Seré Halverson - The Underside of Joy

‘What about your husband’s family? Have they had contact with her?’

‘No. They’re angry at her for leaving.’

‘Why, exactly, did she leave? Depression? A little funk and she leaves her kids for three years?’

‘That’s all I really know,’ I admitted. Gwen waited, peering at me over her glasses. ‘You’ve gotta know Joe’s family. No one really talks about this kind of thing. They’re warm, loving people. But they don’t like to talk about… you know… difficulties.’

‘Such as?’

I sighed. ‘Well, for example, I know Joe’s grandfather was sent to an internment camp during World War II, but no one talks about that. And our store was going under and Joe never told anyone how bad it was.’

‘Was Joe’s grandfather Japanese?’

I smiled. ‘No. But that’s what I thought when Joe mentioned it. Italians were sent too, just not nearly as many.’

She shook her head. ‘I had no idea… Really?’ Her phone buzzed once. She told her receptionist that she’d need another few minutes. ‘Tell me, did it ever occur to you to ask Joe about the details concerning why she left?’

I stared at her. ‘Um. No.’ I didn’t tell her how much I still, deep down, didn’t want to know any of those details. ‘Does she have a chance?’

‘There’s always a chance. But’ — she glanced over one of the divorce papers — ‘it looks like Joe’s request for custody was completely uncontested. She signed off on everything without any fight. Do your children even know who she is?’

‘Well, yeah — Annie remembers her. Zach doesn’t, but he’s certainly not afraid of her. He seems to like her. She’s very… pretty… and she’s okay with them, I guess.’

‘Pretty is as pretty does, honey, and leaving your babies is never pretty. Or okay. The children know you first and foremost as their mother. You’ve fed them and diapered them and been there for them for the past three years while she’s been God knows where? No. It is not in the best interest of the children for them to be taken away from their home, their loving stepmother, their relatives — I’ll need letters from every one of them, by the way — in order to live in a strange place with a stranger. Especially since they’re dealing with the trauma of losing their father. I think we have a strong case.’

I took a deep, shaky breath. ‘You don’t know how good that is to hear.’

She smiled again and took off her glasses. ‘So. Tell me. Are you sleeping? Eating?’

I shrugged. ‘Not much sleep. Some food.’

‘Try yogurt. Milk shakes. Whatever you can, because, honey, you are going to need every ounce of your skinny self. And your kids are going to need you too.’

I nodded.

‘I hate to lay this on you right now with everything else. But you’re going to have to find a source of income. And fast. It looks like she’s making bank — or at least she’s painting that picture. From what I’ve heard, that’s probably accurate if she’s involved in any aspect of real estate in Vegas right now. If your financial picture is as dismal as you’re saying it is, you might not appear able to support the children. If that new store of yours doesn’t start making money right away, you might have to come up with another plan. But I will say it shows initiative and pluck, and you’re preserving their family heritage, more than I can say for her.

‘And one more ugly detail: My retainer fee is five thousand dollars. I’ll need that to proceed. We should try to avoid a trial because that gets expensive. Then they’d do an investigation, get a social worker involved, interview teachers, doctors, family, friends — even the kids. But I really don’t think we’ll need to take this that far.’

I nodded again and tried not to look as hopeless as I felt. Why had I poured all my money into the store so soon? And my energy?

I could barely drag myself to the Jeep. I sat in the parking lot with my forehead on the steering wheel, my eyes burning with lack of sleep, and made myself turn the key in the ignition.

On the drive home the despair began rising. Not now. I needed a plan. I needed to eat. And sleep. I needed to take care of my kids. What were they feeling right now? I had a flash of memory: how confused and lost I felt after my own father died. That night after the Great America fiasco, my mom had reassured me, saying how she and I had made it through Dad’s death, and we had. But I remembered those first months, how much I wanted my mom, and how blank her eyes went when I tried to talk to her. The sound of her TV through my wall all night, and when I came home from third grade, the drapes still closed, the porch light still on, the newspaper still on the front step, and my mother still in her nightgown. I could not do that; I needed to get the kids through this.

I needed to fight Paige. Make money. Stop sweating. Get my chest to stop hurting. Breathe. I wasn’t even doing that. Why was I sweating? Did I have a fever? My chest hurt. My arm hurt. I still couldn’t breathe.

And then it all became clear: What I needed most was to get to a hospital.

Memorial Hospital was just around two corners, but I was afraid to keep driving, afraid I might run my car off the road and hit a pedestrian. I parked and cut across the street, almost getting hit myself. The sweat continued pouring down my face, my chest crushed with pressure. I was a thirty-five-year-old skinny woman who ate a boatload of organic vegetables. I was also the daughter of a man who’d died at age forty of heart disease. I walked into the emergency room, up to the check-in desk.

‘I think… I think I’m having a heart attack,’ I whispered.

She took one look at me and picked up the phone and shouted into it. ‘Possible cardiac arrest. Female. Thirty…?’

‘Five,’ I said. Within seconds I was on a gurney, answering questions. What were my symptoms? When did they start? How severe was the pain? Who should they contact?

Who should they contact? Joe, I thought. Contact Joe. ‘My husband,’ I said. ‘But he’s dead.’

Who should they call? They asked again. Not Marcella — she was taking care of the kids. My mom was too far away. Who else was there? Lucy. They could call Lucy. I gave them her number along with my insurance card.

Four hours and five test results later, Dr Irving Boyle explained the fine intricacies of an anxiety attack, why I was the perfect candidate. He had a straggly grey beard that made him look more like a professor of philosophy than a doctor of medicine. He said, ‘Your heart is fine.’ He sat down on his stool and stuck his pen behind his ear and placed both hands on his knees. ‘Except for the fact that it’s broken. Sadness and depression can result in anxiety. Anxiety can result in the kind of attack you experienced today. Your husband’s recent death is taking its toll on you, both physically and emotionally. I’m very sorry for your loss. I want to suggest you try an anxiety inhibitor and possibly an antidepressant to get you over this bump.’

This bump ? But I knew by the gentle sympathy in his eyes that he wasn’t minimizing anything. ‘So what you’re saying is, the good news is I’m not going to die of a heart attack, and the bad news is I’m not going to die of a heart attack?’ The look on his face made me add, ‘Kidding.’

‘We take suicidal references seriously around here. And especially in folks who’ve suffered losses like you have. I can understand why you might be feeling that way, but you have your children to think about. You have a lot of life — and wonderful times — ahead of you.’ I nodded. ‘I know that. I do. There’s no way I’m bailing on my kids.’ I didn’t tell him that someone was trying to take them away from me. That the grief was only part of what I was feeling. That I was also terrified of losing Annie and Zach. He asked me if I was tired and I asked him if it was possible to die from sleep deprivation.