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been forced to ask for
help, Jeremy’s stuttering replies had always led me to tell him not
to worry about it. I would handle it. Only now I couldn’t handle
it.
    But I could say none of this to Wyatt. Though
my control of my internal thoughts and emotions seemed to be
withering away in the face of my condition, my external reactions
were intact.
    For the moment.
    The night before I jumped again, I had dinner
with Morty. I had come into work agitated because of an argument
I’d had with my mother the night before. That morning, Jeremy had
called me, furious, wanting to know why I had upset her. The truth
is I can’t even remember what the argument was about. It was silly,
as they all are, but I was on edge. Instead of the passage of
normal time easing me into a state of comfort, I was becoming more
and more panicked. Earlier on, I had the reassurance of having just
leaped, meaning that I wouldn’t leap again right away simply
because I had never done so. But now it had been weeks and I knew
that my time was soon to come. That morning, I was the picture of
the caffeinated man. There was enough adrenaline in my body to
power a city.
    So Morty offered to take me out to
dinner.
    “Have a meal with someone who doesn’t bother
to judge you,” he said, and it sounded like a good idea.
    And it was. Dinner with Morty was relaxing
and fun. I was able to unwind and laugh a bit. But when I got home,
there was a message from Jeremy and another from Wyatt. Even Wyatt
sounded impatient. I called neither of them back, choosing instead
to toss and turn for hours before exhaustion was finally the victor
over agitation and I slept.
    The next day began like any other day. I got
up, showered, had some coffee, and went off to work. Morty could
see by the look on my face that our dinner together hadn’t had a
lasting effect. He described my expression as the penultimate step
to resolution. It was as if I were a terminally ill person who was
just about ready to accept my fate. In truth, acceptance was the
furthest thing from my mind. What I needed was the ability to sort
this thing out. At about a quarter to four, the light on my phone
went on. This was odd because I rarely received phone calls.
    “This is Mathew Cristian,” I said into the
receiver.
    “Uncle Mathew? It’s Livvie.”
    I was too stunned to respond. I just sat
there, the phone to my ear, Morty staring at me from across the
aisle.
    “Uncle Mathew?”
    “I’m here, sorry.”
    “I didn’t mean to call you at work, but your
cell phone’s off.”
    It wasn’t off; the battery was dead. In the
wake of my stress, I had forgotten to charge it. I told her it was
good to hear from her.
    “Mom and Dad have been arguing a lot.”
    Again, I didn’t know how to respond so I just
didn’t. Arguments between Martie and Jeremy were rare. Even when
Martie was up in arms about something, Jeremy usually gave her some
space and yessed her until she felt better.
    “Sometimes they argue about Grandma,” Livvie
continue. “But mostly it’s about you. Uncle Wyatt’s been here a few
times also, but he doesn’t have much to say. Can I ask you a
question?”
    I nodded, then realized how foolish that was
and said, “Yes.”
    “Is it true? What you say has been happening
to you, is it happening?”
    “It’s true,” I said.
    “Because Dad says you’re just trying to
escape from your life, like your life’s not good enough or
something. Mom thinks you’re having a nervous breakdown.”
    “What does Wyatt think?” I asked, not
positive that I wanted to know the answer.
    “I’m not really sure. Like I said, he doesn’t
say much. I think he agrees with Dad, but he feels sorry for you
while Dad’s just angry.”
    That was consistent with their behavior.
“What do you think?”
    “I think I believe you. I talked about it
with Jack.”
    Jack, my oldest nephew, lived in and out of
the house with his family depending on his job or school situation.
He was rapidly approaching twenty