Blessed Are the Wholly Broken (19 page)

The trial continued, but I was detached from it all. I felt slow and heavy, my brain struggling to make sense of the proceedings around me. Brian called old friends and coworkers to the stand to attest to my character, the state of my marriage, and my adjustment to fatherhood. Some part of me recognized the irony of their testimony; they spoke of me in relation to my family, my friends, my job, but I had none of those things. Who, then, was I?

“Object Relations Theory,” I heard Anna saying, and in my memory she was wearing a yellow sundress and chewing on a straw, one of those little stir-straws used for mixing sugar and cream with coffee. It was a Saturday morning, the summer after our graduation. We were sitting on the patio of a coffeehouse in downtown Memphis, full of ourselves and our observations.

We were confident back then; some may have said cocky. We had the world at our feet, and like all young college graduates we knew everything and loved nothing so much as discussing our profound insights with one another over coffee (on those mornings we felt particularly sophisticated), or booze (on those nights we were still young enough to think we needed to prove our membership into adulthood by the number of drinks we could handle).

“Uh-oh.” Brian set his cup down and leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. “Socrates is getting ready to pontificate.”

We, or rather Anna and Brian, had been discussing Brian’s love life, a frequent topic in those days and an area of some contention. The apartment the three of us shared was small, and the parade of women Brian rotated through was large. Whereas I, and undoubtedly Brian, were most inconvenienced due to the fact we shared a room, Anna was troubled by Brian’s apparent lack of real interest or affection for any of his obviously willing participants.

“But they’re
people
, Brian,” she had said that morning as she smeared grape jelly over a bagel in quick, jerky motions. This, I realized in the middle of my memory, was something I had always loved about Anna—her complete lack of pretension, her eschewing bean sprouts or tofu in favor of good old-fashioned grape jelly. But that morning she was agitated, I knew, not only by the situation, but by Brian’s mocking dismissal of her concerns. “You can’t just
use
them.”

“That statement,” Brian said, pointing at Anna while looking at me, “is an excellent example of sexism.” He turned back to Anna. “What makes you think I’m using them? What if, in fact, they’re using
me
? It’s possible, you know. I mean, just
look
at this.” He gestured toward himself, his mouth quirked in a smile, his legs tanned and muscular in khaki shorts. “It’s tiring, always fighting them off. Exhausting, I tell you.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “I’m not saying they don’t want to be there. Good God, that last one had her drawers halfway off before you even closed your door.”

Brian laughed. “That may be a slight exaggeration,” he said, “inappreciable, but still, let’s stick to the facts.” He ducked as Anna tossed the chewed straw in his direction.

“Object Relations Theory,” she had pronounced then, and I slumped down in my chair, stretching my legs in front of me to prop my feet on the brackets under the table. It was a beautiful morning, the café awning providing just enough shade, the breeze ruffling Anna’s yellow dress until she gathered the hem under her thighs and sat on it. I had that lazy, dissociated feeling that sometimes comes when one is completely at peace, utterly content in one’s surroundings. I settled in to enjoy the debate.

“I’m not pontificating,” Anna argued, “I’m trying to offer you some insight into your deviance.”

“Okay, I’ll bite, just for fun. What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a theory; I don’t remember who came up with it. Several people. British, I think. Anyway, the premise is that we define ourselves by our relationships to the objects around us. Or at least that’s what I got out of it; it was a really hard class, with a really boring teacher. But that part stuck with me. The theory is pretty interesting, if you think about it.”

“Explain.”

I closed my eyes, enjoying the sun and the sound of Anna’s voice as she continued. “Your ego, your
self
, only exists in relation to something else. Or someone else. Or, in your case, lots of someones.”

“You’re saying I don’t exist without women?”

“Sort of. Your definition of who you are comes from your interactions with women. If the women were removed, who would you be?”

“I’m not quite that simple, Anna. I also have friends, a job, a family. Okay, the family leaves something to be desired, but you know what I mean.”

“All of which are objects, according to the theory. Who are you without all that? You define yourself by your relationship with your mother, your relationships with women, your job performance. External stuff.”

“But the same could be said about any of us, right? According to your theory, we’re all just using each other to define who we are.”

“True,” Anna acknowledged, “but doesn’t that give us some responsibility to not harm them in the process?”

Brian whistled. “I’ve got to hand it to you; that’s deep stuff. Too deep for me this morning. But let me assure you, any moans or groans you hear coming from the bedroom aren’t because I’m harming anyone.”

“You’re incorrigible,” said Anna, with a sigh. “But you know I’m right.”

“No,” said Brian, “I don’t. But what I
do
know is that I have a whole weekend ahead of me. That’s forty-eight hours to find more women to help give me a sense of self, and I’m sitting here wasting them. Whose turn is it to pay? I’ve got theories to research.”

I sat up, reaching for my wallet as Anna leaned across the table to peer at Brian. “Who are you, lover boy, without all the women? Without all the
objects
?”

Her voice was light, teasing, but Brian stilled, his expression unexpectedly solemn, any hint of playfulness gone. “Who are any of us, Anna? If this so-called theory is right, wouldn’t that mean our lives are nothing more than a reaction to whatever—or whomever—we choose to keep around us? If that’s the case, we’d better be really careful with our choices, hadn’t we?”

Who, indeed? Sitting at the defense table with Brian and an assortment of the best attorneys my assets could buy, I realized as my former friends and coworkers swore under oath I’d been an excellent father, a loving husband, a competent coworker, I was no one. My
objects
, as Anna would have said, no longer existed, and so neither did I. Perhaps, as Brian had said decades before, I had chosen unwisely. Or perhaps, and more likely, the most subtle variation, the most infinitesimal disparity, can inadvertently destroy the entire system.

Martha Dunn, a psychologist from Memphis, testified for the better part of two days. Brian had consulted with several mental health experts, all of whom agreed that at the very least, Anna had suffered from a severe case of postpartum depression. Mrs. Dunn, a self-proclaimed expert in women’s issues, believed Anna’s suffering ran deeper than that, testifying in a strident manner, her voice loud and nasally, that according to her research Anna most likely suffered from postpartum psychosis, a diagnosis I’d never even heard of until the trial.

Mrs. Dunn told the jury that her review of Anna’s doctors’ notes, in conjunction with her interviews with both Cathy and Mrs. Tyler, led her to believe that Anna was not only severely depressed, but also delusional. “She vacillated between thinking the baby was evil,” she testified, “and believing she—Mrs. Lewinsky herself—was evil. Sometimes she expressed a need to save the baby, and other times she expressed a need to save herself. According to the notes provided by her OBGYN, Anna felt both her husband and her mother were plotting against her, and at her most dysfunctional, she was convinced their actions were in some way influenced—directed, even—by the baby.”

“What causes postpartum psychosis?” Brian asked. He paced in front of the witness box, hands clasped behind his back, ever the professional. In such moments he seemed a completely different person from the Brian who’d crashed at our house, feet propped on the coffee table, a beer in his hand.

“It’s extremely rare,” Mrs. Dunn was saying, “affecting only about one woman in a thousand, and while there is no definitive cause, fluctuating hormone levels are believed to be a contributing factor to postpartum depression. We know that women who have a history of mental illness, or who have a family history of mental illness, are then at greater risk of developing postpartum psychosis.”

Brian gazed at the floor, as if gathering his thoughts. “Mrs. Lewinsky had a history of major depression after the death of her newborn son in 2001. Could this have placed her at a higher risk for developing postpartum depression or even postpartum psychosis after the birth of her second son?”

As the prosecuting attorney voiced his objection to Brian’s question a soft cry rose in the courtroom, followed by rustling sounds and the quiet thump of the door. I knew without looking Mrs. Tyler had hurried from the room, unable to listen to more of Mrs. Dunn’s testimony. I also knew she must have been wrestling with the same guilt I was feeling. Anna had been unwell, and we hadn’t saved her.

Brian continued with a few more inquiries before the prosecuting attorney took his turn, clarifying through his questions and her responses that Mrs. Dunn had never met Anna and certainly couldn’t attest to Anna’s state of mind on the morning of her death.

“Were you there the morning of June 3, 2012, Mrs. Dunn?”

“No. I was not.”

“Had you spoken to Mrs. Lewinsky that morning?”

“No. Of course not.”

“So you can’t speak to her state of mind that morning; is that correct?”

“I can’t speak to her state of mind that particular morning, but from my interviews—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunn. No further questions.”

Shortly thereafter the judge imparted some directions to the jury and we adjourned for the day, Brian standing with me as the guards prepared to transport me back to my cell. “You’re up tomorrow, Phillip,” he said. “I’ll lead you through events just as we’ve discussed. Finally, it’s your chance to help the jury understand what really happened. Try to get some rest tonight, okay? You’ll need to be sharp tomorrow.”

But as it turned out, I got no rest at all.

Other than Brian and his team of attorneys, the only visitor I’d had during my months of incarceration had been my pastor, who showed up every week or two to pray with me. I never knew, during those fervent sessions, whether the prayers were for me or for him. He seemed to feel a great sense of responsibility for my soul, much more than I felt, and I imagined his impassioned pleas for God to save me as bullet points on a resume:
Pastor, 2002-2013, Built a new wing onto the church and saved ten souls.

No doubt I’m being unfair; I suppose I should have been grateful for the company. After all, no one else had bothered to come, the circumstances too awkward and uncomfortable to navigate. Nevertheless, when the guard announced I had a visitor, my first inclination was to decline. I wanted to be left alone. I had neither the energy nor the interest in conversing with anyone, and I no longer cared to be saved.

“Not the preacher,” the young guard said, leading me from my cell. “An old woman. I’ve seen her in court. Don’t know who she is; they just told me to get you.”

I hesitated when I saw her, suddenly afraid, not of what she might say or do, but of the emotions her presence brought to the surface. She didn’t look up as I took my seat. I don’t think she was aware I was there until I placed my hand on the glass. She lifted her head then, slowly, and even more slowly her hand, until she placed it on the glass opposite mine.

“Phillip.”

“Mrs. Tyler.”

She looked awful, pale and drawn, much older than she’d looked just a few short months ago, a husk of a woman. I had the eerie feeling she might crumble to dust in front of me.

“We’ve had a hard time, haven’t we, Phil?”

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat before nodding.

She nodded back, as if I’d confirmed what she’d feared to be true, then lowered her hand and sat forward, her face close to the cutout in the partition. “I’m not supposed to be here, you know. They told me not to come. But who are they to tell me anything, really?”

She didn’t seem to expect an answer, and I didn’t offer one; I just waited.

Another nod, as if agreeing with an internal voice I couldn’t hear, and then, “We tried, but not hard enough. No. Not hard enough.”

“I wish—” I started, but she cut me off.

“No. Wishes won’t get us anywhere.” She sat quietly, seemingly lost in thought, before startling, as if remembering something. “They’ll let me see Peter, so I do have that. He’s my grandson; they can’t take that away from me. That man, Mr. Williams. He said he wants me to stay as involved as I want to be.”

Something hot and heavy moved inside my chest. “I’m glad,” I said, the words not expressing even a fraction of what I felt.

“Tell me one thing, Phil,” she said, leaning so close to the partition it fogged with her breath.

“Anything,” I promised.

“Was there a chance, any chance at all, that maybe…,” she trailed off, looking down at her hands, twisting them in her lap.

“What?”

I saw her shoulders rise as she inhaled. She raised her head to look at me again, and I saw Anna in the haunted shadows of her eyes. “Could it have been an accident, Phil?  Isn’t it possible that she didn’t mean to…that she wasn’t really going to…,” she wiped away a tear. “I just can’t imagine my little girl ever willingly hurting her baby. Is it at all possible, even the slightest chance, that it was an accident?”

My mind skipped back to that awful morning: Peter’s clean pajamas in a cold puddle of water, Anna dangling Peter over the fencing, the pop of his arm, her peaceful expression as she went over the rail. I looked at Mrs. Tyler, the broken woman across from me, and my decision was made.

“Yes,” I told her. “Yes. It was an accident. Anna would never have hurt Peter.”

I saw the mental shift as it happened, the disbelief, the longing, the acceptance, and I knew I’d done the right thing. It was a gift that cost me nothing to give.