The sunshine feels strong, healing on Henry’s cheeks—his once chapped lips are healthier, slightly moist. Henry leaves the ruinous mess of his past on the ward.
The couple head home, exiting the raw city with its noise, poverty, potholes, and tipsy undergrads stumbling into traffic, defiantly lip-synching Lou Reed tunes into their adoring mobiles. Sarah and Henry accelerate up the I-91 ramp, away from the Yalies and other urban terrors, both imagined and otherwise, and head to the middle of the state.
Henry lowers the passenger side window of their car after a while, and feels the blast of wind, as three wide women in leather jackets zoom past on their Harley Davidson’s, their helmet-less hair blowing wildly, and their black, bug-eyed, wrap-around sunglasses make them look potent, brash.
He’s hoping for an epiphany, or clarity, or something grace filled that he can’t seem to attain. Stay true, Henry tells himself. Don’t quit, deep breaths, keep the faith, never give up, and carry on as best you can.
He tries to figure out which club the bikers hale from, but his vision is unreliable. He studies the women’s cracked and worn brown jackets, the designs of something like a dragon, cobra, or even a tiger sewn onto their backs, but it’s futile. Images blur.
He removes his glasses and studies Sarah, who offers her hand and squeezes his. Henry weeps, thinking of what doctors of every stripe have told him, thirty-something years of counseling, explanations, and clinical tips on nervous breakdowns, anxiety, paranoia, schizoaffective disorder, and self harm, and how disappointing, insufficient, and silly it seems.
Henry ponders ECT, blood, hypnosis, scars, sutures, and tons of medications that have coursed through his body—all the latest treatments, plus the 145 pounds of fat he gained, lost, gained, lost, and gained all back again.
