. . .â
There was so much I wanted to say . . . and so much I realized I couldnât say. Except:
âIâm so happy for you.â
We met Allison once. Poor Ben was so nervous, and Dan asked a lot of leading questions about how much seafrontage her parents had in Cape Elizabeth, and Allison was looking around our rather simple home and smiling to herself. Meanwhile I was trying to will everyone to relax and like each other, even if I knew this was downright impossible. I didnât like the way she was so deliberately tactile with Ben, stroking his thigh with her hand at one point in full view of both Dan and myself, whispering things in his ear (she may think herself a Goth, but she behaves like an adolescent), and playing on his evident neediness. All right, maybe I was being far too maternal/cautious â but what worried me most here was that Ben was so in love with being in love. How could I explain to him that sometimes we project onto others that which our heart so wants. As such, we arenât seeing the other person at all.
Dan told me after the dinner:
âSheâll drop him like a hot potato the moment sheâs decided heâs outlived his interest to her.â
âMaybe you should have a talk with him aboutââ
âAbout what? The kid never listens to me. And he finds me so damn conservative, so Republican . . .â
âJust talk with him, Dan. He really needs your support.â
To my husbandâs credit the next time Ben was home for a weekend from college they did spend much of the afternoon raking leaves in our garden and talking. Afterwards Ben said that his father seemed genuinely interested in knowing how he felt about Allison and just how serious it was. âAnd he didnât lecture me about anything.â
Then, just six weeks ago, I got a phone call early one morning from the college. Ben had been found by a campus security officer in the middle of the night beneath a tree near his dormitory, oblivious to the pouring rain that had been cascading down for hours. He was brought to the college nurse, diagnosed with a bad chill (thank God it was only the tail end of August) and sent back to his dorm room. After that Ben refused to get out of bed, refused to speak with anyone. When this carried on for two days his roommate did the smart thing and alerted the college authorities. A doctor was called to Benâs bedside. When he didnât respond to the doctorâs entreaties to speak or even make eye contact with him Ben was transferred to the psychiatric wing of the local hospital.
Thatâs when Dan and I both rushed up to Farmington. When we reached the infirmary and Ben saw us, he turned away, hiding his head under a pillow, refusing to engage whatsoever with us, despite the nurse on duty asking him to at least acknowledge his parentsâ presence in the room.
I was doing my best to keep my emotions in check, but Dan actually had to leave the ward he was so upset. I found him outside, smoking one of the three cigarettes he still smokes a day, his eyes welling up with tears, clearly so unsettled by the psychological state of his son. When I put my arms around him he briefly buried his head in my shoulder, then shrugged off my embrace, embarrassed by the outward sign of emotion. Rubbing his eyes, sucking in a deep lungful of smoke, he said:
âI want to kill that little rich bitch.â
I said nothing. Except:
âHeâll be OK, heâll get through this.â
The psychiatrist on duty â a large, formidable woman named Dr Claire Allen â told us later that day:
âI suppose you are aware of the fact that Benâs girlfriend took up with someone else just a few days ago. My advice to you is to give him a little space right now. Let him start talking with me over the next few days. Let me help him find his way to an easier place â and then Iâm certain heâll want to talk to you
There was so much I wanted to say . . . and so much I realized I couldnât say. Except:
âIâm so happy for you.â
We met Allison once. Poor Ben was so nervous, and Dan asked a lot of leading questions about how much seafrontage her parents had in Cape Elizabeth, and Allison was looking around our rather simple home and smiling to herself. Meanwhile I was trying to will everyone to relax and like each other, even if I knew this was downright impossible. I didnât like the way she was so deliberately tactile with Ben, stroking his thigh with her hand at one point in full view of both Dan and myself, whispering things in his ear (she may think herself a Goth, but she behaves like an adolescent), and playing on his evident neediness. All right, maybe I was being far too maternal/cautious â but what worried me most here was that Ben was so in love with being in love. How could I explain to him that sometimes we project onto others that which our heart so wants. As such, we arenât seeing the other person at all.
Dan told me after the dinner:
âSheâll drop him like a hot potato the moment sheâs decided heâs outlived his interest to her.â
âMaybe you should have a talk with him aboutââ
âAbout what? The kid never listens to me. And he finds me so damn conservative, so Republican . . .â
âJust talk with him, Dan. He really needs your support.â
To my husbandâs credit the next time Ben was home for a weekend from college they did spend much of the afternoon raking leaves in our garden and talking. Afterwards Ben said that his father seemed genuinely interested in knowing how he felt about Allison and just how serious it was. âAnd he didnât lecture me about anything.â
Then, just six weeks ago, I got a phone call early one morning from the college. Ben had been found by a campus security officer in the middle of the night beneath a tree near his dormitory, oblivious to the pouring rain that had been cascading down for hours. He was brought to the college nurse, diagnosed with a bad chill (thank God it was only the tail end of August) and sent back to his dorm room. After that Ben refused to get out of bed, refused to speak with anyone. When this carried on for two days his roommate did the smart thing and alerted the college authorities. A doctor was called to Benâs bedside. When he didnât respond to the doctorâs entreaties to speak or even make eye contact with him Ben was transferred to the psychiatric wing of the local hospital.
Thatâs when Dan and I both rushed up to Farmington. When we reached the infirmary and Ben saw us, he turned away, hiding his head under a pillow, refusing to engage whatsoever with us, despite the nurse on duty asking him to at least acknowledge his parentsâ presence in the room.
I was doing my best to keep my emotions in check, but Dan actually had to leave the ward he was so upset. I found him outside, smoking one of the three cigarettes he still smokes a day, his eyes welling up with tears, clearly so unsettled by the psychological state of his son. When I put my arms around him he briefly buried his head in my shoulder, then shrugged off my embrace, embarrassed by the outward sign of emotion. Rubbing his eyes, sucking in a deep lungful of smoke, he said:
âI want to kill that little rich bitch.â
I said nothing. Except:
âHeâll be OK, heâll get through this.â
The psychiatrist on duty â a large, formidable woman named Dr Claire Allen â told us later that day:
âI suppose you are aware of the fact that Benâs girlfriend took up with someone else just a few days ago. My advice to you is to give him a little space right now. Let him start talking with me over the next few days. Let me help him find his way to an easier place â and then Iâm certain heâll want to talk to you
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