The Suicide Gene Read online

  Dr. Kerr: Do you remember your mother having a friendship with Sam?

  Mary: Yes, I remember that.

  Dr. Kerr: How did that make you feel?

  Mary: I didn’t think about my mother being with Sam back then. So if you’re trying to decipher if it affected me, stop. It didn’t. I never thought about Sam until much later when Dad drank and blubbered on about him.

  Dr. Kerr: You aren’t sure when they became friends?

  Mary: Well, they knew each other in 1986 because Minnie remembered meeting him.

  Dr. Kerr: Minnie seems to have a good memory.

  Mary: Yes, she does. She remembers meeting Sam on St. Paddy’s Day. She said Mom bought green carnations after Mass and pinned them on our Sunday dresses. When we went to the neighbor’s party, Minnie’s fell off and was ruined. She cried. Sam Winger cut a flower out of a table bouquet to pin on her. She never forgot it. We all liked Sam. He moved away to work at a college in Georgia after Mom died.

  Dr. Kerr: Are you saying Minnie remembered the day your mother met Sam Winger—at what, four years old?

  Mary: We’re not sure when my mother met him. Minnie remembered the day “we” met him because he replaced her carnation. She has the memory of an elephant. Can remember back to when she was two years old. Matt can, too. You don’t become a genius. You’re born one. That’s why my brother talked about Sam on St. Patrick’s Day, to remind my dad of the whole scandalous incident. On purpose. I hate how shrewd he is.

  Dr. Kerr: You believe he intentionally brought up Sam Winger on St. Patrick’s Day.

  Mary: Listen, I know he did. Matt is obsessed with dates. Give him a date and he’ll tell you what day of the week it was and what he did that day.

  Dr. Kerr: And he selected that date to mention Sam knowing it would upset your father?

  Mary: Yes, but I’m sure he underestimated how furious Dad would become. Matt never mentioned Sam again. (Laugh.)

  Dr. Kerr: Were you afraid of your father?

  Mary: Yes.

  Dr. Kerr: Was he abusive?

  Mary: All the McKinneys are abusive—my dad was no exception.

  Dr. Kerr: Did he harm any of you?

  Mary: Well, he didn’t like us girls, especially Mel—she was the littlest and always underfoot—but he never hit us. Just Matt. And in my opinion, my brother asked for it.

  Dr. Kerr: Did they become physical often?

  Mary: Not after Matt got so burly. Then a battle of the minds began. They tossed insults back and forth like a ping pong ball. We girls would hold our breath. It was like watching two soldiers pull pins out of their grenades. We didn’t know which way to run because we had no idea which one was going off first. We just waited for the explosion. (Laugh.)

  Dr. Kerr: And was there one? An explosion?

  Mary: (Laugh.) Oh, you crack me up. No, Doctor Kerr, of course not. Regardless, we were never allowed to talk to the people from the universities. And none of us ever mentioned Sam again.

  ****

  The whole story was odd. She underlined Sam Winger, March 17th, and 1986 with a blotchy, blue pen. She considered expanding her research of the family’s mental health history, searching for possible gene mutations in the Blake family. Additional information may explain personality traits. Narcissistic? Yes. Okay, maybe not Melanie. Paranoia? Yes. Obsessive compulsive? Most definitely. Masochistic? Probably not but she couldn’t be one hundred percent sure because she had to move along to other patients with their own pressing issues: a woman cutting herself, another with a dissociative personality, and a twenty-year-old whom Doctor Cameron diagnosed with schizophrenia and left on her plate. She didn’t have time to change her crappy pen let alone construct complete ancestral charts or map genetics. She’d overbooked the behavioral therapists she normally referred clients to, and they were now scheduling two months out. She needed to network and connect with others.

  She became annoyed and flipped through the pages, passing Post-its, and hoping she wasn’t missing important information. Recollections of daylight and late-night assessments swirled in her head like abstract art. The fluorescent numbers of her watch hugged her wrist like a handcuff.

  She swore at herself for accepting them as clients. They are smarter than me.

  She tried remembering the year of Melanie’s birth without pulling files. Questions sputtered from her head like a lawn mower running out of gas. How many years separate Renee’s two youngest children? When did Renee meet Sam? What is Melissa’s birthdate?

  Melissa’s birthday shouldn’t matter if she died. However, that was a monstrosity of an if to Emma—if the baby died. She never believed that story.

  Rumors churned in her memory. If she hadn’t heard one McKinney story years ago, she wouldn’t be counseling them now. But fate had piqued her curiosity through tidbits her own mother relinquished. Ally’s mom told her mom the McKinneys’ mom went to the hospital, a baby came home, and then—poof—the baby disappeared. Renee McKinney talked to neighbors about a short, private burial. She said the baby died from SIDS. But stories circulated the infant had been put up for adoption. A year later another baby came along—Melanie—and the stories about a prior baby being adopted out dissipated.

  That had been the one big glitch in the rumor. The concept that the McKinneys put a middle child up for adoption.

  Over the years, the story waned. Now Emma, too, was on the verge of discounting it. Even Mary’s farcical words about the female infants in her family, “if they are born alone, they die,” warranted Melissa’s death.

  Emma knew no studies existed of multiple versus single survival rates for genders. Also, no conclusive studies proved certain women had difficulty carrying one gender over another to term. The fact that someone researched that at all, however, implied suspicion existed. Even at St. Luke’s, people talked about the Wilhelm family. Mrs. Wilhelm gave birth to five healthy girls but lost three boys, all born prematurely.

  Emma contemplated women unable to carry one gender to term. Could another parameter be added to that theory? Some women were unable to carry one gender of singletons to term? Female twins survived? If that far-fetched concept was the case for Renee, some mutated gene planted in her offspring by the McKinney seed, then what did that say about Melanie? Her identity?

  The next question that dawned on Emma slipped in nonchalantly, like the dull aftertaste of cheap wine. You hardly know it’s there until someone mentions it. If Mary insisted Melanie was the only exception to this McKinney anomaly, then was she a McKinney at all?

  Occasionally, Emma felt her blood rushing through her veins: before her period, when she became stressed, if she skipped a meal. The rush left her lightheaded. This was one of those moments. She forced herself to take long, deep breaths, in and out. Counted—one, two, three. Gradually her episode faded.

  She took out a pad and pen and began writing down dates. The baby was born between Matt and Mel. No, she scolded herself. Don’t become distracted. Concentrate on Melanie. Sam and Renee were together on St. Patrick’s Day, 1986. How long had they known each other? Were they already sleeping together?

  Both twins had dropped clues: my mother’s infidelity…1986 or earlier…he didn’t like us girls—especially Mel. Did Melanie McKinney live because she was Sam Winger’s child? Hadn’t Matt said she needed to be protected?

  She tossed aside the sessions and opened Matt’s file. She turned pages until her fingers found the Post-it marked “little sister.”

  She read it carefully—the last few lines.

  Patient: Mathew McKinney

  Psychiatrist: Dr. Emma Kerr

  Date: November 26, 2014 5 p.m.

  ****

  Matt: Yes, I worry about my little sister. I always have.

  Dr. Kerr: Why is it you worry so much about her?

  Matt: I have my reasons.

  Dr. Kerr: Has anyone ever hurt her or do you suspect someone may?

  Matt: (Pause.) No one will ever hurt her, and no one will ever lay a hand on her or any
one of her children. Ever. I’ll make sure of that. I’m her protector. That’s why I’m here—to protect my little sister, Doctor Kerr.

  ****

  My God, Emma thought. It might be true. Matt may be protecting Melanie from knowing she is Sam Winger’s child. And if Melanie was Sam’s child, Emma digressed, then it was possible Melissa was Sam’s child, too.

  And may still be alive.

  Stunned, her shoulders fell back against her chair, her arms slid into her lap, and she thought back to age three, her first recollection of the word adoption. Heidi and Ben had been honest with her even before that.

  She reached a hand into her top drawer and pulled out a small mirror. She held it an arm’s length away and tilted it toward her face. For one long moment, she studied herself—the brown hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones. She leaned in to get a closer look and then whispered toward the reflection in the mirror.

  “Melissa?”

  She shook her head. Even laughed at herself. No, it absolutely couldn’t be.

  Chapter 9

  Saturday, December 13, 2014

  One hundred fifty-two days.

  There was a lovely garden with a high, flowing white fence where Heidi Kerr walked on a winding path without fear of becoming lost. Flowers and greens bordered the snaky lane, which the maintenance man, Johnathon, cleared first thing in the morning. He swept, shoveled, or salted the footpath to glistening perfection, and Heidi took advantage of it every day after breakfast and sometimes again in late afternoon. She slipped on her mittens, boots, and the new coal-blue parka jacket Emma bought her, pushed the glass doors open, stepped outside, and breathed in the sweet hemlock scent. She stayed out until her cheeks stung. Outside, she could forget a nursing home lay beyond the big doors.

  “It’s not half as bad as I thought it would be,” she told Emma that Saturday afternoon.

  “You won’t be here long, Mom. They may let you leave today.” Emma set her purse in her lap and folded her hands.

  Her mother leaned toward her, placed a hand on Emma’s clasped fingers, and offered a cautious grin. “I think I am going home, Emma. But if I do, I understand it’s only a matter of time before I come back. I want you to know I am dealing with this disease, and you must deal with it also. Your father needs you.”

  “Oh, don’t say that, Mom. You’ll always be home. Dad can’t live without you.”

  “This is hard for him, honey. My memory comes and goes now. I forget words, people, names. I’m getting worse. Some of my bad days are terrible. Embarrassing. Here, I don’t have to be ashamed. Everyone is like me. They understand. When the time comes for me to be here permanently, your dad will be here as much as possible. He’ll take me home to visit for the afternoon or special occasions, holidays, or simply if I’m having a good day. I understand it has to be. You need to accept that, too.”

  She rose from the chair across from Emma and moved to sit beside her on the couch. “You are our whole world, a gift from our Divine Creator. We love you so much.”

  “I love you too, Mom.” Emma tried hard not to cry, but a few tears slipped out the corner of her eye. She swiftly wiped them away.

  “I want to tell you something else, while I am having a good day,” Heidi said softly. “I’ve wanted to say this for a long time, but my courage failed me. For some reason, right now, I feel I must say it. Before I forget, you need to hear this.”

  She hesitated for a bit and Emma wondered if she was becoming confused. Her coherence came and went so quickly these days. But when Heidi continued, her cognizance was stellar.

  “Understand, we absolutely adore Josh. He’s a great man and a fine doctor. But, Emma, if you don’t love him, let him go.”

  The tears stopped and Emma straightened in her seat, shocked.

  “Your dad and I still love each other after all these years. It should be like that when you marry someone.” Heidi shifted in her seat, inching closer to Emma. “We understand arguing is part of growing as a couple. We all fight. Debating resolves differences, but too much arguing can be a warning something else is wrong, and when all debates or discussions cease, when there is no more talking life through, sometimes it means the marriage is over.”

  Heidi stopped and put an arm around Emma’s shoulder to comfort—brace—her. “Emma, do you love him? Do you love Josh?”

  Emma’s head drooped to her mother’s shoulder. Here in a world scattered with frightening gaps in memory, brain scans, cognitive tests, and a myriad of degenerative anomalies, her mother was—mothering her. The old saying was true: once a mother, always a mother.

  Emma could not fathom losing her. No matter what troubles raged in her life, her mom righted them. What would she do without her sweet words and gentle touch?

  “Let him go, Emma. He needs—deserves—someone who loves him, and you deserve all the wonderful moments of falling in love with someone, too. You’ll find a person who makes your heart flutter for the rest of your life. Like I did. I promise you.” She squeezed Emma’s shoulders then glanced toward the little glass room where Emma’s father sat conversing with doctors. “I still feel that way. Seeing him there, my heart flutters.”

  “Mrs. Kerr?” A nurse’s interruption camouflaged Emma’s failure to respond. “They are ready for you now.”

  They walked hand-in-hand into the glass room and listened as her father described to the doctor and police officer the safety precautions he had concocted in addition to those required. Emma choked back tears and worked hard to concentrate as he spoke. Her mom could go home today. The judge had signed the orders. An agency had evaluated the home, rearranged some items, installed others, and deemed the dwelling safe. They’d assigned a caregiver to come three times a week and help her mother, and a nurse, once a week, to complete an evaluation.

  Emma began listening only remotely, somewhat comforted when she realized her mom would be home for Christmas. At least there was that, she thought, Christmas promises of a quiet day, her little nuclear family intact.

  The last of her attention slipped away. The voices in the room hit her mind like rain on glass. Once sure her mom was being released—freed—her reflections drifted back to her mother’s gently-spoken words about Josh. She asked herself why she hadn’t invited him to come with her today. Why he hadn’t offered. Her parents faced their trials together, never alone.

  Emma looked outside the glass room. Hot lunch-hour plates steamed as women with hairnets poured coffee and milk into mugs, and nurses grasped residents’ elbows, gently helping them to chairs at bright, round tables. A peaceful atmosphere lingered there. Soft shades of wall paint and flowery furniture colors blended together like a fading rainbow—one with a pot of gold at the end. The pale faces of smiling patients came to life, lit up by their colorful wear that a relative or kind nurse pulled from their closet or drawers for them that morning. Blue, pink, lavender, and golden-beige hues blended together simply like a multicolored kaleidoscopic that changed with the slightest turn of the wrist. It was all in how you looked at it.

  Yes, St. Mary’s was a comfortable place to be if the outside world scared you.

  She glanced toward the corner of the room and saw the older lady, Agnes, whom her mom mentioned often. There were many residents her mom talked about, but she liked Agnes best, bonded with her immediately. Agnes was a lovely woman still in the early stages, and like Heidi, she praised St. Mary’s good food and savored the comradery of like-minded combatants of Alzheimer’s. Heidi said Agnes happily considered St. Mary’s home now. Like Emma’s mom, Agnes wouldn’t allow her illness to burden her family.

  “Her son comes twice a week for lunch and takes her out every Sunday,” Heidi told Emma. “He brings her chocolate and is so good to her the nurses call him Sweetie.”

  Emma thought of Josh. He would never be that sort of son. He scarcely spoke to his parents and merely tolerated Emma’s. Nothing like Agnes’s son.

  He was there now and she watched him. His tall frame lounged comfortably in a chair next to
Agnes, and Emma, her mother’s words now ringing in her ears, wondered what life would be like being in love with a man that compassionate. She saw the back of his suit shake and Agnes throw her head back in laughter. Two other patients at the table laughed along.

  She knew she should be paying attention to the doctor. There would be days when her mother became confused. Yes, she knew. Ultimately her mother would return to St. Mary’s. Yes, she understood—institutionalization forever. Her dad would have to stop drinking. Yes, he’d already done that. The conversation went on. Had they heard of the book The 36 Hour Day? Yes, she had read that one—read them all.

  Her eyes teared and she tried to deflect the veracities of the crystal-clear room. Block the picture of her mom deteriorating. Pretend her own strength and support wasn’t blowing away in the winds of Alzheimer’s. Instead she stared at Agnes and the back of the black suit with the shaking shoulders, and the empty seat at her right side taunted her. Why weren’t her husband’s strong arms wrapped around her, helping hold her steady?

  “Emma, honey,” her mom whispered. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Mom.” She returned to the room, squeezing her mother’s hand.

  Heidi had carried her through childhood, adolescence, and her teenager years with patience and understanding. Now Emma had to be strong for her. She forced herself out of her self-pity and into her business mind. She discussed finances, caregiver schedules, and support services for both her mother and father. The Alzheimer’s group met on Wednesdays. She’d make sure her parents attended. A geriatric doctor in town had documented good results stimulating Alzheimer’s patients with new techniques. Yes, she’d schedule an appointment for her mother.

  After the forms were signed, they shook hands and prepared to gather her mother’s clothes and take her home where she belonged. As she stepped outside the glass room, Emma saw Agnes’s son stand up and lean over to pick up Agnes’s little knit sweater that fell on the floor. He placed the cardigan on her back, squeezing her shoulders tenderly as he did. Agnes raised one of her hands and laid it affectionately on top of one of his. He smiled and looked up. His eyes caught Emma’s.