The Suicide Gene Read online

  Both men were tall and muscular, broad-shouldered and thin-hipped, wide-mouthed and thin-faced. They looked an awful lot alike. Their most flagrant difference was Matt Junior’s almost heart-shaped mole on his left cheek, fixed just below the corner of his eye. Girls loved that mole, she remembered. But both men were exceedingly handsome. Their shiny blue eyes peeked past thick coal-black lashes, and complemented strong features and bronze-tinted skin. Add their dangerous brilliance and how did they come across to women? Maybe like mad honey of a mountain laurel.

  Another weight dropped onto Mathew Senior’s fatherhood scale. How could Melanie or Melissa be anything but Mathew’s daughter?

  The phone rang and she jumped. Again, a restricted number. She clicked the green button but didn’t say a word. Just listened. For a second she thought she heard something in the background—a motor from a car? Then a click and nothing.

  She turned and glanced out her front window, using one hand to block the reflection of the streetlight, so she could see up and down the street. There were no cars in either direction. Her scrutiny fell to the ground, the snow. Fresh footprints led to the shrubbery hugging the house. She went up, two knees on the couch, pushed open the window, and leaned her head out. She swiped her cell phone and shone her flashlight straight down. Hidden behind the drooping rhododendron bush was a sopping wet newspaper. She sighed, turned off the light, and fell back in, slamming the window and locking it. Who knew how long the paper had been there.

  “That paper boy tosses like he’s never thrown a ball,” Josh had said two days ago. “My feet are soaked. I couldn’t find that damn paper again.”

  “Cancel it and read it online,” she’d responded, tired of fishing papers out of the snow. She’d cancel their subscription herself tomorrow.

  She resumed her seat on the couch, consciously relaxing her shoulders. She raised her arms, stretched, sank into the cushions, and balanced the back of her head on clasped fingers, trying hard to shake the creepy feeling someone had been watching her. She glanced toward the ceiling and slowly her mind turned away from the footprints by the window and back to the McKinney baby story—nearly as eerie.

  Two names toggled on a scale in her mind, slowly moving up and down. Melanie McKinney seesawing with Melanie Winger. She cleared that image to ponder the queer only-twin-girls-survive theory. They were joking, right?

  She straightened and typed “twin survival rate versus singleton survival rate.” After searching several medical journal tags, she found the statistical facts she sought. On the surface, the findings partially validated the concept. Twins born between twenty-seven and thirty-seven weeks gestation had lower mortality rates than singletons. Some studies theorized twins were healthier initially.

  Could a family where twins live and singletons die exist? More importantly, what did their constant referral to it say about Melanie? Will the real father of Melanie and Melissa McKinney please stand up?

  She slapped the files shut, annoyed, just as the phone rang.

  “Damn it,” she said before clicking the unlisted number off. “Where the hell is Josh when you need him?”

  Chapter 11

  Tuesday, December 30, 2015

  Suicide attempt. Four.

  She gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead at the white lines and empty spaces. Her headlights magnified the graffiti-decorated cement block wall at the far end of the urine-scented, oil-stained garage. Someone really ought to clean this place up.

  She had backed her car into one of eight secluded parking spots on the bottom level of a downtown parking ramp. This spot had no cameras, a low ceiling, was perfect really.

  She thought about the people she said hello to today. Ignorant souls she smiled at, waved to. She even hugged a few. How surprised they’d be to read her name in the obituary later this week. You never knew what went on in another person’s mind.

  She glanced at her watch. 11:48. No one would find her until morning. The hose lie waiting in the trunk. She hoped the dang thing fit. It was hard to practice fitting a hose on your tailpipe inconspicuously.

  Soft pop played on the car radio and distracted her. She wished she had mustered the courage to come before Christmas. Falling asleep to “Silent Night,” “Little Town of Bethlehem,” or “Ave Maria” would have been splendid.

  This wasn’t her first time at this place, and as she espied the hunched-over man rounding the corner with his shopping cart of belongings, she thought it wouldn’t be the last. She sighed. The same thing had happened last time. Might even have been the same guy. He must have missed the Homeless Haven’s 11 p.m. curfew. Now he’d be underfoot until morning. The homeless slept there occasionally on gusty nights when snow drifts blocked walkways. The ice-packed wheels on the man’s cart clunked along, his whiskey bottles clinking and his tinny cart clanging.

  Again fate laughed at her. She shifted into drive and headed out of the garage.

  Not tonight.

  Chapter 12

  Wednesday, January 14, 2015

  One hundred twenty days.

  Except for a brief period around New Year’s, Emma was still receiving hang-up calls twenty-eight days after those numerous December 14th phone calls, and so she reported it to police and changed her cell number.

  “Have you received any suspicious calls in the last two days? Since you changed the number?” The officer on the phone asked as she sifted through the papers on her desk.

  She flipped her wrist and glanced at her watch.

  “No, none. Thanks so much for checking on me, but I think I’m good now, Officer Filutze. I appreciate your concern.” She just wanted to get off the phone. A client cancellation allowed her forty-five sweet minutes of catch-up time.

  “Please call us and let us know if you have further problems.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll do that,” she said, then wished him a nice day and clicked her cell off. “This has been the worst three weeks of my life.”

  Christmas seemed like a blur in a rearview mirror. She sat back and rehashed it for the umpteenth time, as if rethinking the events could change the results.

  On Christmas Eve, she arrived home late in the evening and found Josh sitting in the living room waiting for her.

  “I think we should take a break from each other,” was the first thing he said.

  She didn’t unbutton her coat or take off her scarf or gloves. She sat down on a chair across from him, clicked her heels together, and let the sludge from her boots fall to the floor. Her first thought had been she better wipe up the muck or the moisture would warp the hardwood. She said nothing.

  “Ken offered me his Sixth Street apartment. He moved back home. His lease isn’t up until June. He said I’m welcome to stay there until—” He hesitated briefly and Emma had wondered if he was waiting for her to react. He continued when she didn’t. “Well, until we decide what we want to do.”

  How convenient, she thought. Doctor Ken Morgenstern was moving back in with his pregnant wife. How does his girlfriend feel about that? Maybe Josh hoped history would repeat itself.

  “I think this would be good for us.” He had squirmed forward and sat on the edge of the couch. He seemed excited his plan hadn’t fazed her right away. Like the separation might be a good idea.

  Always nice to have the wife’s permission before you jump into bed with another woman.

  “We take each other for granted, Emma,” he babbled on. “We’re so busy we don’t appreciate each other. This would give us time to reflect on what we want, how we feel.”

  After a long, tired sigh, she finally spoke, “As usual you have impeccable timing, Josh.”

  “Oh, no, I won’t leave until after Christmas,” he said speedily, gaily, like waiting a few days made him a better man. “But I wanted to be up front with you.”

  How gallant.

  “I didn’t want you to go through the holidays not knowing my intention.”

  “Rest assured.” Her voice sharpened. “I didn
’t go out and buy you a big gift that might make you feel guilty. In fact, I didn’t get you anything at all,” she lied. “So I’d appreciate you returning anything you bought for me. I’ll spend tomorrow with my parents.”

  She had removed her gloves and scarf with sharp, abrupt pulls and tugs, knowing she wouldn’t be able to return his tailor-made bike seat. She’d throw the carbon-fibered saddle in the garbage before his sorry ass felt it, along with the jersey, biking shorts, CatEye, and new clipless pedals she had bought him. Twelve hundred bucks down the drain.

  “I believe we can do this calmly and amicably. Lots of couples separate for less, and we have to try something. We don’t talk anymore. Maybe this will—rejuvenate us.” He fumbled with his hands while he talked. “I’m doing this as much for you, Emma, as for me. Really I am.”

  She had enough. She stood and removed her coat; the room had gotten hot, swelteringly hot.

  “How about for Anna? Is this for Anna, too?”

  “Emma, I won’t say it again. This isn’t about her.” He stood. “Anna and I have always been friends. There is nothing going on between us.”

  She stared him down, waiting for that little gesture he always made with his head when lying. She noticed it early in their relationship when he wanted to surprise her, said he was merely taking her to dinner but had an entire evening planned, said he forgot her birthday then later fished a wrapped jewelry box out of his pocket, said his boss asked him to work late but then had a candlelight dinner awaiting her when she arrived home. A dinner that inevitably ended upstairs in the bedroom, their two bodies entangled into one.

  On Christmas Eve, however, she waited to see the body lingo for opposite reasons and it came. His telltale tilt. He tipped his head a tad to the right, pushed his chin toward his chest, and turned an ear slightly outward. A sigh masked her dull laugh.

  “You’re a terrible liar, Josh.”

  “Emma, I swear, I’m not lying. There is nothing between Anna and me.”

  “Yes, there is,” she said. “Me. I’m what’s between you and Anna. And now by the grace of Doctor Morgenstern’s little mistress’s pad, my interference has been remedied.”

  She began walking away, and his hand jerked her arm so abruptly she later found bruises where he gripped her.

  “That’s not fair,” he hollered.

  She looked down at his hand clenched around her arm and then up into his eyes. He released his grip, sheepishly, and she stepped away from him.

  “A lot in life isn’t fair, Josh, and I’m tired of the inequities. So tired I can’t fight you. So go. Stay until tomorrow or leave right now if you want. I don’t care which. Just stop the lying.” She headed for the stairs.

  “Emma!”

  “Stop.” She turned around and shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is what we need, and in a month or two we’ll realize we still love each other and want to spend the rest of our lives in wedded bliss, but for now, just stop. I’m too weary.”

  She began walking away but turned one last time and asked, “Why don’t you visit my mother?”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes, why don’t you ever stop to see her? You never went once when she was in the hospital or at St. Mary’s. You never visited her or my dad, and what about your own parents? You never call, visit. Why?”

  “Emma, c’mon.” He put his hands out like he expected she knew the answer. “Are you going to make me say it? You know I can’t handle the Alzheimer’s and, as for my own parents, well, they live three hours away.”

  “Some of us don’t have any choice, Josh, we have to handle the Alzheimer’s.” In that instance she had thought of Giff Johnson and Agnes and how much Giff treasured spending time with her, and how desperate she was to spend more time with her own mother.

  “It’s Christmas Eve and I bet calling your parents never crossed your mind.” She turned and trudged up the stairs, leaving him staring at the back of her head as she offered one last splash of advice. “You should call them. You never know how long the people you love will be around.”

  She retreated to her room, toppled into bed, and fell asleep, feeling her world had fallen to the gutter. There wasn’t a ladder with an extension long enough to get her out of the work hole she existed in. Her diet bordered on third-world portions. She hadn’t been to the gym in months. Running shoes collected dust in her closet, and she’d never been so unprepared for a holiday in her life. On a different day, at a different time, she might have cared, but at Christmas time, she battled daily to keep her head above water, stay on task, and provide her clients with decent, standard care.

  He waited until December 28th to move out. She didn’t flinch or cry. Another nightmare week with no client cancellations and one double-booking besieged her. She admitted three patients to psychiatric units for brief get-me-through-the-holidays stints, including Charles Brown who experienced a meltdown on December 30th. Police found him roaming the streets, naked, at three in the morning. She was beginning to believe Charlie had a drug problem.

  Being alone on New Year’s Eve didn’t bother her in the least. She collapsed fully dressed on her bed at 11:15 and informed her parents the next day—right before their traditional New Year’s Day dinner of pork and sauerkraut for luck—about her separation with Josh. Called the parting a break from each other.

  Her parents let out sighs, in unison, and asked how she was doing but neither seemed devastated. Her mother mentioned the break-up once the next day, her memory impressing Emma. Her father never referred to their separation again. “What’s done is done,” he said.

  Sharon left for her annual cruise in the Caribbean on January 4th, and it snowed every day in her absence. Emma found a contractor to plow her home and office at a reasonable cost, and he began January 5th. She still had to shovel the walkways. When Sharon returned, she was aghast at Emma’s weight loss, took over the morning office shoveling and began bringing fully-cooked meals in for Emma’s lunch. Without asking permission, she rescheduled seven noon appointments so Emma could eat. She said if Emma looked at her funny about it, she’d quit.

  From mid-December to mid-January, she counseled Mel and Matt once and the twins twice. She concluded what she always did. Matt and Mel were fine; the twins, not so much. Thoughts of them committing suicide overflowed in her head like a dam break. No matter where she was, she couldn’t stop the thoughts from coming. Yet she had no spare time to allot them, patch the cracks, so she could do nothing but pray they got through it. They did. She knew this because she held her breath and checked the obituaries every morning.

  At their January appointments, Emma found both twins struggling to survive. Mary maybe more so than Minnie. As soon as they left her office, she promised to read the transcripts within twenty-four hours.

  Her window of opportunity was now—these forty-five minutes. She took the top off her pen, opened a small notebook, and pulled up the transcripts on her monitor. Her computer purred like a kitten. The new firewall held steady.

  Patient: Mary McKinney

  Psychiatrist: Dr. Emma Kerr

  Date: January 13, 2015 1 p.m.

  ****

  Dr. Kerr: What’s bothering you?

  Mary: Coping skills. I don’t have any.

  Dr. Kerr: Why do you say that?

  Mary: When things go wrong, I get this feeling like I’m outside my body. Sort of looking at myself. I say, wow, that woman is nuts. She can’t control herself.

  Dr. Kerr: What happened to make you feel that way?

  Mary: Everything. Nothing. I’m not sure. I look around and see people moving through life like things are fine, but I’m feeling everything is out of whack. Matt says I can’t perform the simplest functions, and he’s right.

  Dr. Kerr: What functions can’t you perform?

  Mary: Well, take today for example, not getting the coffeepot to brew sent me over the edge. I tried everything to get the damn thing started. Plugged and unplugged it. Drained and c
leaned it. Shook the cord. Checked the outlet. Nothing. I wasted an hour trying to find the warranty and instructions. By the time I found them, I could barely read them I was so annoyed. They said hit the reset button. I couldn’t find it. I paged through the booklet. The illustrations didn’t show where the button was. I googled it—where’s the fucking reset button?—I had the right make, model, instructions, and all the directions said was reset the coffee maker. By then two hours had passed, and I just wanted my coffee, you know? So I flipped out. I threw the whole damn thing across the room. Glass shattered everywhere. I’ll be picking slivers out of my feet for months.

  Dr. Kerr: I must ask again. Are you contemplating hurting yourself?

  Mary: No. I just wanted my fucking coffee.

  Dr. Kerr: Have you been considering suicide at all? Ever?

  Mary: Aren’t you listening? No, never, Doctor Kerr. I don’t think about it. Am not planning it. I’m not giving my stuff away or drinking myself into a stupor. I just don’t have any fucking coping skills. I may be crazy, but I’m not in jeopardy of killing myself.

  Dr. Kerr: I’m glad to hear you say that; however, I’ve never seen you this upset before.

  Mary: Well, I’m sorry. My life is coming unraveled, and I constantly have to argue with myself to keep from losing it. Like I’m in a cat fight with myself.

  Dr. Kerr: A cat fight?

  Mary: Yes, with “I can’t take any more” me and “Catholic” me.

  Dr. Kerr: Catholic you?

  Mary: Yes, you know—if you (Pause.)—if you don’t give up all your troubles to the Lord, you go to hell.

  ****

  During the conversation, Emma waited breathlessly for her to make the mistake. Say “I can’t take any more” me was “suicide” me. Imminent danger was all Emma needed to intervene. But both women were cunning. They understood admitting those thoughts meant commitment.