Sinkhole: A Legacy of Suicide

PART ONE

1.

Tuesday turns to Wednesday. December 17, 2008. The moon is almost in the last quarter. The sky is clear but pitch black. The temperature dips near zero, and already a foot of snow covers the ground in Minnesota. Coming home from work past midnight, my father swerves into the driveway somewhat carelessly, leaving his car pointed at an angle, a glove caught in the door. He enters the house through the garage door and descends into the basement, while my mother sleeps in the bedroom upstairs. He empties the contents of his pockets (keys, coins, cell phone) and removes everything from his money clip except his identification, which he leaves in his right rear pocket. He stands at the laundry utility sink and removes his dentures. He sits at his desk and writes a farewell note. He slips the note under the lid of the laptop computer on his desk and stacks several three-ring binders next to it.

He changes clothes. He pulls on a pair of long underwear and two sweaters, then an old winter coat, slightly torn at the sleeve. Before going out the door, he retrieves a small black sack that contains plastic bags, two box cutters, a pair of scissors, duct tape, cotton balls, and white nylon rope.

He walks outside, leaving the house through the garage, past the car in the driveway and into the street. He walks a block on Roy Street and turns left at Highland Parkway. He walks a half mile down a long sloping hill, near two water towers and a sprawling golf course buried in snow. He turns right and walks another mile, along the east side of the golf course and into a park. Just before he reaches Montreal Avenue, he enters a small parking lot adjacent to a playground and a bridge that extends over the road. Here the snow is deep, and it slows him as he walks to the bridge’s railing. From his sack, he takes one of the box cutters, the rope, and a plastic bag. Left inside is a note specifying his name and address. As he cuts the rope into two pieces, he accidentally nicks the thumb of his right hand. He makes two nooses. He ties the ropes to the railing and wraps the knots in duct tape. Then he climbs over the railing and stands on the concrete ledge, no more than a foot wide, overlooking a steep ravine. Below, to the left, a winding set of stairs is obscured by trees and snow. He pulls the plastic bag over his head and secures the nooses around his neck, tightening them just below his right ear. All of this takes only a matter of minutes.

My father chooses to die on the north end of the bridge. There, the canopy is so dense that, from the street, the structure appears to grow from the hill. In the dim light spreading from the railings, the crown of its arch bestows darkness.

When my father is found, nine inches of his right hand and wrist have frozen, though his trunk is still warm. The official time of death, 8:48 a.m., marks the moment when the police are dispatched to the scene, but the medical examiner estimates the actual time of death to be sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. My father hangs for nearly six hours through the night.

On the day my father died, a bitter cold wave swept across the northern regions of the country—snow and sleet fell from the Twin Cities, where we lived, to states on the Eastern Seaboard. It was midwinter, near the solstice, a time marked by the shortening of days.

I woke that morning feeling drowsy and hopeless, largely a side effect of the Vicodin I’d been given to relieve pain from injuries I’d sustained in a car accident. One week earlier, my car had been rear-ended by a taxi in a bottleneck stretch of the I-94 freeway; the driver hadn’t noticed that traffic ahead was slowing. I’d seen him careening toward me in the rearview mirror and knew I was going to be hit. Though I was lucky not to suffer any fractures or injuries to my spine, I had strained the upper vertebra known as the axis and damaged ligaments in my neck, chest, and upper and lower back. No bruises or cuts, just invisible and severe soft-tissue damage. It was difficult to sit; to stand; to concentrate, reason, or think. Without hydrocodone, I could feel the torn edges of muscle and tendon, the path of nerve needlelike in my arms.

As I cautiously rose, I realized that December 17 felt like a significant date, but I wasn’t sure why. The only explanation was that, for the first time since the accident, I was planning to leave the house for something other than a medical appointment. I worked for a publishing sales group as an office manager, and my job involved not only clerical and administrative tasks but also physical labor—the office was a storehouse for the company’s sales materials, including catalogs and books. After the accident, I had no choice but to take leave. Lifting boxes had become impossible, and sitting, at least for long periods of time, problematic. I was slated to return for a few hours that day. By the time the phone rang, however, I had already returned to bed with an ice pack, resigning myself to the fact that this wouldn’t be happening. Listless, I could feel my body warming slightly from the morning’s dose of medication, my heart slowing.

My mother’s voice was strained. My father was missing from the house. I remember feeling an acute awareness of the burden that sometimes comes to an only child; she had no one else to call. I heard panic in her voice—a dire uncertainty—as though perhaps she already understood the meaning of his absence before the facts could be pieced together.

A few minutes later, she called again, hysterical; she’d discovered his suicide note underneath the lid of his laptop computer. I have chosen to go on the north end of the footbridge over Montreal Avenue … near the steps I used to exercise on with the Beagles, it said, delivered in an oddly casual syntax, as if he’d just gone out of the house on a quick errand.

My partner, Rachel, had already left for work. I called her office. She hadn’t arrived yet, even though the walk was only a few blocks. Rather than waiting for her to receive my message, I rushed out of the house to find her. I took the rental car I’d been given following the accident, driving erratically under the influence of painkillers, and going only one block before I recognized the silhouette of Rachel’s backpack and her familiar stride. I have no memory of what I said to her as I climbed out of the driver’s seat and she buckled herself in, nor do I have a memory of my 911 call, except that when I asked the dispatcher to summon police to the park, he told me they were already on the scene. I knew then that it was too late.

The police arrived at my mother’s house moments after we did. No knock or bell—they simply walked in. One officer escorted my mother to the dining room table. The other stood with me just a few feet away in the kitchen, asking a battery of questions: What’s your relationship to the deceased? Any other relatives need to be notified? Are there other people you’d like us to call? I stood with my father’s suicide note in my hand, not reading, exactly, but rather occupying myself as I answered these questions, flipping the paper one way and then another, as if to make physical sense of it. Only in this moment, on the day he died, was I allowed to see and touch the note. The police would take it with them when they left, as evidence.

Morning news flared on a countertop television, mixing with the muted sounds of the officer’s two-way radio. The moment unfurled in slow motion, the odd visual constraints of the kitchen shifting into a disjointed and chaotic landscape of sound—television, radio, the furnace fan bursting through a heater grate, the whisper-scrape of the police officer’s jacket, and then his voice again. You’ll need to make arrangements with the coroner’s office. Here’s my card if you have any questions.

The first officer went outside, and I left the kitchen and sat down on the dining room floor. The room spun. My mother sat at the table still dressed in a nightgown, leaning forward out of her chair. I heard the second officer, a woman, say, I’ve seen a lot of these kinds of things—hundreds of scenes—some awful stuff.

I felt bodiless and strange, as if I had lost contact with the ground. I watched yellow light unravel on the carpet and against the second officer’s black shoe.

—He looked peaceful out there, she continued, very clean. Peaceful.

The house went quiet with an endless pause.

—Maybe that will help put your mind at ease.

I turned my face to the window. Across the yard, a neighbor’s Christmas lights blinked in a row of junipers.

The day unraveled from there. A police chaplain came and went. A friend of my mother’s arrived. Rachel made a trip to the store and brought back food to the house. I couldn’t eat. By early afternoon, arrangements needed to be made. I telephoned the coroner, the funeral home. I answered questions I cannot recall. As the sun began to set and the day dimmed, I returned to the floor, lying on a pack of ice. Then, as we left my mother’s house in the darkness, I asked Rachel to drive toward the park. We turned left on Montreal Avenue, down the hill that led to the bridge. The rise of the structure loomed on the horizon; the crown, haunch, and ribs flat in streetlight. At the sight of it, I wept.

In the weeks that followed, I returned to my feeling that the date was a significant one. December 17, I found, was both the Christian feast day of Daniel the prophet as well as Saturnalia, the ancient Roman festival honoring the deity Saturn. The biblical flood began on the seventeenth day, and in Greek superstition, it’s considered the best day of the month to harvest timber for a boat. A haiku was often written using seventeen onji, or sound-symbols. Seventeen is an ominous number for Italians, considered the numerical equivalent of the Latin expression meaning I lived, and, by extension, I am dead.

Over the next few months, I realized that I didn’t know my father very well; I had not spoken to him about things that mattered. There was a silence in him, and I had known, even as a very young child, that this was far more complex than a simple refusal of the past. It was, instead, a response to unthinkable grief, a coping strategy that forged a collective bond between my parents and placed large parts of the family history under taboo. We were all children of suicides. My father was eight when his father, Edward Patterson, took his own life, and my mother was thirty-two when her father, William McCluskey, did the same. If we rarely talked about important things, it was next to never that I heard them discuss their childhoods or my grandfathers. I knew little about those men or about the ways they had died.

Even before my father’s death, I felt keenly the psychological burden of such an inheritance. My family seemed drawn to both suffering and shame, drawn to the idea that the world was one made of suffering and shame. My own vulnerability to depression had led me to therapy years ago, where I had begun to understand the elusive nature of trauma between generations and the messy collusion with history. After my father was gone and I felt his violent absence, I knew I needed to break open my family’s silence. Who were these men? What led to these deaths in my family? What did my family’s history of suicide imply? And what did it mean for my own future?

I can see now that, above all else, I was driven by a need to untangle myself from the strong ties suicide had attached to my life. I wanted to bring the past closer, to excavate a wound. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that if I did nothing else, at least I needed to uncover the stories long ago sealed in rock. Through the layers of sediment I began looking, grasping at dust.

2.

December 14, 2008, a Sunday, the last day I saw my father alive. He and my mother stopped by our house in the late afternoon, three days after my accident. As they arrived, I slowly made my way across the living room to the couch. I’d been confined to bed; I was weak, dizzy, and had difficulty walking. My vision blurred from medication. Yet I could still very clearly see my father as he came in through the entryway, and the huge flakes of snow in the window behind his head. He was wearing a baseball cap, a blue parka, and a pair of brown leather boots. No gloves, no scarf. A small man with a trim and muscular build, he looked much younger than his seventy-seven years, despite his white and thinning hair. An outsider might have mistaken him for a man who worked physical labor, partly because of the way he dressed and partly because of the way he walked with a subtle but recognizable swagger. But he was not that man. He was an office worker, a manager.

My father pulled his boots off by the heel and kicked them to the rug where other shoes were gathered. Rachel had opened the door to greet them and offered a closet hanger to my mother, who, after removing a pillbox hat constructed of synthetic fur, unzipped her coat. My mother gave Rachel a quick embrace, and from the couch I noticed that her thumb, chapped from the bitter cold, was cocooned in a bandage. It was on that bandage that my attention remained, until my mother caught sight of me on the couch and then seemingly burst into the room. I steadied myself and turned my body to face them, unable to rotate my neck under the constraint of a brace.

—Why didn’t you call us earlier? she asked.

—She’s needed rest, Rachel said, answering so I didn’t have to.

My mother and father stood in the center of the room stiffly, visibly uncomfortable.

—Why don’t you sit down? Rachel suggested.

Although Rachel and I had been together for four years, my parents still approached her with a certain degree of formality, even uneasiness. This was both their fault and my own. Since I had come out twenty years prior, my parents had meddled at all the wrong moments in my relationships. I was forty-five years old, but still trying to break free from the confines of being my parents’ child. And so I had preferred, at least up until this point, to guard the privacy of my partnership with Rachel—a partnership that felt elemental, like bedrock. As two writers, our relationship had been forged by creativity, and we stood guard, as the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once said, over the solitude of the other, a commitment not easily explained to my parents.

My mother ignored the invitation and remained standing in the middle of the room, rummaging through her handbag.

—You need to get a lawyer, she said.

My father sat down in a chair across the room as my mother removed a plastic bag from her purse. The bag was not only sealed but also wrapped in tape. Inside, she had packed a homeopathic analgesic for minor muscle and joint pain and a bottle of herbal pills meant to diffuse some side effects of Vicodin. Rachel offered tea and then left the room for the kitchen. A chain of questions from my mother subsumed the conversation: How did it happen? Did you call your insurance agent? What did your doctor say? How will you get back to work?

—I’ve been in a lot of pain, I replied.

—And what about the car? my mother continued. How will you find another car?

It was a few moments before I could speak.

—I don’t know. Maybe one will fall from the sky.

Weary of her questions, I said this with sarcasm, which I now regret. My father remained quiet—but he was clearly listening. This phrase, these precise words, would come back in his suicide note: Maybe Juliet will use the Volvo, he would write in just a few days. A car from the sky she was waiting for.

When my parents left the house that evening, we walked them to the door. My father held on to my mother’s arm as they moved out to the porch, down the sidewalk, and to the car. I watched them through the window, passing under the sweeping arm of a river birch in our front yard, two shadows in the blue light of winter.

After they left, Rachel and I drifted into another part of the house to watch a movie. When we returned to the living room before bed, it was frigidly cold. The front door hadn’t been locked and the wind had blown it open. Snow covered the threshold. A large ficus tree whose canopy had filled the corner of the entryway now sagged