Five of us sit at a round table in a back corner of The Shed, a Santa Fe restaurant with low roof timbers and art on every wall. To my right is my youngest son’s girlfriend, Felicia. Her chin-length brown hair is pulled back in a clip, her long dancer’s legs crossed under the table. Across from her is Weston, my middle son. At thirty, he looks much like his father did when we met, with the same long ponytail and those bright blue eyes. Tom, our youngest and tallest, is often mistaken for Max, who is seven years his senior. They have matching dark eyebrows and smiles that light up a whole room.
I have started calling this four-day August road trip the “foodcation.” We have laughed our way through heaping plates of enchiladas smothered in chili sauce and told story after story over chocolate cake and caramel flan.
“Tom,” I say, “Remember when we came here for Thanksgiving, and you couldn’t walk back to the hotel because you were so full?”
“How could I forget? You almost killed me making me move around after that buffet!” We recall the perils faced by youngest brothers who refuse to surrender during eating contests.
Brad says, “We have some bad memories here, too.”
“Hey,” I respond, “let’s not talk about those sad times.” Felicia hasn’t heard the Santa Fe chapter of Max’s mental health saga, and part of me is afraid that she will be horrified. Another part of me wants to avoid the belly-clenching fear this story invokes, a fright that has lived inside me like a restless tenant.
Tom asks, “What happened? I don’t really remember.” He was only eleven then. I sigh and look across the room at a landscape painting that conveys the sheltering feel of this high valley surrounded by mountains. Captured in a simple frame are the taupe and green, the unexpected flashes of gold, that animate this part of New Mexico.
“It’s okay,” Brad reassures me and rests his warm hand on my shoulder. “When Max was eighteen,” he explains, “we dropped him off at college here.”
“It was his dream school,” I add. “He was so happy when he got accepted. We shielded you from a lot of the details.” I look over at my youngest, who lives half a country away. “After we dropped Max off, he stayed in his dorm room for two days. Then, when a Resident Assistant checked in with him, he told him that he wasn’t safe. That night, the RA drove north, and we drove south. We met halfway, in the middle of the night, to get him home.”
Weston remarks, “Sounds like a pretty incredible RA.”
“He was.” And I see Max’s pale face as he stepped out of that stranger’s car at a rest stop near Trinidad. My son’s despairing silence on that three-hour drive lands once again on my chest. “I don’t know what we were thinking dropping him off at school when he was so depressed.” A wave of remorse washes over me at the depth of my denial then. I pretended that a little bit of Lithium and a fancy college would make Max well, that his depression would magically give way to the brilliant future we had all expected for him.
I put my dessert spoon down and feel around inside myself for the shame I carried at failing to keep Max safe. My mind holds a clear wish that I had been wiser in those years. Yet, glancing at the faces of my family, the regret is met by clear, bright gratitude. Max is in Denver today, going to work, building skateboard community, taking care of the dogs.
Brad has filled in more details of the Santa Fe saga. “A few weeks after we brought him home, we had to come back and get the rest of his stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot that part.” Our smiles to one another are rueful.
“Tom, remember you were carpooling with Carolyn that fall? She told me that when she asked you how Max was doing, all you said was that he was really sad.”
“I don’t remember telling her that, just coming home from school and he was still on that futon couch.”
Weston looks at his baby brother. “Yeah. He was on that couch for a long, long time.”
I nod. “I would go to work and worry about him, but coming home was even harder. I felt like I could help my counseling clients more than I could help my own kid.” I take a deep breath, switch gears. “And then he bounced back like a rubber ball, not sleeping, never happier, like his mood grew wings.”
We are all laughing now.
Dessert plates cleared, we wait for the check. Weston says, “This was cathartic. I’m glad we talked about it.”
“Me, too,” I respond. “I guess sometimes the past just gets to be the past.”
The More I Write 