Max’s nose had been broken in the crash. It was an afterthought for the doctors and a secondary pain for Max. Yet the bridge of his nose throbbed from time to time and it did then. He wondered if the pulsing signified his body was healing. The doctors hadn’t done much for his broken nose: a tape, running across from one cheek to the other, held what there was in place.
“Of course something is terribly wrong,” Max said in a moment, once the throbbing stopped.
“Why won’t you see your shrink? Or any shrink. You can’t tell me you’re happy. You used to go to a shrink when you were happy. Why don’t you go now when you really need help?”
“I needed help to be happy,” Max said. “I don’t need help to feel sad.”
Debby twisted violently in her chair and banged the hospital’s metal radiator cover with her foot — it was a sharp stunning movement for someone usually deliberate and graceful. “Damn it, Max! What the fuck are you talking about?” she turned toward him as she rose from the chair. He wasn’t sure, but she seemed to have tears in her eyes. “You tried to kill yourself! How the fuck can you say you don’t need help.”
Of course she was right to be furious: he had given up his end of the bargain, thrown out the contract of their relationship. Why couldn’t she see that she didn’t love him, she loved the faker who pretended to care only about her happiness? He had wanted to be her savior, the compensation for the art she had lost. But really he was a transitional object, a teddy husband, a comfort, not a joy. “I guess — I guess—” he began but he had to stop because of a blinding pain that came across the top of his skull and radiated down to his nose. He actually saw white stars float across the room. He shut his eyes and waited for the pain to pass. He said finally, “I guess you won’t believe me, but I didn’t try to kill myself. I have no intention of dying.”
Debby was back in the chair. He hadn’t seen her move there. She was folded over, her head draped down below her knees. He envied her ability to make art instantly with her body. An art without compromise. “You did it for her,” she said in a mumble to the floor.
“It just came to me. I knew what had to be done. I knew it with Byron also. We all lived through death together and I seem to know how they should live. It’s the first time in my life,” and he discovered he was crying, “that I feel talented.”
His nose stung from the tears. He shut his eyes and swallowed tears. He was floating on the bed. He tried to remember sitting in the plane waiting for the crash, but it wasn’t there. His head hurt instead.
“How did you help Byron?” he heard Debby ask. “By hitting him?”
“No,” Max said and didn’t elaborate. He knew that to her everything he did was crazy. To her, his real self — which he had finally revealed to her — was frightening and mad. He had dimly felt that was the case all along in their marriage; but he had wanted her love and admiration so much that he was willing to live in hiding. “Ask Jonah to come in, okay?”
“Why?” she was on her feet, moving soundlessly and gracefully across the room. He guessed she was pacing; her fluid walk had no tension, however.
He couldn’t face eternity living a lie. He couldn’t die a shadow man.
“What are you going to say to him?” Debby insisted, wandering all the way to the open doorway of the bathroom. “I don’t want you scaring him.”
This made Max angry. He knew she was off balance and not to be held accountable; and yet what right did she have to control what he might say to his son? Concussion or no, Max was still shrewd; he didn’t show his annoyance. He said softly, “First you say I don’t want to spend time with him and then you don’t want me to spend time with him.”
Debby nodded to herself. She turned to the wall and leaned her head against it. “Damn,” she said quietly.
“You can stay and listen,” Max offered. “It’s not a big deal — I just want to talk to him for a minute.”
“What about my question?” she turned back, put her hands behind her, springing off the wall. She rocked on her toes and then back on her heels until she fell against the wall, only to repeat the process with another shove of her hands. It was a girlish and pretty nervousness. “Are you going to talk to a therapist? You know, your lawyer says—” she stopped herself, both the talking and the bouncing off the wall.
“What does Brillstein say?” Max prompted. He thought he knew.
“Answer my question first. Will you talk to somebody?”
“Let’s get divorced. Then you don’t have to concern yourself with whether I’m crazy or not.”
“Why don’t you trust me?” Debby said. Her hands went out in spasm, without grace. “What have I done to you that you don’t trust me?”
“I trust you,” Max lied. It was a necessary lie, perhaps even a truthful lie, but it was the kind of untruth he had given up and it hurt — actually hurt: his head throbbed — to resort to it. Yet he had to. He was in danger from her; and probably from others who believed they loved him. She had almost revealed the jeopardy and instead revealed her guilt. Max tried to sound harmless: “Bring Jonah in for a moment and you’ll see.” At least he wouldn’t have to tell any lies to his son.
While she was gone he checked the small personal phone book Debby had brought him to see if Brillstein’s number was written down. It was. He had to squint to see the numbers clearly.
Jonah came in reluctantly, made even more nervous by an official summons. Earlier he had fidgeted in a chair, averting his eyes from Max’s still bruised face. This time Jonah clung to his mother’s side, head tilted, looking at some point in between the floor and his father.
“Jonah…” Max reached for him with his left hand.
Debby urged him forward. Jonah abruptly rushed to Max and took the offered hand. He bowed his head, staring at the sheets.
As his hand swallowed the small one Max noticed Jonah’s nails were dirty. He squeezed the limp fingers and said, “Did you think I wanted to die?”
Jonah shook his head no and gulped; he didn’t speak; to Max that was a yes.
“I don’t.” Max raised the enclosed hand and shook it. “Look at me.”
Jonah’s face came up. Max was momentarily silenced by their calm and naive concentration. Jonah’s two light brown eyes (the same shade as his mother’s) watched and waited for his history to begin.
“I don’t just happen to be your father,” Max said. “I want to be your father.” Jonah’s eyes stayed open and focused on Max, although water brimmed at the lower lids. “That means I don’t want to die. You can’t lose me because I don’t want to be lost.” He let go of the small hand.
Jonah stayed his ground, looking fully at his father’s swollen face. The child’s tearful eyes dried up; and after a moment, along with their blank and vulnerable attentiveness, there was a glint of armor.
Max’s mother was next to come with a grievance. He had known she was angry at him from the brevity of her earlier visits. Moments after Debby and Jonah left (they must have coordinated these attacks) his mother entered and dragged the plastic visitor’s chair over to the left side of his bed. She sat down with a firm drop as if she planned to stay for a while. He was glad she had come so close to him; he could see her well from there. “Max,” she said energetically and patted his hand, “everyone says I shouldn’t bring this up. Your sister especially — that’s why I’m here alone. But I think maybe there are a few things a mother knows about her children that even the experts don’t.” There it was again — the hint of discussions with psychologists about his condition. Was it Perlman and Mayer, or just one of them, or others he didn’t know? He wanted to phone Brillstein urgently. He was sure he could see through the lawyer to whatever was their secret plan.