I had my SAT tutor. The third week, the same thing had happened, except he’d asked if we could do Tuesday night.
“I. Have. My. SAT. Tutor,” I’d said, slowly and carefully, like maybe he wasn’t a native English speaker.
“I know you have an SAT tutor. I’m sorry, but I thought it was Thursday night, not Tuesday night. Last week it was Thursday. So shoot me.”
“No, Dad. Last week it was Tuesday and Thursday. And the week before that. And the week before that. In fact, I’ve been meeting my SAT tutor Tuesday and Thursday nights for the past six months. So shoot me. Or, wait. You’re probably too busy to do that, either.”
He ignored my sarcasm. “What about Saturday night?”
“Dad, I want to see my friends on Saturday night. It’s the one night everyone doesn’t have to be home early.”
We’d agreed to have dinner this coming Wednesday. But now, here he was.
As soon as my dad was next to me, he reached for my hand. Unlike my mom, my dad didn’t look physically different from how he’d looked before. His hair was the same, and he was wearing a blue shirt and a pair of khakis. He’d probably been at work. He and my mom had sometimes fought about how much he worked. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Seriously?” I asked, pulling my hand from his.
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I meant … well, you know what I meant.”
I didn’t, actually, but before I could ask him, the social worker extended her hand and said, “I’m Jordyn Phillips.” I wasn’t sure if she was intentionally interrupting my father and me or if she hadn’t picked up on the tension between us.
He shook her hand. “My sister-in-law called me and said my wife is here.”
My father used to refer to my mother as his wife all the time. I believe my wife made a reservation … I’m looking for my wife … Have you met my wife? But now his saying my mother was his wife felt dishonest, even though I knew that technically they were still married.
I said nothing about their separation, not even when Ms. Phillips said, “Mr. Newman, your wife is resting comfortably. Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk in private?” I followed my dad and Ms. Phillips out of the waiting area and down a hallway lit with bright fluorescent lights.
We hadn’t gone very far when she opened a gray door. Inside was a small room with a table and two plastic yellow chairs. The room was even more depressing than the waiting room. Were all hospitals so relentlessly awful?
My father didn’t sit down, so neither did I. Ms. Phillips also stood.
“Mr. Newman, your wife may have made a suicide attempt.”
Even though I was the one who’d found her, even though it wasn’t like I’d thought she’d just lain down on the floor to have a nap, I made a funny noise with the back of my throat when Ms. Phillips said that. She and my father turned to look at me.
“Honey, maybe you should wait outside,” said my dad. His voice was soft, concerned, and I didn’t know what to do with that. By way of answering him, I just shook my head. Once again, he reached for my hand, and this time I let him take it.
Ms. Phillips opened a folder she’d been carrying and started talking, glancing at it as she spoke. “Your daughter found your wife unconscious on the floor of her bathroom at approximately four o’clock this afternoon. There were several bottles of pills on her night table and in the bathroom with her. Given the dates the prescriptions were filled, it’s difficult to know how many pills she actually took today. Because she had Ambien and Valium in her possession, both of which suppress respiration and which, taken in excess, can be fatal, we pumped her stomach and gave her a dose of ipecac, which is an emetic.”
“What about the blood?” I asked.
My father turned to me. “What? What blood?”
She checked the folder again, then looked up at me. “There is no evidence that your mother had any self-inflicted wounds, though the bottom of one of her feet had a fairly deep cut on it that looked as if it might have been the result of her stepping on a piece of glass. The paramedics said there was water and a broken glass on the floor of the bathroom.”
Even in the midst of my confusion, I felt a wave of relief so powerful my knees buckled. “So you’re saying she didn’t try to kill herself?”
But Ms. Phillips was looking at my father. “Do you know anything about your wife’s medication? We’re trying to figure out if she might have accidentally taken more than she was prescribed or if this was an intentional overdose.”
“I’m not living at home right now,” said my father. Ms. Phillips nodded and made a note on her paper. “But she has sometimes … abused prescription medication in the past. And she’s not always careful about mixing drugs and alcohol.”
“What? That’s not true.” I turned to Ms. Phillips. “It’s not true,” I said again.
“Juliet,” said my father firmly, “I’m sorry, but it is true.”
I kept talking to Ms. Phillips. “She’s been depressed off and on all summer because my father left.” I spoke quickly, as if I might not have the chance to finish before my father cut me off.
“I see,” said Ms. Phillips, and when she wrote something down, I felt like I’d convinced her to believe me and not my dad.
“Juliet, you are mixing apples and oranges,” said my father. “I’m sorry. I want to respect your mother’s privacy, but this is something the people who are treating her have to know.”
I stared at my father, seething, as Ms. Phillips finished writing. Then she flipped the folder closed. “The attending psychiatrist has suggested your wife be admitted to the hospital’s psychiatric unit so we can evaluate her. He’ll be out to speak to you soon, but I’d like to get us started on the paperwork so we can transfer her as soon as she’s ready. If you could come with me, I’ll get the insurance information I need.” She nodded toward the door.
My father rubbed the side of his face as if he had a headache, then realized Ms. Phillips couldn’t get past him. “Sorry,” he said, and he opened the door and held it politely for Ms. Phillips and me to pass through.
In the hallway, Ms. Phillips started to head back the way we had come, but I said, “Wait.” She turned around.
“I want to see her.”
My father and Ms. Phillips were both looking at me. My father spoke first. “Juliet, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
I kept my eyes on Ms. Phillips. I knew if I looked at my dad, I’d lose my courage. “I want to see her.”
“I understand,” said Ms. Phillips. She put her hand on my arm again, and I had the crazy urge to ask if she would let me go home with her.
I followed Ms. Phillips back into the waiting area, through an enormous set of double doors, and down a wide corridor. There were empty stretchers and gurneys up against the walls, and I wondered if one of them was the one my mom had come
