Dennyâs. He ordered coffee and didnât touch it. He was only forty-four but looked at least sixty. The restaurant was three short blocks from the Hilton heâd checked into a week earlier with the intention of ending his life. He told me in detail how heâd tied a rope around his neck and stood on a chair for over two hours while he tried to work up the courage to kick it away. In the end, he couldnât do it.
I did the only thing I could: I listed all the reasons I could think of for him to keep living. I reminded him of the people heâd be leaving behind. What would happen to Sharon, Samantha, and Gretchen? What would they do without him?
âThatâs the thing. Thatâs what makes it a hell. All I want to do is die, but I canât. People always say the worst thing would be to lose everything. They say that, donât they? If you lose everything, you have nothing left to live for. But theyâve got it all wrong. The worst thing is to lose
almost
everything, because then you have to keep going for whoeverâs left down there with you in the steaming bog of shit that life becomes. You have tokeep treading through the shit together just to keep everyoneâs head above the surface. Forget any chance of escape. Forget it. Weâll never get out, none of us. Weâre in it together until we die. One big happy family. And my daughter, my baby girl, is out there alone, and I canât do a goddamn thing to help her. What if sheâs alive? I know itâs impossible. I know that. And Iâm glad about that, for her sake, because at least sheâs not alone, wondering when someone will finally save her. The point is that I didnât help her. You want to know the first thing I think about every morning? Before I even open my eyes? I wonder whether she called out for me or Sharon. Was it cold? Was it dark? She must have been so scared. Did she die while calling out for us? Thatâs how I start my days. And I deserve that. Donât shake your head, because you know itâs true. This is my life and my hell, and this is where I have to stay, because if Sharon or Sam or Gretchen calls my name and Iâm not there ⦠I donât know. I canât think about it. It kills me every morning. I hear her screaming for me every morning.â
Forty-Eight Minutes of Doubt
, p. 77
Chapter Eleven
Summer 1996
Itâs so nice to have found a place of my own in the playhouse, even temporarily, that I try to forget the fact that it doesnât belong to me and I donât have permission to be here. Several nights have passed since the first time I spied on Remy from the playhouse, and each evening Iâve found myself returning after dark to this little room, with all its remnants of the long-lost comforts of my childhood.
Tonight Iâve brought along a cardboard box filled with Grandma Bittyâs old photos from the basement. Except for the silver locket, the box is all Iâve kept so far. The only light I have to see the pictures with comes from a strand of multicolored Christmas lights strung around the playhouse ceiling, but itâs enough. Go look sometime at pictures of yourself as a cute, happy little kid, when life waseasy and everyone wore ridiculous clothing. Itâs a blast. I hover over a bunch of photos spread out across the floor, sifting silently through stack after stack, my eyes straining to stay focused in the dim light.
For a second, I think I hear a light tapping on the door. I pause, holding my breath to listen. Nothing.
âSo thereâs this beautiful woman who goes to see her doctor one day for a checkup,â Remy says, sticking his face through the open window.
âWhat are you doing out here?â I scramble to hide the photos, shoving them back into the box and underneath the sleeping bag, but itâs too late.
âWhat am
I
doing out here? Thatâs funny, Sam. This is my yard. What are
you
doing out
I did the only thing I could: I listed all the reasons I could think of for him to keep living. I reminded him of the people heâd be leaving behind. What would happen to Sharon, Samantha, and Gretchen? What would they do without him?
âThatâs the thing. Thatâs what makes it a hell. All I want to do is die, but I canât. People always say the worst thing would be to lose everything. They say that, donât they? If you lose everything, you have nothing left to live for. But theyâve got it all wrong. The worst thing is to lose
almost
everything, because then you have to keep going for whoeverâs left down there with you in the steaming bog of shit that life becomes. You have tokeep treading through the shit together just to keep everyoneâs head above the surface. Forget any chance of escape. Forget it. Weâll never get out, none of us. Weâre in it together until we die. One big happy family. And my daughter, my baby girl, is out there alone, and I canât do a goddamn thing to help her. What if sheâs alive? I know itâs impossible. I know that. And Iâm glad about that, for her sake, because at least sheâs not alone, wondering when someone will finally save her. The point is that I didnât help her. You want to know the first thing I think about every morning? Before I even open my eyes? I wonder whether she called out for me or Sharon. Was it cold? Was it dark? She must have been so scared. Did she die while calling out for us? Thatâs how I start my days. And I deserve that. Donât shake your head, because you know itâs true. This is my life and my hell, and this is where I have to stay, because if Sharon or Sam or Gretchen calls my name and Iâm not there ⦠I donât know. I canât think about it. It kills me every morning. I hear her screaming for me every morning.â
Forty-Eight Minutes of Doubt
, p. 77
Chapter Eleven
Summer 1996
Itâs so nice to have found a place of my own in the playhouse, even temporarily, that I try to forget the fact that it doesnât belong to me and I donât have permission to be here. Several nights have passed since the first time I spied on Remy from the playhouse, and each evening Iâve found myself returning after dark to this little room, with all its remnants of the long-lost comforts of my childhood.
Tonight Iâve brought along a cardboard box filled with Grandma Bittyâs old photos from the basement. Except for the silver locket, the box is all Iâve kept so far. The only light I have to see the pictures with comes from a strand of multicolored Christmas lights strung around the playhouse ceiling, but itâs enough. Go look sometime at pictures of yourself as a cute, happy little kid, when life waseasy and everyone wore ridiculous clothing. Itâs a blast. I hover over a bunch of photos spread out across the floor, sifting silently through stack after stack, my eyes straining to stay focused in the dim light.
For a second, I think I hear a light tapping on the door. I pause, holding my breath to listen. Nothing.
âSo thereâs this beautiful woman who goes to see her doctor one day for a checkup,â Remy says, sticking his face through the open window.
âWhat are you doing out here?â I scramble to hide the photos, shoving them back into the box and underneath the sleeping bag, but itâs too late.
âWhat am
I
doing out here? Thatâs funny, Sam. This is my yard. What are
you
doing out
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