Skipping Stones

         Eight months after it happened, Mitchell Greene lay in a hospital bed, in the critical care wing of Valley View City Hospital. Staring at the smooth, white ceiling, he realized he had no recollection of when or how he arrived here. His eyesight blurred, but as he tried to wipe his eyes he discovered he was strapped to the bed. He strained to look at the black leather, wide belt straps—he could barely see them—when a voice he didn’t recognize said, “it’s for your protection. I’m sorry; I don’t think you’ll be rid of those for a while.”
         Mitchell remembered why he was here. He looked again toward the straps. There, peeking out from under them as he twisted his arm, were a series of cuts. They looked like small red lines, starting at his wrist, and traveling halfway up his arm in half-inch increments, looking like rungs of a small ladder.
         “Feel like talking about it?” the Doctor’s face appeared above him, smiling a Cheshire cat smile—all teeth. Mitchell turned away. “All right then,” Dr. Teeth said. “Maybe tomorrow.” Mitchell heard footsteps, and when he turned back, Dr. Teeth vanished.
         Later that night, as the shift change brought in the graveyard workers, Mitchell heard two nurses talking just outside his door.
         “His ex-wife called it in,” one nurse said.
         “Of all people, I wouldn’t expect him to have attempted it,” the other said.
         “I know, so much to live for. Such a shame.”
         “I saw his picture in the paper.”
         “I know, I know.”
         “Why would he--”
         “After winning the Lotto, you mean.”
         “I heard his share came to forty-nine million after taxes.”
         “I guess it just goes to prove--”
         “What?”
         “There’s more to life than money.”

* * *

         Two years before it happened, Mitchell and his wife, Helen, threw a dinner party for their friends. During the party, his wife’s manner combined smiles, laughs, and pleasant talk, but he could tell every time he glanced over and caught the quiet anger lurking behind her eyes that they would be talking again tonight about where their life was headed. After the last guest left—Helen’s boss, a portly man twice her age who looked around one last time at their apartment and gave a soft sigh as he walked out the door—the anger that lurked burst free one last time.
         “We should be entertaining our friends in our sparsely, yet tastefully, furnished house, not a damn two bedroom apartment. We’re not even living downtown, for God’s sake.” She tossed a dessert dish in the sink.
         “We’ve been married three years now,” Mitchell said. “You know my priorities by now, and that’s not one of them.”
         “Not this again, you need to sing a new tune, Mitch.”
         “I just can’t believe this is the most important thing to you.”
         “Not just to me. Your Father wanted you at a higher station than this. What he must think of you now, hmm? How proud he must be.”
         “How do you know--”
         “You talk in your sleep, Mitch, and I know the type.”
         “Shut up, Helen!” Mitchell’s voice jumped. “You don’t know anything about my father. You have no say as to what he thought of me. He--”
         "Oh, yes I do. I know him better than you think, and he’d look at you now with disappointment and pity--"
         Mitchell spun Helen around and threw his arm back to strike her.
         “Go ahead,” she said, her cheeks wet with tears, “complete Daddy’s expectations!”
         Slowly, as if his arm fought against the gravity of his own guilt, Mitchell lowered his arm. He turned and headed for the apartment door.
         “I’ll be back sometime,” he said. “Don’t wait up.”
         “Fine!” was all Helen could muster between sobs.
         They were divorced six months later.

* * *

         Six months after it happened, Mitchell’s phone still rang off the hook. What few friends he had called him immediately. One called to congratulate him. The other four—one a buddy from Mitchell’s Jr. High Days—called to see how he was doing, and asked him for a loan after an average of ten seconds on the phone.
         Relatives Mitchell didn’t know he had, and people claiming to be Mitchell’s relatives called to see what he would give for family. The most creative call, Mitchell thought, came from a sixty-four year old woman from Tulsa, Oklahoma. She claimed to have had an affair with his Father and, although she’s never called or spoke to Mitchell before, she still considered him family.
         He received calls—two-three a day—from charities: The Humane Society, the ASPCA, St. Jude’s, the World Wildlife Foundation, Amnesty International, even the local Police and Fireman’s fundraisers. None of them, not a one, mentioned his sudden catapult in income status, but Mitchell could tell—something in their voices, behind the all-too-polite tone—they all knew.
         The only organization Mitchell hadn’t heard from was the IRS, but they already took their piece of it. It didn’t even make a dent.

* * *

         Thirty years before it happened, almost to the day, Mitchell was a six-year-old boy, spending the afternoon fishing with his father. Back in those days, the Bay Area wasn’t as residentially developed. Chances were good that you could see the sun rise and set over spacious, grassy fields that were green or golden depending on what time of the year it was. Some of those fields still exist today, but your chances are slim to see them if you live anywhere in fifty mile radius of San Francisco—especially if you live in the East Bay Suburbs, where such things are mostly confined to a one square block patch of grass with a green cyclone fence surrounding it. Back then, you could fish right off the shores of the Delta. Now, not only would you have to find a pier up off from the water, but some would question why you would even want to fish in those brown, murky waters.
         Mitchell’s father stood tall and lanky, his face already bright red from the morning sun. His fingers worked to remove a spinner from his line. Mitchell watched him, for a second sunlight bounced off the steel bait, and flashed into his eyes, blinding him in an erratic pulse.
         “Sun’s hot today,” his father muttered.
         “Yes sir,” Mitchell answered.
         “I think we’re past our best chance at a big catch, Mitchell.” His father reached down, grabbed a flat stone, and skipped it out into the water in frustration. One, two, three, four times and roughly fifty feet before it sank for good.
         “Wow!” Mitchell said. “Let me try.” Before his father could stop him, he picked up a rock, and tried to mimic his father’s throw. The rock smacked the water three feet from shore and sank quickly. Mitchell slowly turned to his father. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help himself, and sure enough, there was the look on his face he had seen all too often.
         “God, Mitchell. Why in the hell did you do that?”
         “I’m sorry, Dad,” Mitchell thought he could see his father’s face begin to glow it was so red. “I just wanted to skip a stone, like you did.”
         “Yeah,” his father replied, a hint of condescension in his voice. “A stone, not a rock. Look at the water, Mitchell. You skip a stone the right way, it’s like you’re painting on the surface.”
         Mitchell could still see the ripples from his father’s throw; they were expanding, mixing with each other. Yes, he understood what his father was saying. He nodded and sniffed back a tear. Having his father disappointed in him was bad enough; crying in front of him would be disaster.
         “You blunder about by throwing a huge rock in the water, and nothing happens. You get nowhere. Is that what you want to do in life, Mitchell? Blunder about? You only get one shot at it, you know. Are you going to waste it?”
         Mitchell shook his head. His father took him by the arms and shook him. Violently.
         “Well, are you?” he asked again. This time he was yelling.
         “No sir,” he sniveled.
         His father let him go. “Oh great, now you’re going to cry.” He took apart his rod and reel in record time. “Come on, let’s go home,” his father said in disgust.
         They spent the trip home—a twenty-minute car ride—in silence. That night his father didn’t tuck him into bed. The next morning, his father was gone for good.

* * *

         Six years before it happened, Mitchell visited his mother for Thanksgiving. Just the two of them, as it had always been since his father left. Mitchell never had any brothers and sisters, and his mother had long since cut off any other relatives, or friends who might have cared.
         “Hi, Mom,” Mitchell said as he opened the front door. He stopped three feet inside the door and watched his mother, who lay on the couch with one leg dangling toward the ground, slowly swing her gaze in his direction.
         “Mitch?” she said.
         The setting sun filtered through the smudged front window, halfway illuminating the room in a dingy yellow light. She’s tired, he thought, after cooking the turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes. That’s why she’s on the couch, that’s why her voice sounds groggy.
         He spotted the half-full bottle of whiskey on the carpet, next to the couch, a half-second before his mother kicked it over, swinging her legs and using the momentum to try and sit straight on the couch.
         “Um, why are you here, honey?” she slurred.
         Then he remembered that he brought one of those pre-cooked turkey and stuffing meals from Raley’s in anticipation of these events.
         “It’s Thanksgiving, Mom. For God’s sake, can’t you take just one day off?” He went to the kitchen and started unpacking the meal. He just heaped the last spoonful of mashed potatoes on a plate when she appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding on to the frame, swaying from side to side.
         “Why won’t you tell me what he said?” her voice quivered.
         Mitchell dropped the silverware he was holding. “We’re not doing this again, Mom,” he said.
         “But you two were together that afternoon,” her voice broke as she began to cry. “He refused to put you to bed. He was upset at you. It had to be you, don’t you see? What did he say to you?” She raised her voice. “What did you do that repulsed him so much he had to leave--”
         “Not again!” he screamed, and ran out of the house.

* * *

         Seven months, three weeks, and six days after it happened, Mitchell threw a party and invited all of the people who contacted him since his face appeared in most California city papers. He rented out the Equinox—a revolving restaurant on the top floor of the San Francisco Hyatt—and paid for a famous local band and house comedian from The Punchline to entertain his guests.
         He wanted all of his new friends to have fun, and for the most part, they did. Many clustered in groups, sipping their Don Perignon and laughing as they told their humorous, ice-breaking anecdotes. But Mitchell couldn’t escape the low tide of uneasiness that was an uncomfortable reminder of the phone calls he received a few months previous.
         “Excuse me, but are you Mitchell Greene?” a woman, her long, black hair up in a bun, shook his hand. She wore black slacks, a white blouse, and a dark green sports coat. “My name is Marcy Bleu. Isn’t that funny, we both have last names that remind one of colors--”
         “How much, Marcy?”
         “Actually, I just came over to thank you for inviting me to this party but now that you bring it up, I’d be remiss if I didn’t make you aware to the dangers of cigarette smoking--”
         “American Heart Association,” Mitchell said. “How much?”
         “Well, any amount we’d be grateful for, of course, but if you could see your way clear to donate, say, five thousand dollars--”
         “Sleep with me,” Mitchell said.
         Marcy’s smile shattered. “I’m sorry?” she stuttered.
         “No Marcy, you heard me correctly. Don’t hide your shock by pretending it’s not out there. Now, are you going to take one for the team? I need a yes or no, now.”
         Mitch waited for a second, then turned and started walking toward the restaurant door.
         “You…you can’t leave now,” Marcy smiled. “This is your party. You can’t leave,” her disjointed laugh revealing she was anything but happy. “I get it, so many people hitting you up for money, that’s a good one, Mr. Greene.”
         “I’m not joking, Marcy. One night with me; five thousand—no—ten thousand dollars for your cause. Yes or no.”
         Mitchell waited long enough to take in the low buzz of drunken conversation in the restaurant, glasses lightly touching together in toasts, and genuine laughter erupting in patches around the room. People were having an honest-to-God great time, and suddenly, the uneasiness Mitchell felt up to that point washed out of him.
         “Look,” he said, “You don’t--”
         “Yes,” she said.
         “But you don’t have to--”
         “I said yes,” Marcy set her glass of champagne on the nearest table, the clear, bubbly liquid splashed over the sides of the glass. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
         Mitchell felt trapped, inside his own body watching events unfold but unable to intervene. He felt his legs move, walking toward the Restaurant door, then the elevators, down to the fifteenth floor, down the hall, through the door to his room that he’d been staying in for the past month. All the time not looking back to see if Marcy followed. He knew she did. Finally, as he approached the bed, he turned and sat, looking up at her. She had the weirdest expression on her face—anger, pity, or a mixture of both, Mitch couldn’t tell for sure—and she stared straight at him.
         Marcy raised her hands and Mitchell, standing again, slipped her sweater up over her head. He glanced at the mirror behind her, watched the creases in her back shift as her hands moved to the clasp in her bra, watched as her skin suddenly tightened as she dropped her bra.
         “Stop,” he said.
         “What?”
         “Get out,” he said, and handed her bra back.
         Marcy didn’t move, and for Mitchell, that was the final indignity.
         “I’ll give you your donation tomorrow,” he said, ushering her to the door, “but you’ve got to leave. Now.”
         Marcy only had time to say, “Thank You,” before Mitchell pushed her out the door and closed it behind her. He leaned against the door for a moment, and then went back to the mirror. He glanced at himself, knelt down to the minibar, withdrew a small vodka bottle, and finished it in one pass. He stared at himself in the mirror.
         What am I looking for? He asked himself. What the hell am I doing? I have all this money and I need to manipulate people like this? Like I’m some sort of…sort of…” he had trouble finding the analogy, so he pounded another mini bottle of vodka and it came to him. “Like I’m this rock that was thrown in a lake, disturbing everything in the--”
         He stopped right there. Mitchell’s face drained of color and he fell to his knees.
         That night, at five past Midnight, Mitchell Greene attempted suicide.

* * *

         One year after it happened, Mitch sat in Dr. Teeth’s office.
         “I feel like talking about it now,” he said.
         Dr. Teeth turned out to be a therapist. One the hospital called upon to visit special head cases—those who could be a danger to themselves as well as others. Mitch leaned back slowly on Dr. Tract’s—yes, Dr. Teeth had a real name—rust colored leather couch.
         “That’s wonderful, Mitch,” Tract smiled—man, oh man, those teeth! “I’d like to start with a question that’s been on my mind since we’ve started these sessions. You seem to mark the events in your life from the time you won the State Lottery--”
         “I…what?” Mitch didn’t follow.
         “Well, you know, ‘Twelve months after it happened…’, ‘Six years before it happened…’ and so on. Every time I ask you a question, you frame it within a time reference. I’m wondering if your attempted suicide is connected with some sort of guilt you feel for winning that money.”
         Mitch laughed, expelling fear from his body as he relaxed. He laughed for the first time in…well, for as long as he can remember.
         “These sessions where I’ve given you snippets of my life,” he said. “It is true I have marked the time as you describe, Doc, but what in the hell makes you think that event is winning the Lotto?”
         Up until that point, Dr. Tract wrote on his legal pad, as he always did during their sessions together, jotting down notes. He put the pad down and stared at him. “I…I suppose I just assumed--”
         “Never assume, Doc. You know the old saying. No, this event—the event relevant to this conversation—happened the morning after my winning the Lotto made the six o’clock news.”
         “Well, what was that event, Mitch?”
         Mitch took a deep breath in, held it for five seconds, then slowly blew it out through his tightly stretched lips. Then he spoke:
         “Two minutes before it happened I stepped out of my shower, getting ready to take my trip up to Sacramento. You know, stand there with the oversized check, get my picture taken, and say something witty to the reporters and their cameras, that sort of thing. I remember feeling pretty good. There was a knock at my front door. I told whoever it was to wait a second and I threw on some clothes. When I opened the door, I saw my father standing on my front doormat. Oh, his face was full of wrinkles, his hair gone, except for a thin semi-circle of grey on the sides, and his body a little bent from age, but it was him. I knew it, and instantly, I felt six years old again, and hated myself for it. Why are you here? I asked him. Of course he heard about the money. What are your plans? He asked me, as if he still had the right. I told him I hadn’t quite decided what to do with it, and asked him why he asked. He wanted a loan. A loan, for God’s sake. I was wondering if you were going to give some to your old man, he said, trying to be friendly. I told him that would’ve been tough, considering he didn’t leave a forwarding address when he dropped his family like deadweight. He got this…disappointed look on his face. You still don’t understand why I did that? He asked. I had to do it, he said. I told him that Mom blamed me for him leaving. Practically ruined my life with it. He stood there, dressed as if he just came back from fucking safari, and actually told me to focus on more important matters. Mom’s dead, I yelled. She died two years ago, believing your leaving was my fault and we can’t tell her otherwise. That’s pretty damn important to me you Bastard, I screamed at him. He tried to calm me down, saying he was sorry, but then went back to how he needed that loan. I…need that loan, he said. He mumbled something about trying. Trying to have something better. I didn’t understand what he meant, then. He had his wife, he had a son, a decent job from what I can remember—he never came home and complained about it, anyway. I told him he made no sense. He started screaming, then. Telling me that I was still blundering about, still wasting my life. You’ll probably find a way to piss all of this money away, he said. I asked him what he’d do with it, and he told me about some grand adventure in India he had all lined up. Didn’t invite me to come along, of course. I told him to get lost and slammed the door in his face. He kept pounding on the door, screaming about what a waste I was. He finally left when I threatened to call the cops.”
         Mitch shrugged to indicate he was finished with his tale.
         “I still can’t quite make the connection between that event and your attempt on your own life, Mitch,” Dr. Tract said.
         “Of course not,” Mitch replied. “You weren’t in my hotel room eight months later.”
         “The night you--”
         “Yes.”
         “What happened?” Dr. Tract leaned forward, pen at the ready.
         Mitch began rubbing the arm of the couch, taking time to appreciate the smooth, soft feel of leather. He smiled at the thought that this is supposed to make patients feel comfortable. It felt to him like he shouldn’t be sitting in it.
         “I blackmailed a woman to sleep with me,” he started. “I didn’t go through with it of course, but after I showed her to the door I took a good look at myself in the mirror and for a moment, the wrong moment, I decided my father was right—I was blundering about. I was wasting my life.” Mitch paused, rubbed his mouth, wet his lips, and continued. “So I thought I might as well do it right.” Mitch looked at Dr. Tract. “Why do parents fuck you over like that? It’s like they plant little bombs with delayed fuses in your psyche, and years later,” he threw up his hands, “bam. Irreparable damage.”
         Dr. Tract pressed his glasses tight against his face. “I don’t think parents mean to do that, Mitch. They try the best they can, and sometimes they fail. That just makes them human.” After a brief pause he added, “And you? Is the damage ‘irreparable’, as you say?”
         Mitch smiled. “You’re asking if I’m going to try again.”
         Dr. Tract looked at him in silence.
         Mitch shook his head. “I realized something in the hospital, almost before I realized you had been there.”
         “What’s that?”
         Mitch gave a small shrug. “It was just his damn opinion, you know? Only an opinion. He left us because he was so damn afraid he was on his way to wasting his life. Who’s to say his life is or isn’t a waste now? Who’s to say anyone’s is?” Mitch laughed. “Anyway, I have too much money to make my life anything but a waste.”
         “I’m sure you’ve heard the saying there’s more to life than money,” Dr. Tract said.
         “Yeah,” Mitch stood. “It’s going to be fun to test that theory,” he pointed to the clock on Dr. Tract’s desk at the other end of the room. “Time’s up,” he said.
         Dr. Tract stood and shook Mitch’s hand. “This was a good session,” he said.
         Mitch nodded and walked to the door. As he opened it, he turned back to Dr. Tract.
         “Same time next week, Doc?” he asked.
         “Sure.”
         Mitch nodded, smiled—more to himself than to Dr. Tract—and left the room.