Finishing Nail

Finishing Nail

John was preoccupied. He had to work from home today, again, because his daughter was sick. His boss was sick of it. This had already happened on two other occasions this month and a deadline was looming. He reached for another file while keeping his eyes on the screen. He yanks it from the bottom of the stack and hurriedly opens it just as his full cup of coffee lands on the floor spraying him and the light grey carpet with a heavy dose of caffeine. “Shit.” He had run into the other room to check something real quickly. A little thought, a bit of inspiration, had popped into his sleep deprived mind just moments ago. He knew himself well enough to realize that he had to get it down NOW or he would lose it forever. He couldn’t risk losing this memory. If he was right it would solve a nagging problem that had been plaguing him for over a week. If he came back with a solution he might have a shot at being let off the hook instead of losing his job.

He runs into the kitchen to grab a towel. File still in hand he clumsily tries to navigate through the assorted documents as he returns to the table.

“Shit!” He yells hopping on one foot. He has rolled his ankle again on one of his daughter’s shoes. He carefully sets it down and puts weight on it. It’s fine. It will be purple in three days when he has forgotten what happened, but for now he needs to make sure not to forget his solution. He recites it in his mind as he navigates through the living room and back to his desk.

He throws the towels down on the floor and stomps on them a few times to soak up the mess. The file flops down onto the table top and he begins pouring over the document before he has even taken his seat.

Relieved to be back, he starts typing up his junior sized piece of information and aside from a few spelling errors he’s gotten it from brain to screen. He’s got it laid out and fact checked. It seems fine, he doesn’t seem to have missed anything glaringly obvious. Typos not included.

He takes a deep breath and tries to relax. He picks up his mug, which is sticky and laden with carpet lint as much as dried coffee. He moves to the kitchen to get a fresh cup. And then he notices the coffee maker. Instantly frustrated, he sees the coffee pot has no coffee left, aside from the burnt remains of earlier in the day. He turns it off and removes the pot from the hot plate on the bottom of the appliance. He empties the old grounds in favor of new and starts the process again. He adds an extra scoop this time, certain he is not yet jittery enough.

It’s been a long week with deadlines flying by, a nagging boss, a broken AC unit, and with Ruby being si----

His thoughts broke, office memories shattered, he just realized what he had really forgotten. Ruby is home sick. She was running a fever, so he had run her a bath. He had gotten her fresh towels, her new fuzzy pajamas to put on when she gets out, he helped her into the tub. The shampoos and conditioner and other hazards were all out of reach. He gave her her big yellow floating duck nearly the size of a soccer ball. Then he fished all of the baby ducklings out of the basket. Especially the green one. You can never forget the green one. If one has an imagination, then ‘green’ was her second word. Ruby had pointed at the little duck and said “EEEN” as though she was making a long-deliberated point.

The memory of the little duck flew from his mind as he ran down the hall. The bathroom door was still open, the light was still on, the towel was carefully laid flat on the floor outside the tub. If John stopped right now everything would be fine. The story would end with a carefully prepared bathroom and a nice memory. If you want a happy ending it does depend on where the story stops.

John’s story has 6 more steps. Each was worse than the last. They blurred together as he flew into the room. At first it looked like she was not there. Perhaps she got out on her own, but she was too small for that. She could have been hiding behind the curtain waiting for him to return to jump out and scare him. The curtain was clear, but he tells himself he would have acted surprised anyway.

The big yellow duck floated in the middle of the tub. It was dry on the top now. So were all of her babies. Everyone except ‘Eeen’ who was clutched in his daughter’s hand as she lay there, in the water her pale blue eyes brought out the color of her skin.

Weeks turned to months and months turned to breakdowns to unemployment and divorce. The memory produced boxes into which his belongings disappeared. And nights turned into nightmares. Every night he relived it. When he was awake he would remember it with an ‘if only’ or a ‘what if …” These thoughts ran through his head over and over. If you could will yourself back in time John would have achieved it by now. At night nothing changed. Every action played out exactly as it had that day.

The 911 call. The CPR. The stiffness of her body. The arrival of the ambulance. The neighbors congregating behind the fire truck trying to get a peek at the body while John collapsed on the ground.

He couldn’t get it out of his head. He saw her in crowds. He saw her at 6, at 12, at 16 as a ‘student driver’ car rolled by. He saw her in the bathroom standing in the tub. Blue and ridged and coming to get him. He saw her scared and forgotten. Even ‘Eeen’ could not save her. He was just a plastic duck after all. Just a plastic duck that was always with him. On the side of the sink, on the nightstand, and in his pocket now.

If only he could stop seeing it everywhere he looked then maybe he could function again. He ends up in the hospital sick and weak from not eating. His hospital memories are a blur.

Someone says he needs to move on.

Someone tells him about a scientist that is willing to take risks. Maybe prescribe him something off label.

Something might be able to help him get past the memories so he can have a life.

His daughter would not want him to punish himself forever.

He considers it.

Does he even deserve help, anyway?

He obsesses about it.

Eventually he decides to go.

He walks by the address he was given.

He walks by the address he was given every day.

Sometimes more than once.

Then he starts going in.

He panics and leaves more than once before he can work himself up enough to tell her the problem. He’s left, too overwhelmed to continue, more than once. To be fair, at this point he is still a flight risk, but now he’s going to do it. He’s going to go all in. He’s left the hospital against medical advice, and he has nothing to lose. If he doesn’t try this one last time, and follow through, he is going to kill himself. Not commit suicide but simply let himself finish dying.

He slowly enters the building. She’s already waiting for him. The entrance is otherwise empty this time. He takes a deep breath trying to steel his tattered nerves. He approaches her desk and starts over, again. His last try to move on. His last try for anything.

~~~~~

He finishes the story that I now know by heart and looks back up at me. This isn’t the first time a patient has started out this way. She begins the conversation again.

“I can make you forget, but it’s going to come at a price.” I warn. This is not the first time we have talked about this. “Anything.” He says emphatically. It’s always the same. “Are you sure?” I ask one final time. “I can’t take it back.” I say, one final warning. He nods and gets out his wallet. He looks at the picture inside. “It’s either her or me.” He says quietly, as though he shares a secret with the old folded leather. There is a well-worn collection of bills inside. He empties it and holds out the bills for me to take. I sigh. “You will be paying, but I won’t be collecting any money.” He looks confused but resolute. He nods. I nod back solemnly as I reach behind myself and pick up the hammer.