When I got home, I was treated to an unexpected sight. Melissa and Dr. Hans Steiglitz were seated together on the sofa. He was holding her hand. Her eyes were red. He was speaking earnestly to her in a low voice.
When I came in, he looked up.
Mr. Redman, he said in his mellifluous way, smoothly getting up and striding toward me, his hand outstretched.
I took it, reluctantly. I noted the silk hankie in his breast jacket pocket. Worse yet, that it matched his tie.
Rick, he said, sotto voce, putting around my shoulder an unwelcome arm that perfectly complemented the uninvited use of my first name. Would you mind giving us a couple of minutes alone? I just need to wrap this up. Just a second or two.
Wrap what up? What kind of nerve does it take to ask a man to leave his own living room so that you can be alone with his wife?
Steiglitz kind of nerve, I concluded.
I saw Kelly in the doorway to the dining room, frantically signaling for me to join her. Without saying a word to Steiglitz, I peeled his tentacle off me and went to her.
What’s this all about? I asked.
Shh, she said, closing the door behind us. It’s all right. I mean it’s not all right. But it’s okay. I called him.
You called him?
I found Mom with a bottle, she said. Right after I got home. She was trying to hide it under the kitchen sink, and I couldn’t believe it, I thought she was doing so well, and it was three-quarters empty, and I don’t think the dog drank it. I could smell it on her, and see it on her face. You know.
I knew.
I called you right away, Daddy, she said, tears appearing in her eyes, but they said you were in some important meeting. I didn’t know what to do. I called Dr. Steiglitz. She kept asking for him.
Kelly could see from the look on my face, bewildered and angry, that her explanation was not assuaging me.
Since when do famously successful shrinks make house calls? I asked.
I don’t know, Daddy. I guess maybe they do. I just called him to ask him what I should do. Should I take her to the hospital? What should I say to her? Should I be angry at her? I was so confused. And he said, ‘I’ll be right there.’
The tears were streaming down her face. I was too angry to pay attention.
Since when do shrinks make house calls? I repeated, looking at the door to the living room.
I was in a rage. I should have been grateful, I suppose, that this famous doctor was there, giving my wife hands-on personal treatment at the first hint of a relapse. But something about him, about his silky manner, about the way Melissa shrank and groveled in his presence, gave me the creeps.
I went back to the living room, prepared to tell him to get the hell out of my house.
Steiglitz got up and most unctuously excused himself. Had to go. Needed at the hospital. So sorry to disturb.
As we reached the front door, he said in a whisper, I’ll call you tomorrow with a report. For now, I’d suggest she not be left alone.
Slick enough to anticipate me. Slick enough not to touch me, this time. No handshake. No tentacle over the shoulder. Just got the hell out of there.
Smart bastard. I might have hit him in the nose.
I turned to Melissa. She was huddled in the corner of the sofa, knees to her chest, arms around her knees. Cheeks streaked with mascara.
Melissa, I said.
She stared straight ahead at the wall.
All the angry energy left me. An unutterable weariness descended.
Let Steiglitz deal. Let that scumbag deal. More power to him.
I slunk out of the room, went upstairs. Turned on the computer. Logged on. Anything. Anything to get me away from this.
Kelly appeared in the doorway.
Daddy, she said, what’s going on?
Nothing’s going on.
Okay, she said, with a hint of anger. Be like that.
She left. She closed the door quietly.
She knew. She knew I needed to know she was angry at me. And she knew I needed to be left alone. And she knew how to make both happen at the same time.
But something broke in me that night. The last tie to Melissa. The last thread of hope. That I could be the one to bring her back to life. That we could once again see life through shared eccentric glasses, and laugh.