding? Of course no. You feel a hand on your wrist. Maybe it's Margo's, maybe it's the doctor taking your pulse or just feeling your wrist. No, they just don't feel it, they take. Or the nurse, maybe he's instructed her with some gestures to go feel the guy's pulse, see if it's too fast, slow, whatever that's bad or shows a sign that he should be watched for something worse. But after this, you think, after this, while Margo's patting your back—you should be patting hers, shouldn't you? Hugging her softly too, but you don't—after this, what do you do? There's got to be a next step. It all doesn't become blank after this. This thing happened, this damn no-words-or-curses-for-it thing happened, and you've got to deal with it—yes, deal, deal, so start. For even if it's blank for a few days right after this, there's got to be a next step soon as the blank ends. You making sense? You don't care if you're not. You have to do something, that you know, and around now, but what? Your wife to know, but when? There is no best time, a doctor said, or one of the cops, but so what? In fact now might be the best time for whatever you say and however you say it, for it's all going to be bad or close to it, right? But this way, in the state you're in or will be for the phone talk, you can blame your terrible way of saying it on that: you're distraught, out of your head, altogether crazed over it, you can say. But that's fake, and the
best time has to be when you're in better control, for she's sure to be in worse shape than you on the phone for this'll be the first she's heard it, so she's going to need you somehow. You don't know what you'll be able to do but just to be there for whatever you might be able to, even to say “I know, I'm insane over it, want to die myself,” might be enough. Forget it, there is no right or better way, you're in control or out of it, there's no way of saying how you're going to say it or react to what she does, you can feel you're in control one moment and then suddenly blow it, you know she's going to be out of control and that if you start off without any yourself you're not going to suddenly get it. Anyway, it's all whatever's the word or words for whatever the worst's going to be. Thing to do is get it over with, and who says it has to come from you? It can come from the doctor here, or the woman doctor from before or someone new, or a police officer trained in this or the minister who tends to the patients. One of them can say you're simply in no shape to tell her what you and they think should be told her and then he can tell her and deal with what comes best as he can. Is that the best way? No, just another. If you had years to just think about it you wouldn't know. So what do you do? Maybe the best thing is to see Julie first. That again, but to get it done. That way, well, you've gone over it. Because if you plan to tell your wife before you see Julie, she might say “Why you so sure she's dead? You haven't seen her since they took her away from you. Even if they say she's dead, they could be mistaken. There was that case in the papers not long ago where the paramedics pronounced this man dead and then a few hours later the hearse people sticking him into the hearse to go to the funeral home heard him gurgling. The doctors might have Julie mixed up with another girl, one around her age and who has the same hair color and is her race. Even one from a car accident or a shooting, all of which made them make the mistake. She might be on breathing equipment now, our girl, and getting better even while I speak to you, and perhaps even looking around for you now, wondering why you aren't there. Just your not being there now might be enough to sink her if she's barely holding on. So you have to go to her. I won't believe anything till you say you went in with a doctor to see her and he checked her again and she's dead.” “Best to have a doctor beside you when you call your wife,” a doctor said, “so he can answer any questions she may raise. And better if you tell her everything in that phone conversation.” “I can't speak to her,” you said, “you do it,” and he said “I will if you wish but I feel strongly it's best it come from you, hard as that will be. One of us will be close to support you in every way in addition to treating you immediately if you collapse or anything like that.” So what do you do? “What should I do?” you say to Margo, “about telling Mommy about dear Julie or my seeing Julie before I tell her?” and she says “Seeing Julie dead?” and you say yes and she says “How should I know? You decide, Daddy; don't bring me in it. I have my own problems, you know,” and you say “I know, I know.” So, what? You look at your watch: no time, just tick tick tick; you turn it around so the face is at the underside of your wrist. The nurse says to you “If you'd like, Mr. Frey, I can take Margo for some dinner now.” Margo says she is hungry and would you mind? and you say “No, please go with her, my darling, it's right. We'll meet back here in a half hour,” and the nurse says “We'll look for you in the lobby,” and you say “Even better, I guess; easier to find.” So Margo leaves with the nurse, looks back as she goes out the door and you think “Should I have offered the nurse money for Margo's food? Even for both of them, since she's taking my kid.” The doctor says “So, Nathan?” and you say “Should I have given Margo money for dinner? I don't want that nice nurse spending all her hard-earned money,” and he says “Not to worry. She'll get it back, if she wants, from petty cash. So, Mr. Frey?” and you say “So, you want me to choose what I'm going to do, right? See Julie, that's probably the best thing, the right one, right? See her right away, then call my wife. And I'll try not to collapse. Just, if you can come with me, or another doctor or a nurse, and wait outside her room.”