The Snow Garden by Unknown Author Read Free Book Online Page B

into the starched khaki trousers and white oxford shirt.
         Pat. That was her name. He wasn’t sure, but he guessed she was the one who had called to break the news. Eric sat slumped, back resting against the metal slats of the chair, feeling—and looking, he guessed—as if he had been punched between the shoulder blades.
         He had lost track of time, and he wasn’t sure how much longer the detective was going to allow this silence to continue. Did police officers take courses in how to deal with a man who had just identified the body of his wife by way of a black-and-white video monitor? When Pat asked him if he was ready to give a positive identification, he had expected to be led down a long, tiled hallway toward a set of double doors leading into the mortuary. Instead, she ushered him gently into a side room where he was greeted by the sight of Lisa’s face on a television screen. Her black hair radiated from her head in matted clumps, and it was impossible to tell whether the blue pallor of her skin was the result of near-freezing water, the tint of the screen, or death. But there had been no denying that her sharp, birdlike features were just lax enough to suggest something beyond sleep.
         The detective had touched his shoulder, squeezed gently, and then left her hand there. When he brought his hand to his mouth, it wasn’t to fight a sob, but rather to conceal its absence. Maybe because it was the first time in years he had seen his wife without a glazed sheen of panic in her eyes, or a brow intensely furrowed as she realized that her latest medication had turned the task of chopping vegetables into an almost insurmountable project. The peace that came with her death made her seem more fully realized; it conjured up images of the first woman he had ever slept with, who had plied him with champagne on New Year’s Eve, in 1984, before taking him to bed in her room. As her parents slept down the hall, that young woman had said nothing when he told her it was his first time. Instead, without pausing to laugh or express incredulity, she had guided him gently through the motions. And from then on, she had regarded him as a challenge, as someone she had to draw out. Almost ten years later, all her efforts had failed. Accusations replaced conversation. Empty silences filled the spaces once occupied by the cold comfort of their intellectual companionship.
         “When did she start seeing this therapist?” The detective finally broke the silence.
         “Two years ago,” Eric answered, trying to lift his eyes to hers. “She had been depressed for a while. During the day she could barely get out of bed, and at night she couldn’t sleep.”
         “And the therapist prescribed something?”
         A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “I’m sorry,” he said.
         “It’s funny?”
         “It’s. . . within two weeks of her first visit, our medicine cabinet was filled with a bunch of drugs. And I could barely pronounce the names of any of them.” A bunch of drugs. His careless choice of words sent a shiver through him and when he met the detective’s gaze, he saw a sudden intensity to her poker face, which indicated that part of the puzzle had fallen into place for her.
         “What kind?”
         “The perfectly legal kind,” Eric answered.
         At the note of defensiveness in his voice the detective gave an abrupt nod. She crossed to the chair opposite his and took a seat. “Antidepressants?”
         “Yes. And others.”
         “What were the others for?”
         "To help her sleep. A lot of the . . . serotonin reuptake inhibitors . .. they kept her awake.”
         “How many did she take?”
         “I’m sorry?”
         “Any idea how many prescriptions your wife had? Total?”
         “I didn’t count.”
         “But enough to fill the medicine cabinet?” Eric didn’t respond.
         “Dr. Eberman, how often