"Your grandmother will be angry at me for not calling her right away, but you and I both know she would ruin your grandfather's holiday. Hopefully, the remaining weeks of this summer will be relatively uneventful," she said. She said it more like a prayer than anything.
I took the elevator to the psychiatric wing and made my way down the corridor toward Duncan's room. Before I entered, I stopped at the nurse's station to announce myself. The head nurse saw me and nodded her permission. I had expected some special instructions, but no one told me anything. I took a deep breath and entered his room.
Duncan was lying back in his bed. His head was bandaged and his eyes were closed. For a few moments I just stood there looking at him. I didn't want to disturb him if he was asleep. After a few moments, his eyes opened slowly. He stared at me without expression, as if he was trying to decide if I were real or not.
"Hi," I said. "How do you feel?"
"I don't think I've ever felt this tired. I have a debate with myself when I want to raise my arm. The effort seems enormous," he said.
I had so many questions to ask him. Why did he make his mother out to be such an ogre? Why did he tell me all those false things? Why did he want to get to his father and berate him before his father died? Why did he decide to drown himself?
I was silent. I was afraid that if I brought up anything, it would cause greater problems. Now that I was here in his room, I truly felt as if I were walking on thin ice. Should I go forward, remain where I was, retreat? What should I do?
"So I understand you saved my life," he said. "Don't expect me to be grateful," he added before I could even think of smiling.
"I didn't come here to hear you thank me. I can't imagine why you would be any more cordial now than you were when I first met you in the cafe," I added, and his lips softened.
"I'm afraid to laugh," he said. "It hurts too much."
"How bad was your head injury?"
"They told me it needed nearly fifty stitches. You bleed a lot when you injure your head, but apparently I don't have a concussion. I'm on some pain medication, so I drift in and out."
"I remember that sort of thing after I came out of my operation," I said and went to the chair beside his bed. "I hated it and almost would rather suffer with the pain, but the doctor told me it was better that I wasn't under stress. I would heal faster."
"Yeah," he said somewhat bitterly. "I'm on my way to healing myself."
"Do you remember any of it?"
"Not much, no."
"Am I permitted to ask you why you did it?"
"Why not? Everyone else around here is. I don't know why anyone expects me to provide a
satisfactory answer."
"The answer that satisfies you is the one you want," I said.
"Wow. That's deep. Maybe you should put on a lab robe and be the doctor here."
"Maybe I will, smart-ass," I said, and this time he couldn't help but laugh and then grimace, bringing his hand to the back of his head.
"Ouch."
He looked at me, the smile quickly fading, and then he looked away.
"I'm not a psychiatrist, Duncan. I'm not even an amateur psychiatrist, and I'm certainly not anyone who should give anyone else advice. I can't deny that there were times I considered doing what you tried to do. I fell into pools of depression and darkness from which I never thought I'd emerge. I got to the point where I ran out of tears and sobbed dryly. I never stopped asking myself why I was horn if my birth brought so much unhappiness to the people who were supposed to love me."
"Maybe you should check into the next room," he said without turning back.
"Maybe I should, but that's not the point now, is it? You and I shared some intimacy, trusted each other with our pain and sorrow and hunger for happiness. I deserve better than what you gave me," I said. "Than what you're giving me now."
I held my breath and waited. Would he just explode at me, go into some mad rage, or would he continue to sulk and be agonizingly silent, forcing me to give up and leave? Slowly, he turned back to me.
"You're right," he said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking anything out on you, especially on you."
"Then give me some answers," I said firmly, casting all caution to the wind. "Why did you lie about your mother? Why did you say she destroyed every picture of your father? Why did you pretend to be unwanted, to lead me to believe your mother saw you as what you called a child of sin? All those quotes from the Bible, that stuff about inheriting sin . . . why?"