The Secret Lives of the Harvested

Dedication

To my wonderful husband Rog, thanks for your support.

To my little sister Liana, you are awesome.

One

Iwalked in and saw her smoking and I gave her a hard time about it. I know I’m a jerk. I think that when Suzanne’s famous novel finally comes out, it’ll bring that to light. In the meantime, I just have to act normal. The thing is, it’s not all on me. Living with somebody with depression is tough. I’m not just whining to hear myself talk either. I’d like you to walk a mile in my shoes, as they say. To wake up every morning to this sad-sack lying next to you and then judge me.

I knew she was damaged goods when we met, but it’s amazing what a person will overlook when there is blinding beauty to be had. She was shy and that somehow made her more appealing. I don’t know what it is about shy girls with glasses, but add big blue eyes, long blond hair and perfect teeth and I think most guys would do just about anything.

Just about anything is what I did do. She tried to kill herself a few months into our relationship. I should have run. My mother called while I was at the hospital waiting for her. Mom is a class act. She actually told me to break up with Suzanne while she was still in the hospital. Before she could start leaning on me too much.

So, maybe that’s where my tendencies to be a jerk come from, but it is what it is. I was kidding about my mom. I love her. She’s really the only person in this whole world who has my back.

Maybe I sound defensive, but it’s because I’m not the bad guy here and I want people to know it, because things are getting weird and if things go bad, I want it known that I had nothing to do with any of it.

Two

Suzanne Miles was trying to be a good mother and failing. She knew it would be emblazoned on her tombstone one day, failed mother . Yet, she was trying. It was the only thing that counted, now that all the others were gone. It was woven into the fabric of who she was. When her family died, it was a bang, crash, all gone kind of thing. No slow debilitating diseases, or medical jargon dished out by wan, serious, overworked and underpaid hospital residents. It was a deafening sound followed by years of silence.

Suzanne hadn’t thought about them in a long time, except for the occasional warm memory. Her older brother building a campfire in the fire pit, her mother arranging the ingredients for smores on an Anchor Hocking glass plate, her little sister, all pig-tails and high pitched giggles as Ronnie tackled her on the lawn. Laughing with mouths stuffed with gooey marshmallow and chocolate. Ingrid giggling so hard she spat out a warm glob onto Mom’s jacket. Mom’s pretended disgust as she wiped it away.

She had had it good. Past tense. That’s two ‘hads’. Hers was the family everyone aspired to. The girls at school all angled for invitations to slumber parties and the boys curried Ronnie’s favor and begged to come over to the Richards’ house, the best house in the neighborhood. The house where on every Halloween, a new tableau of horrible and delightful scariness awaited the children. They gave out full sized candy bars; this was the measure of their good family worth.

As the middle child, Suzanne had been loved, but not over indulged. She had some responsibly in the care of her little sister, which helped to shape her newly developing character. All was well for the Richardses and if their neighborhood qualified as a kingdom, Donald and Karen Richards were the king and queen.

After the accident, it was the quiet that was most disconcerting. After the flood of casseroles and mournful nods and comforting pats on the back, after the funeral that was so well attended the funeral home had to rent out the adjacent church parking lot, all became quiet.

Now her dad wasn’t her dad anymore. He was a hollow, empty thing that made her nervous. She waited for the bus in the early morning like other, normal children. The peasants, the subjects of the kingly realm that had lost their queen, their young prince and their princess. She became like two people, a schism that followed her long into her adult life.

That afternoon, coming home from school, as the bus roared around another hair pin turn, Suzanne crinkled her forehead and braced herself. They were passing the spot where her family had ended. A truck had taken the corner too fast, bounding over into the wrong lane of the small back road toppling sideways, shearing the roof of the car clean off, killing everyone instantly.

She didn’t know the grisly details then. Knowledge came later through articles. Black and white photos, grainy images that didn’t show anything other than the wrecked Toyota, sans top. There were no blood spatters or flecks of gray matter sticking to the seats. At least, not any in the photos that were released to the press. Suzanne’s imagination had filled in the rest and she had stopped looking at the stories two decades ago.

The day she split in two, the bus had lurched past the spot. The only marker, a black smudgy streak where her mother had tried to hit the breaks in a futile attempt to save her family. Only a mile from home. Suzanne felt a hot dry lump in her throat as the neighbor’s field came into view, still ablaze with sunflowers. She felt sickened and in her nine year old mind, she would forever associate sunflowers with the loss of everything good.

Her house stood surrounded by lawn. Brick, sturdy, kingly. Her dad was mowing the grass and she willed the bus to stop while he was a distant being, too far away to see clearly. She willed it to slam on the breaks and turn around and go the other way, any other way. The bus slowed as it approached the house and her dad looked up. Suzanne’s face pressed to the oily glass of the window. She saw in him an expression of absolute desolation and emptiness. The saddest man on earth is how she remembered it. As she exited the bus, the driver gave her one of those sympathetic nods that had become so common and she nodded back, knowing it was expected.

Her dad walked over to her as if he were carrying five hundred pounds on his back, the invisible weight literally making him stoop a little, and hugged her as the bus roared to life and lurched down the road to some other happier house. A thing Suzanne would not have thought possible two weeks before. There had been no happier house. Of that she was sure.

The day her family ended, she was at home. She was feeling left out. The ride to school had always been a family party. Happy jockeying for shotgun and homework papers flying and Rudy the basset hound riding in the back seat slobbering on Suzanne’s new jumper. The start of every day was a happy one. Mom smiling and singing silly songs and getting them all to chime in.

Suzanne had a vague understanding that she had escaped death by a hair’s breadth. She was supposed to be in the car that day, but had the sniffles and her dad had stayed home to take care of her.

If she had been old enough to put it into words, she would have said that she stopped living that day, frozen forever in that space between when she’d kissed her mother as she hurried out the door and the forever after. She remembered her dad telling her mom to drive carefully and that he loved her. Quite remarkable that he’d said that. So many don’t get the chance and Suzanne sometimes wondered if she’d added that little detail to comfort herself.

She wallowed for exactly two weeks, until that afternoon as she stood there in the yard, her father smelling of sweat and grass, the bus leaving behind its diesel stench. She looked up at the king without his crown. She knew she would have to be two people. The one that smiled when it seemed appropriate. The one that laughed at others’ jokes and excelled in her classes and learned to cook so her dad wouldn’t be forced to eat TV dinners. And then there was the other one. The real one. The one who’d never let anything in again. The one who covered her open wounds as if they weren’t there. The one who would never really love anyone or anything again in any kind of real way. To this standard she held true.

IT WAS TWENTY-FIVE years to the day and Suzanne was sitting in her kitchen, smoking a cigarette, leaning out of the open window to make sure the smoke didn’t drift in. Once a year on the anniversary of their deaths, she allowed herself a moment of remorse, regret. She never shared this with her husband, who knew the story but was also fully aware that she didn’t want to talk about the past, ever.

On the day that was turning into a lovely evening, she did a curious thing. She walked outside to the edge of the porch and stared up at the stars. Something she did almost every night, and in itself was nothing special, but on this night she made a remark...it was picked up by the wind and tossed about in the ether. She said, I wish I had been with you guys. She sighed deeply and ground her cigarette into the wood decking of the porch. A defiant move against her husband, who had a say in just about everything in Suzanne’s world. Except her thoughts...he couldn’t monitor those.

She thought about her wonderful childhood and wished she could have given that to her son, Nick Jr., or Cootie, as she called him. A joke, a bad nickname brought about by her loathing of the idea of having children. Nick had insisted on a family and she’d relented as there was an empty space to fill and nothing else to fill it.

She walked back inside and gazed at her kitchen. Clean, organized, expensive. She didn’t like to cook. Suzanne felt guilty that she didn’t enjoy motherhood. Nick Jr. was a beautiful little boy so full of life but... Well, for one thing, she said out loud to no one, "There is way more shit and vomit then I’d ever bargained for." She chuckled and her voice seemed to be sucked up by the pristine house. It gave her the creeps.

She thought about her sterile, cold, unwelcoming home. Nick had wanted a lot of glass and stainless steel and, though the brick façade looked homey, the inside was more like a sky bar. She said her piece, as far as her family was concerned and she was done for another year. She didn’t cry or wring her hands. She simply switched back to the other person, the one who didn’t grieve or bemoan the past.

She walked to the fridge and pushed the ice button on and off, watching as the little blue light came on, perky and excited to get back to work and then gotcha! She turned it off again and it beeped, defeated. She opened the stainless steel fridge and pulled out a box of take-out from Bonefish Grill and waited for her husband to come home. He was late again...always late, it seemed these days. She would have been angry but she realized that sooner or later, being empty catches up with you. She couldn’t fake it forever and eventually, he’d probably realized that there was nothing there. She couldn’t blame him really...but she still did.

Three

Joe didn’t think he had an anger issue. He knew, if need be, he could skirt around this whole thing by having a very frank discussion with his boss about some very unorthodox practices in the company bookkeeping. His little discoveries of cash being moved around in ways that the IRS might want to know about might do the trick. I’m not above blackmail, he muttered as he pulled into the psychiatrists’ parking lot.

The day was heavy and the clouds hung with a palpable weight that made Joe look up and grimace. It hadn’t been sunny in a week. His front lawn needed mowing and his prize garden was suffering. The tomato plants were yellowing at the bottom. It was embarrassing.

The waiting room had outdated beige carpet that reminded him of a bad seventies apartment complete with matching sofas and a glass coffee table. Joe thought it would be enjoyable to watch as the building burned to the ground. He sighed and noticed a bit of peeling wallpaper. It was the color of pus, of yellowed smoke, as if it had once been a place where people gathered and talked and puffed their acrid clouds of cancerous fog at each other. He couldn’t smell anything now, but the color was disgusting. Surely no one would actually choose such a color, he thought.

He was happy to be alone in the waiting room. The doctor was semi-retired and saw patients three days a week. The overstuffed sofa, also beige, was worn and tired. There was an antique book shelf in the corner with titles such as Understanding Schizophrenia and Bi-polar Disorder in Children. His eyes restlessly canvassed the room, desperate for something pleasant to look at but he always returned to the strip of peeling wallpaper.

It angered him because he’d just seen the doctor’s midnight blue Mercedes parked outside. It wasn’t fair to make him wait in a crappy room like this. Everyone always made him wait. His own wife only gave him her sloppy seconds. It was humiliating.

Mr. Barker?

Joe was far away and didn’t hear until his name was repeated.

Mr. Barker?

Joe shook himself like a wet dog and quickly tried to get out of the overstuffed sofa that had tried to swallow him like a gaping mouth. Yes, Doctor, sorry, spaced out for a minute.

He managed to wedge his shoe around the leg of the faux gold metal glass-topped coffee table and pull himself up. He reached out his hand and the doctor took it limply. Joe hated a limp handshake and worried that it was a marker of things to come.

The office was dark, the shades drawn giving it the hushed feel of a funeral parlor. He had his choice of sofa or leather chair and he chose the latter because it was a swivel chair. He sat and immediately spun round like a child.

Mr. Barker, how do you feel today?

Joe laughed inwardly at this comment. He’d never been to a shrink but it was word for word exactly what he’d expected the man to say. Dr. Livingston, I presume?

Dr. Bauer. Joe watched as he sat down in his efficient-looking chair and picked up a notebook and pen. He scanned the office and noted that Bauer’s desk was covered with a haphazard patchwork of files. There was also a fireplace and on the mantle there stood such an odd collection of items that Joe was quite transfixed for a moment. A picture of a woman and child, the child smiling, holding a small schnauzer, an incense burner with ash strewn just south of where it should have landed, a Buddha statue, a bronze bell, a plastic spider.

Mr. Barker, do you understand why you’ve been asked to come in here today?

Are you a Buddhist or something?

The doctor smiled tightly. He had one of those faces where the skin seemed too thin and his smile threatened to split the papery stuff on his forehead. Joe felt queasy for a moment, wondering if Bauer was going to launch into a diagnosis already.

I am. Does that concern you?

Joe laughed. No, Doctor, not at all. Let’s just cut to the chase. My boss said I was getting an attitude at work. I’ve been keeping his books for almost fifteen years, so it’s really not fair. So, I’ve had a bad couple of weeks. Marriage issues. I’m sure you’ve heard of that before, Dr. Bauer.

He knew he sounded clipped and choppy, the way angry people always do when they’re trying to rein it in. He longed to have a window to look out of. How did Bauer stand it? Being in that dark room all day listening to people and their pathetic problems?

My report says months rather than weeks, and sites particular instances with several different people in your office. Now, your boss likes you. He thinks you just need to talk to someone.

Joe did a complete turnaround in the swivel chair. So, like I said, I’ve been having marriage problems.

He spun round three more times, convinced that Bauer would ask him to stop. He almost wanted him to so he could tell him to fuck off.

Would you like to talk about that? Your life at home...

Joe hated the phony concern. God, this doctor is every bad cliché I’ve ever imagined. What I want is to do exactly what I have to do to get this off my record at work. I want things to go back to normal.

The doctor smiled that tight smile again and Joe had an unpleasant imagine of bone jutting through skin and he shivered.

That depends on you, I’m sure you understand that.

Joe started tapping his foot against the side of the chair. He had a lot of habits like that and he knew that not a single person liked them. He was perfectly aware he was annoying and he secretly hoped that the doctor was hating every moment of their time together.

Talk about home. Just give me the basics.

He cracked his knuckles, something his wife despised about him, one of many things... He saved up the knuckle popping until he was sure he could crack every single one and would entertain her at the breakfast table. He loved to watch her grimace. In fact, he enjoyed her pain. It was the only outlet he had for her betrayal. He had quietly been thinking of ways to cause her more but it was hard with three boys in the house. Her world was seemingly all about them... getting them to school, soccer practice, football practice and whatever else she did when he wasn’t around. He knew who she saved the bulk of her energy for, though, and it wasn’t him.

Doctor, I don’t really know how this is going to help. How long do I have to come here until I’m clear at work? Joe bit back his anger. He knew that the doctor was going to tell him that it all depended on him and he braced himself.

Maybe a month, maybe a year. Let’s wait and see, shall we?

Joe was surprised by this change in tone. He supposed it to be one of his shrink tricks. Things are rocky at home. I don’t want to talk about it, but I do want my boss to get off my ass. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.

The doctor looked thoughtfully at him for a long time. Long enough to make him uncomfortable. Tell me one thing about your home life that makes you angry.

Joe didn’t really need to think because everything made him angry. We own three townhouses in our neighborhood. We live in one and rent the other two. There’s one in between and I’ve always wanted to buy it. It’s like Monopoly, I guess. It messes it all up having that one in the middle what we don’t own.

So, you have a problem with the owner?

Joe shrugged. Naw, he’s a nice guy. Retired. Lives in Florida. It’s just that he’ll rent to just about anyone. I guess that’s what I’m angry about.

Define anyone.

Joe shuffled, looking down at his brown loafers. Bad shoes definitely don’t make the man, he thought. Then he got angry with himself. Who gives a damn what this quack thinks? The guy who rents it. I hate him. He’s quiet and polite, but I hate him, so there’s that.

Dr. Bauer nodded and scribbled something on his yellow pad. Is there a reason you have a problem with him?

Joe could hear his teeth grinding together but couldn’t seem to stop himself. He could imagine his dentist clucking at him, warning him about tooth erosion, but he couldn’t help it. His anger was like steam, always finding little places to come out to keep him from blowing under the pressure. He’s very charming...to my wife. He charms her and fascinates her. I resent that.

The doctor scribbled something else and Joe realized that he felt better