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Friday, I make a trip to the institution, but not to see Violet. I go to retrieve Albert.
    I had spoken with the doctor at the Hendrix Institute. Laid the groundwork. Albert’s behaviors were under control through medication. Thus he was presumably no longer a danger to himself or to anyone else. I plead my case, spoke of the void in my family, Rachel’s deteriorating psychiatric condition that now precluded her leaving the house, our need for this. I ended by saying a home visit could afford Albert some sense of connection. I said it could give him a degree of normalization and the doctor’s eyes brightened. He consented.
    I had Albert in the car with me. He slept his drug-induced sleep in the backseat. I had his medications in my front pocket and strict instructions from the charge nurse on the administration schedule. “You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen if he missed his pills,” the nurse had said. Indeed not. Whatever happened, it was going to be dramatic, of that much I was certain. Of late, I had found myself setting up experiences and confrontations to wring the dramatic value from them. I had developed an affinity for it. What with the changes in my life—I’m told drama is about change—I had decided to make each scene count. My fights with Rachel—I suppose that I orchestrated some of them to make her reactions even more histrionic than they normally would have been. Where a single word or gesture might end a fight, I would choose the opposite word or gesture to extend it. To extend the drama. I even relished Monty’s concern for my well-being. Where a brief hug or a solemn vow might have put his worries to rest, I chose instead to extend the conflict, heighten the tension.
    Rather than walking blindly through my life, I found myself wanting to arrange it in scenes. To make each scene as dramatic as possible. I was becoming a playwright, writing an autobiographical play. And not only was I writing it, I was the star.
    With Albert asleep in the backseat, I pull onto our private drive. As I accelerate toward the house, I pass Monty’s car. He does not wave or acknowledge me. His sunglasses catch the late-afternoon sun, reflecting the light back at me so that his eyes look like black holes in reverse—pouring out white light rather than sucking it in.
    At home, I find Rachel in the kitchen fixing a drink. I kiss her lightly on the cheek, playing my role as I have written it for myself, and myself alone. I see no need for exposition and cut to the chase.
    “I’m going away this weekend. Business.”
    She puts down her drink, turns to stare at me. “What?”
    “I have to bail out one of our clients.”
    “You’re not going anywhere.”
    “I’m afraid I have to. What was Monty doing here?”
    “You should know. It was your idea. Here.” She handed me the unsigned custody papers. “He wants you to keep these. He says he won’t sign.”
    “Well, we’ll just have to find someone who wants to be Albert’s godfather.”
    “No, he loves the idea of being Albert’s godfather; it’s your state of mind he’s worried about.”
    “My state of mind?”
    “He agrees with me that you’ve been acting strangely.”
    “Look who’s talking.”
    “Yes, well, abnormal is normal for me, not you. Monty thinks you may be having suicidal thoughts. So do I.”
    “Only one of us has a history of suicide attempts.”
    “Yes, dear, that would be me, and, yes, I have the scars to prove it. However, during some of my more lucid moments, I’ve noticed a change in you.”
    It is true, I am changing, of course, but I also find it touching that she has chosen to remain lucid for this amateur intervention to save me. I prefer her drugged, with her demons at bay. Nonetheless, I am moved.
    “Monty agrees with me. Agrees with crazy old me. He thinks your all of a sudden wanting him to be Albert’s godfather is a way of tidying things up before . . . Sometimes people considering suicide put all of their affairs