Rachel’s father, Benjamin Lawson, my employer, dies suddenly and unexpectedly of a stroke a year later. His entire estate is left to Rachel. We are rich. The death strikes yet another blow to Rachel’s fragile world. She deteriorates rapidly. She refuses to leave the house. Any suggestion of venturing outside is met with hostility. Her doctor, who must come to the house to see his patient, prescribes yet another antidepressant, but if the drug has an effect, I cannot see it. Her drinking escalates. Rather than blur her scrutiny of me, the alcohol intensifies it. I am her world.
Years pass and nothing changes. Occasionally I make gestures of fortitude, to gauge if her vehemence has lessened or if my weakness has improved. One day, I find her in Albert’s room. The room is still decorated with children’s furniture, finger paintings Scotch-taped to the wall. Rachel sits beside the bed in a rocking chair. An overflowing ashtray rests on the bedspread that is bright with cartoon figures. A cigarette smolders between her fingers, a glass of raw scotch nestled between her legs. The rocking of the chair threatens to spill the scotch. She pulls at her hair. Twirls long strands of it. I see small bald spots and crusty scabs in her scalp.
I do not like it when she brings her sickness into Albert’s room, mourning for a son who is not dead but may as well be. I open with a mild accusation. “This place smells like a barroom.”
“That’s because I’m drinking and smoking.”
“You’re not supposed to drink with Prozac.”
Rachel thrusts her hand into her pocket. Pulls out a prescription bottle. She dumps the pale green pills into her drink. She waves the glass at me in a bitter toast and swills the mixture down. She spills most of it. She picks soggy pills off her blouse and inserts them in her mouth. “Fuck it.”
“Look what you’ve become.”
“‘Look what you’ve become.’ I haven’t become. This is what has been done to me. I miss Albert. I want to see him.”
“Why don’t you go see him, then?”
“Fuck you. I can’t, you know I can’t.”
“How long has it been since you’ve left this house?”
“I repeat: Fuck you. Bring my boy to me.”
“Not with you like this.”
Somehow, I’ve struck a chord. Rachel lowers her head in acquiescence. She sobs. “Go see him. Tell him his mother loves him. Please, Adam, go see him for me.”