Something in Joey is slipping away.
Gasp.
The cards. Is what’s happening to Joey what spooked that moth-eaten old fortune teller in India?
Bewildered, lonely, and terrified, I don’t know what Joe and Rick think or feel about anything. And I don’t even care.
After three long months of captivity and self-pity, it’s springtime when Joey is discharged from the eating disorder program and the two of us reunite with New Delhi. We silently embrace the roadside vignettes on the ride home from the airport—bicycles stacked with entire families; red-bottomed monkeys lolling in the heat; sugarcane- and chai-wallahs hawking their wares. Home. But not for long. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to remain in India after the end of the school year with Joey heading off to college in the fall.
Joey appears less sunken and shrunken, but he has no understanding of what happened or why. And neither do I.
“I ate what they wanted me to eat, did what they wanted me to do, and said what they wanted me to say—anything to get the hell out of there.” That’s what Joey told me on the plane. Whatever it takes, I guess.
All that matters is that my healthy Joey is back.
With the help of family and friends, Marines from the American embassy across the street, fellow Boy Scouts, and our Indian cook, driver, and sweeper, Joey designs and builds a wooden play fort for kids at a local orphanage—his Eagle Scout project. At his Court of Honor ceremony, surrounded by many of the same faces, Joey solemnly accepts his badge. Standing tall and proud, he is presented with an American flag flown over the very embassy in which we gather. Celebrating this moment that is, as much as having dodged this moment that almost wasn’t, I fight back tears. My son has made it; he has survived the wild ride of adolescence, stronger and better for it. Today the real Joey shines—both inside and out. He gives a brief speech.
“Mom, you are the most amazing person I know. Out of everyone, we are the most alike. Because of this you always know when I need help, or just a loving hug. There have been times when I’ve thought I didn’t need help, but it was you who showed me that I really did. The last months have been hard, but in every struggle you’ve been there for me, never giving up, even when I was ready to. For seventeen years you’ve been my best friend, and not once have you let me down. I know you’ll always be there for me, and I want you to know that no matter how far apart we are, I will always be there for you. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me; every hug, every word of encouragement. Thank you for being my mom.”
With multiple college admission offers and academic scholarships to choose from, Joey sets his sights on his high school graduation and life’s next great verse.
Life is good. I feel silly for having given the old mystic and her tarot cards a second thought.
In the smallest hours of this not-yet-dreadful morning, I’m snug in my bed in Bethesda, Maryland, tangled in a tumble of pillows, Joe’s arms, and dreamy dreams. Such a cozy cocoon. Until I roll over to answer the phone.
I hear the voice of an old family friend, but don’t want to hear what she’s saying.
“Joey’s in the hospital. He was drunk and then swallowed a bottle of pills. The emergency room doctor is pumping his stomach now. Sandy, he was trying to kill himself.”
My heartstrings stretch the miles to where my son lies in San Diego, California.
“Hold Joey’s hand. Even if he can’t hear you, please tell him I’m coming.”
Clutching my head in my hands, I cry without breath, without sound. Turning my face upward, I struggle to set free the anguish that’s jammed inside my chest, my throat, my being, but I’ve no strength to propel it forth.
A mother’s silent scream.
Maybe I should have seen this coming—after all, the launch of Joey off to college was sputtering, at best.
Maybe I should have.
But I didn’t.
Joe is awake now and sits up, his face twisted like the confusion of sheets and blankets around us. I want him to turn the lamp back off so I won’t have to see his face when I tell him his firstborn son just tried to take his own life.
As dawn takes its first groggy peek at today, I’m airborne, squashed between bulky shoulders and behinds on my way to Joey’s suicide-attempted side. To the gurney where he lies retching against long, rubbery tubes—the poison from his belly more easily sucked away than the poison in his spirit that will be left behind.
Why is life so hard for my child? So damn hard?
Yesterday Joey called to tell me about his first week of college, but he didn’t tell me about the desperation right underneath his cheerful veneer. Why didn’t he know I could handle—and could help him to handle—the truth? Why didn’t he know I would want to know he was hurting? And why didn’t I already know?
There have been signs Joey is struggling. I’ve seen them. I’ve felt them. But I didn’t know what to do with them. Between the reentry from India and the send-off to college, summer was wedged like a contented sigh—full and pleasant. Lured, lulled, and giddy, I wanted to believe Joey was one happy and productive adult-child, ready to launch.
I wanted to believe that the end of the eating disorder episode meant the end of all problems forever. But then he was arrested for driving 103 mph (with marijuana in his pocket) while driving from East Coast to West, on his way to San Diego University (SDU) in California. He took anger and manipulation to a new and hideous level when Joe and I put his car into storage. And he quit and un-quit college several times over the days we were there to help him move into the dorm. Yes, the college send-off-from-hell was full of signs. So maybe I shouldn’t be stunned that my child tried to commit suicide. But I am.
Later this morning, Joe will serve up the latest bad news to Rick along with his toast. It was only last week that Rick started his sophomore year at his new high school (in a new town, state, and country) and Joe started his new job. While yesterday seemed off to a good, solid start, today begins on shaky ground. We’ve moved so frequently that we’re adept at adapting, but that’s because we lean on each other, and now I won’t be there, for I don’t know how long, to help smooth kinks and soothe worries.
The plane curves in for a landing, tilting its wings over the sparkling San Diego Bay, a view Joey would see from his dorm at SDU this morning if he weren’t comatose in some emergency room.
Except, it turns out, he’s not.
It is Joey’s lanky form that unfolds from the backseat of the green SUV idling at the curb. Somehow, he’s here at the airport to meet me, sprouting a single row of vacuum-cleaner-like bristles from his otherwise hairless head. I’m oddly struck by the thought that Joey’s gray pallor, his stubble, and his bruised-looking eyes suit his new Mohawk quite nicely. As quickly as I grab him up into a tight squeeze, I push Joey away for inspection. A scrap of bloodied gauze is taped on his arm; there’s a bit of yellow crud stuck in the corner of his mouth; his eyes have no spark.
“Thank God you’re alive and standing here. But what the hell?”
I’m furious.
My son’s cry for help was bounced out of the hospital