Why Do Stars Fall Down From The Sky

Grandfather lived at most about 200 yards away, on Bordeaux, in the same house he'd built when the developers of the newly incorporated Highland Park had first offered lots for sale. I pulled into his driveway and he walked out the same front door I'd knocked on, stopping once to check the sky on his way out to the car. No doubt he'd checked the weather reports before getting dressed, chosen what coat to wear while standing graveside, because that was the way you did things. In his world you thought things through. Everything. All the time. Certainty created precision; uncertainty bred chaos. He'd drilled that into my father's head, and my father had done the same to me. Now it was my turn to pass on the distillate of his being, to pass on the secret of his success. Precision: Good. Uncertainty: Bad.

And hadn't I done that my whole life. Hadn't I studied that way? Wasn't that why my grades were always the best in my class, whatever class it happened to be? Take precise notes. Highlight the text in precise detail. Avoid uncertainty. Avoid chaos. Come out on top?

I drove, precisely, to Lovers Lane Methodist. I acknowledged all my parent's friends with a precise nod. I delivered a carefully constructed eulogy with concise precision, including only the highlights and omitting all of Joan's transparently chaotic flaws. I was, as precisely as I could be, the dutiful son, and here I was with precisely the right woman hanging onto my arm, in effect validating everyone's worldview of my place in their lives.

After the burial and during the reception at the country club I was stunned by how many of my parent's friends came by to say how good Genie and I looked together, and more than a couple stated flatly that we had belonged together from the beginning. And every time I heard that blather I thought I could feel my head swelling up, getting ready to explode.

"You'll be moving back to Dallas soon?" one said, and it was a proclamation, not a question.

I was still the class valedictorian, the star wide receiver that made All State my senior year.

"And just why did you leave?"

"Good to see you've finally come to your senses."

And my favorite: "Your father would be so proud."

At one point I walked over to the small dining room that overlooked the swimming pool and I looked down into the water, saw a few forlorn leaves gathered in the deep end, and I envied their silence. the chaos of their rotting in the bottom of a swimming pool.

True to form, I'd put up my perfectly cleaned airbrush so when I took it out a few days later the damn thing worked flawlessly. Tom and I had driven in the XK-E out to Halls Hobby Shop and picked up new paint and a few tools, and we spent Saturday working together on that model of the A-7, and I found myself talking just as my father had. Careful encouragement. Positive criticism. Always in service of the ideal idea: precision over uncertainty. Take your time and do it right the first time.

Becoming my father came to me naturally, so naturally, and the thought made me sick to my stomach.

+++++

I spent one morning -- alone -- out at Timberlawn, talking with Carol's psychiatrist as well as the internist charged with her rather complicated medical care. Carol had been through two ECT treatments so far, and she seemed lucid for a few hours after each but had soon slipped back into her hallucinatory existence. Her psychiatrist proposed two more treatments, to see if the latent intervals of lucidity increased, and if so to continue with four more treatments over the next two weeks.

"And if she doesn't improve?" I asked.

"That will be up to you, but as we discussed last time you might want to consider hospice care."

"When is her next treatment. I'd like to talk to her just after."

"Tomorrow morning. She should be out of anesthesia by ten or so."

So I was there at ten or so the next morning, and Carol and I talked for the first time in twenty years, and we started where we had left off. She was with me again, clear as could be, and I explained what was happening and why I was there.

"I can't go back there, Pat. You have no idea..."

"I'm sorry, but I really don't know," I said, and as empathetically as I could. "What's it like? When you go there?"

"Flames. I'm surrounded by flames and my skin is burning and then the demons come. They rip away my flesh and push me deeper into the fire..."

"And that's..."

"That's all I can see or hear, Pat. Don't make me go back there..."

Those words clawed at my throat, broke my heart. "You don't have to go back, Carol. Come, stay with me, let me help you fight them..."

And yet two hours later she slid back into the flames, began writhing in agony and screaming as her tormenters returned. Thorazine was administered and within a few minutes she was back in her stupor, but her psychiatrist explained these medicines only quelled the external dimensions. Whatever it was tormenting her continued to do so even now.

"Is this unusual?" I asked.

"Yes, fairly. Thorazine usually stops almost all hallucinations, but not in all patients, and certainly not in your sister's case."

"So she gets no relief?"

"That's correct. She's in, for all intents and purposes, Hell, and I mean that in the most literal sense possible. Inside her hallucination, she's roasting in Hell while constantly being attacked by demons, and I've watched these attacks, so to speak, on an EEG -- even when she's sedated on Thorazine. It is a completely unacceptable outcome."

"Do you know what caused this?"

The physician shrugged off the question. "Genetics? Upbringing? We just don't know yet, and we don't have the tools we need to find out the why or the how of such things. This woman, her mother? I can say she must have been a monster. A complete monster."

"Cobra," I whispered.

"What's that?"

"I called her a cobra once, when I was about fifteen. She slapped me senseless."

"What else do you recall?"

I shrugged. "The list is endless, but if I could come up with one common denominator I'd say that Joan was trying to destroy everything my father stood for, everything he valued, and the more she drank the more violent she became."

"She beat you too?"

"Both of us, yes."

"You'll excuse my asking, but did she molest you?"

I looked away, but I nodded.

"May I ask how?"

"She'd bully my dad until he'd had enough, and after he left she came to my room. She'd crawl all over me and play with it, usually with her hands but sometimes using her mouth. She'd sit on me and piss on me and then tell my father I was still wetting the bed, telling him to spank me..."

"Did he?"

"No. I think he knew something was wrong, but I don't think he ever really put all of the pieces of the puzzle together..."

"These pieces? They were pretty big, too big I think for a physician to ignore."

"Maybe."

"Have you ever considered the possibility that your father molested your sister?"

"No. And I'd say that was an impossibility."

"Why?"

"Because he was hardly ever home. Joan ran him off -- almost every night."

"Where did he go?"

"I don't really know, not with any certainty, but I always suspected he kept a mistress."

"What about after you left for college?"

I froze. From the inside out. "Dad wasn't the type."

"You know this with certainty?"

I nodded.

"Then the origins of her hallucinations will remain a mystery. Joan was not your biological mother, correct?"

I nodded again. "That's right."

"Who raised you?"

I shrugged. "My grandparents, my girlfriend's mother, but mostly my father. I always thought my grandparents knew something was going on..."

"Do you trust women?" the psychiatrist asked, out of the blue.

I looked at the shrink and nodded. "I never considered that Joan was normal. My grandmother was a saint, and so too was my girlfriend's mother. Hell, for that matter my girlfriend was too."

"But you've kept your distance from women, haven't you? Maybe you find it hard to commit to a relationship?"

"I've always considered myself a confirmed bachelor."

"I think if I was in your position I would too."

"So, you think..."

"I think I am not your physician, Mr. Healey. What I know of you and your family is a distortion, or a series of distortions your sister conveyed, so I would not dare to presume anything at this point. I am curious, however. What happened to this girlfriend you mention? The saintly one?"

"Long story, but the short version is she's still out there, waiting for me to come to my senses."

"What an interesting way of putting things. What do you think is going to happen next?"

"I have no idea."

The psychiatrist looked at me and smiled. "Oh, but of course you do. You're the only one that does. You just have to know where to look." But then the shrink turned and faced me, and just then she pointed right at my heart. "Life is a hall of mirrors, Mr. Healey, and from time to time as we walk along we think we catch a fleeting glimpse of reality, but make no mistake -- what we see is an illusion, and there is no place we can hide from that one simple truth."

And for a moment, in a brief flash of time, I felt the wind in my hair and saw dead autumn leaves skittering alongside the Seine before they fell into the black water. I looked up in time to see Sainte Chapelle covered in blood, my blood, and the sky beyond was turning crimson and gold as flame-filled clouds, writhing in my sister's eternal agony, marched across an unsuspecting Earth.

+++++

"You look pale," Genie said as she walked into my father's house. Tom was trailing along at a discrete distance, his eyes cast down and looking very put upon. It was so obvious now, too. The boy missed his father and didn't understand what had happened to his life.

'Welcome to the club, kid,' I said inwardly. The face of the country was rapidly inverting as no-fault divorce and legions of freshly minted lawyers scoured the land in search of a new clientele, and kids like Tom were the faceless, nameless victims of this latest inversion of family life.

"Bad day," I grumbled.

"Carol?" Genie asked, though the question was hardly necessary.

"I picked up a bunch of steaks for dinner," I said, changing the subject.

"A bunch? You must be hungry."

"I asked the Old Man to drop by."

"Are we intruding?" she asked.

"No. Not at all."

"Tom," she said, "why don't you get started on your homework."

The boy nodded and put his book bag down on the floor next to the kitchen table, then he pulled out a copy to Twain's Tom Sawyer and got to work. I drifted back to Bradfield, to Mrs. Dunsworth's fourth grade class, and I remembered making my way through the same book on my way to writing my very first book report. I tried to reconcile that experience with the sight of this kid following down the very same path, yet it was impossible to forget the shrink's comments about a hall of mirrors -- and the impossible vision that followed.

"Pat, what's wrong?" Genie said, her voice shaking just a little.

"I've got to go back out there in the morning, but I'm a little scared..."

"Scared? You?"

"The implications of these treatments failing...well, it really became crystal clear today."

She came over and took my hands in hers, but she as quickly gasped: "Pat...your hands are like ice!"

I remember nodding, and trying to smile just a little, but I was lost inside my very own hall of mirrors. "I told you I felt scared."

"You feel up to cooking?"

I sighed. "Yeah. I'll handle the grill if you can put together a salad."

"How 'bout a spinach soufflé?"

"Perfect," I added, knowing the freezer was full of Dad's favorite side dish, little orange boxes of Stouffer's spinach soufflé -- which was his side of choice when grilling steaks out back -- and the thought that Genie knew that left me reeling. "Did Dad stay over at your house often?"

She hesitated, but then she relented. "More and more the past year or so."

"How's your mom?"

Genie shook her head. "Not good. She went down after you left last time; it was like losing him all over again."

I nodded, felt sick to my stomach. Genie had been well on her way to becoming my stepsister, and wouldn't that have been just ducky -- best laid plans and all that nonsense. I didn't really know what to say so went out back to get the Hasty-Bake ready for duty, filling the charcoal tray just like father did, getting the coals just so then using the same wire brush to clean off the stainless steel grates. Back to the kitchen to make his marinade -- equal parts ketchup and mustard, a dash of Worcestershire sauce and a little squeeze of anchovy paste and half a lime. Drop in the ribeyes and let them soak it all in before dropping them on a bed of 500 degree coals.

"Salads ready," Genie called a bit later, and I pulled the steaks from the grill and closed the dampers before I carried them into the house. Both my grandfather and Deborah were sitting at the table, lost in conversation while Tom sat there still trying to figure out what the Hell was going on with his life. I said my hellos, but after I put the platter on the table I walked over and gave Deborah a huge, bone-crushing hug -- if only because I was genuinely glad to see her right now -- then I blushed and took my seat.

Genie fixed our plates and passed them around -- just like she always had twenty years ago, only at her house. Grandfather said a prayer while Tom and I exchanged knowing smirks -- just like my father and I always had -- at this very table. We made small talk, anything really that would keep Carol and all her problems away for a few more hours...

"You ought to take the XK-E out for a run while you're here," Grandfather said.

I nodded. "Not sure I could stand the attention."

The roadster was fire engine red with a black interior, and everywhere you went in the damn thing people stopped what they were doing and drooled.

"Better check the oil first, if you do," he added -- because like all Jags the engine leaked oil 24/7.

But I had checked her fluids already. And yes, after checking the garage floor I confirmed the oil was down almost a quart. "Maybe I'll take it out tomorrow," I sighed, if only because I hated crawling into the driver's seat, contorting my frame over the wide sill and under the oak steering wheel, but a car like that needed to be driven. Hell, it screamed to be driven -- and fast -- but oddly enough it wasn't a great car. It was sexy as hell, but while smooth the inline six lacked power, and Dad's XJ handled about as well on a mountain road.

"How was Carol?" he asked, breaking the spell.

I shook my head. "We'll know more tomorrow," I managed to say before I asked Genie for some more grub.

Then I cleared the table and Genie got the dishes loaded in the washer -- and soon enough she came over and asked if it would be okay if she and Tom slept over again.

"Why don't you ask Tom," I replied. "He seems a little out of it right now, like maybe he's a little confused about where things stand."

Her jaw tightened but she just caught herself, then she smiled and nodded as this setback became too obvious to ignore.

A half hour later I was alone again.

It was time, I realized as I looked at this dated appliances in the kitchen, to sell this mausoleum. It was time to move on. From everything.

+++++

When Carol failed to come out from under the spell of her hallucinations after her fifth treatment, I met with her treatment team in a small conference room, and I could see this latest defeat in their eyes.

"We're back to square one," Amy Stottlemeyer, her lead psychiatrist, said.

"And that means what, exactly?" I asked.

"We try one more time, and if that fails we have two options. Warehouse her on anti-psychotics and sedatives, or hospice care."

"I thought we'd resolved that earlier," I said.

"People change their minds," Stottlemeyer said.

"Ah. The hall of mirrors," I added.

"Precisely," she said, satisfied that I remembered our discussion from the day before. "People change their mind all the time."

"I'm listening."

"We think it's too soon to throw in the towel, so we'd like to try some orthomolecular treatments."

"Linus Pauling, right?"

She nodded. "Right. So you know about his work with Hawkins out at Stanford?"

"The basics, yes. I also found that the NIH and others in mainstream psychiatry consider this regimen to be little more than snake oil."

"We don't have a whole lot left to try."

"Well, I guess as long as you don't blow out her liver there's not a lot to lose."

"So, you agree?"

I shook my head. "I'm not qualified to make this decision, or am I missing something?"

"Well, the option is palliative care."

"Warehousing her, you mean. Until her liver fails."

Stottlemeyer nodded. "Or we can try the orthomolecular regimen for a while, perhaps try another round of ECT. If we still find she's made no progress...well...at least we'll know we tried everything."

"And you need my permission? Is that it?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you have more papers for me to sign?"

Stottlemeyer grinned as she nodded my way. "Always."

+++++

I met my grandfather at his favorite place, the S&D Oyster Company down on McKinney, after I left Timberlawn, and I filled him in on the results.

"So, you signed their papers?"

"I did."

"I don't trust them, Pat. All they're after is money, more and more money."

"Welcome to modern medicine," I sighed.

"Bullshit! Psychiatry isn't medicine, it's voodoo with a few crystal balls thrown in for good measure."

"Don't leave out the smoke and mirrors."

"And don't make fun of me!" he snarled.

"I wasn't."

He settled down before his half dozen arrived, then he made his cocktail sauce in the little silver bowl, adding what I considered way too much Tabasco sauce, then he speared an oyster and dipped it in his sauce before he slammed it down, chasing the slimy thing down with a long pull from a Lone Star longneck.

"So, how'd the car do? Still running okay?"

"Not bad -- for a Jaguar, anyway."

"And you're such an expert, right? The boy who still doesn't own an automobile!"

"I'll get one when I need one."

"And what about Genie?"

"I'll get one when I need one."

"You'll never get another chance for happiness like this one. You know that, right?"

"That was a broken dream, Paw-paw. It was never going to work out, and we always knew it."

"Nothing works unless you try to make it work."

"That doesn't sound like love to me. That sounds like a job."

He sighed. "That boy needs you."

"He needs his father, not another disposable marriage."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"I think I found my answers to this place twenty years ago. That's why I don't live here."

"I wanted it all, you know? Again. I wanted to watch you start a family, know that somehow you'd be carrying on the name, but I guess Joan killed all that, too."

"I like to think Dad didn't really know her, but..."

"But some mistakes we never get over. They chase us to our grave."

I nodded. I understood what he was grieving for, because I had been too, and perhaps I had been all my life.

"So," he continued, "I take it you'll sell the house? And I can take your name off the list at the country club?"

"And Koon Kreek."

"It's to be a clean break, then," he sighed, and while he indeed understood, he was now broken hearted.

"I think it has to be. There aren't many good memories here, and the good ones mostly came from you."

"I tried, Pat. I saw what was happening, so I tried. I know it wasn't enough..."

"You made all the difference in the world."

"Thanks." He was still too tough to shed a tear, but I could tell he was upset. "So, you'll stay in Boston?"

"I may be moving to Frankfurt later this year, but that will be a short term assignment. I'll probably go back to Boston after that."