I Liked My Life(41)

Holiday Tragedy, Avoidable Death of a Toddler

November 26, 2005

SAN DIEGO, CA, United States—A two-year-old child died today in a tragic traffic accident in the Gaslamp District on 6th Street. According to preliminary investigations, Steve O’Malley, 34, fell asleep behind the wheel of his 1998 Mitsubishi Montero, hitting Emma Murray, who was in a stroller pushed by her mother on the sidewalk.

The child was pronounced dead at the scene. The mother, Rory Murray, 29, was taken to the hospital suffering critical injuries, including a leg broken in four places.

According to sources in the department, charges will be pressed against O’Malley, who had allegedly been on the road more than nine hours straight.

Everyone has a history. Sadness isn’t mine alone. It only feels that way because my friends are too young to know the kind of pain that leaves you physically heavier than before. I wonder if there’s a calculus equation for that? I look at the clock on the computer, surprised it’s past four already.

I’m ten minutes late for round two of therapy. This time I picked a man. He’s probably thirty years old, so his corduroy blazer with faux-leather elbow patches doesn’t match his age. I can tell it’s something he wears to look wise, but instead he looks dorky. After sharing the basics, I dig right in with my epiphany. “Everyone I go to school with will be devastated by something someday.”

“That’s an astute observation,” Dr. Jahns says. “One that takes some a lifetime to figure out. Congratulations.”

It’s weird to be congratulated on understanding that everyone has a private hell to hide, but I accept the compliment. At least he didn’t come back with This too shall pass or You can’t change what life brings, but you can chose what to do with it. I’m tired of the feel-good shit.

I wait for Dr. Jahns’s next question but get nothing. His practiced eye contact suggests this silence is a strategy of some sort. Won’t he be disappointed to learn I’m in no hurry. We remain mute three minutes. I know it’s three minutes exactly because there’s a clock on the wall the size of an oven, probably to make sure weepy patients are aware when their session has ended. I fill the quiet time pretending we’re in a staring competition. Dr. Jahns does pretty well considering he doesn’t know we’re playing.

He finally loses the chicken fight by asking me to describe my current state. “I don’t know,” I say, thrilled by the victory. “My mom did everything. I guess I’m afraid of how I’ll get on without her.”

“So you’re scared for your well-being?”

“I didn’t say scared,” I correct.

“I’m sorry, you’re right, you said afraid. Let me rephrase, are you afraid for your well-being?”

He succeeds at making me sound like a dumbass. Current score: 1-1. “Yeah, I guess,” I say, looking at the clock. Forty-eight minutes until I can bail on talking doctors for good.

“Mmm. What about lonely? Do you feel lonely?”

“Duh.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Tell you the definition of lonely?” He folds his arms but says nothing. Another standoff. I don’t want to sit through a round of silence, so I add, “We spent a lot of time together. Now she’s gone. And it’s not like anyone understands.”

“So it sounds like lonely and scared are closely related emotions for you. You depended on your mom, so without her you’ve lost a key support. Losing that foundation would, quite understandably, make you feel isolated and unsure.”

“Good summary,” I reply in a voice my mom would call patronizing. It’s fun to be a smart-ass with this guy. Maybe I’ll come back just to mess with him.

“How did you feel about suicide prior to your mom’s death?”

Is he for real? “Great. I loved it. I thought suicide was awesome.”

He tips his head to the right. “Did my question irritate you?”

I tip my head to the left. “Yes.”

“Because you found the answer obvious?”

“Because I found the question pointless.”

“Huh. Okay. What should I have asked?”

I stop. That’s actually a decent comeback. Another point for the talking doctor. “What you’re really wondering.”

“What am I really wondering?”

“If I know why she did it. If there’s some big secret I’m hiding.”

He raises his eyebrows like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. As if. “Is there?”

“No. I don’t know. I-I thought she was happy.” How did this get back to a serious conversation?

“So you didn’t know your mom was having a tough time?”

“And for the second time—no.” He underlines something on his notepad. Hopefully it’s the fact that I didn’t know, so he’ll fucking drop it.

“Right.” He looks right at me. “So why did you think your mom was happy?”

He’s got me there. Up until three months ago I thought everyone was more or less happy. “I mean … I like … assumed it, but then, I never asked her.”

He puts the notepad down. “Asked her what?”

“Asked her anything. I mean, I asked if I could have stuff or if she could do stuff for me. You know, Can you … take me here, wash this, make that, buy these? I thought I was this great kid since I always said please and thank you, but I never asked how she was doing.”