Here After

chapter four

Thursday, June 7

IN MED SCHOOL DURING A rotation in addiction medicine Peter had attended a series of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Members had gathered around long tables, introduced themselves one at a time, then said a few words about how their recovery was going. People drew on each other’s experience, strength and hope, and honesty was a mainstay of the program. Listening to their stories, Peter had judged the process astonishing. Here were people whose addictions had dragged them to the very brink, robbing them of everything they held dear while riding roughshod over their often tragic efforts to free themselves of their compulsions. And yet, with the help of the group, they gave up drinking with apparent ease, many of them living out the balance of their lives without ever touching—or desiring—another drop of alcohol.

From what Peter could tell, the bereavement group functioned along similar principles. The meetings were moderated by a big, balding man who seemed familiar to Peter. He introduced himself as Roger Mullen—and again Peter felt that twitch of familiarity, the details lingering just out of reach—then went through what Peter assumed was a standard preamble: stating the group’s aims, outlining the benefits members could expect from honest and patient participation, finishing up with a reminder to turn off all beepers and cell phones. Then, in the fashion of the AA meetings Peter had attended, Mullen told everyone why he believed he was qualified to chair the meeting.

“Though the circumstances of my participation in this group may be fundamentally different from yours,” he said in a voice that was deep and hollow, “I’ve attended dozens of these gatherings in the three years since my son’s disappearance—” and in that moment Peter made the connection “—and I believe I can function as a guide to the healing benefits I mentioned earlier.”

 It came to Peter in a rush. Roger Mullen’s six year old boy had been abducted from his home. The details were sketchy, but Peter recalled that David and Mullen’s boy had attended the same daycare for a few months when David was about five. Dana had usually driven David back and forth, but Peter had done it a few times before they switched to a different center. That was where he’d seen Roger Mullen. The man had looked twenty years younger then, but Peter remembered those striking blue eyes. Thinking of it now, he seemed to recall Dana telling him that David and the Mullen boy—Jason, that was his name—had been close. Yeah, Dave had been upset when they switched him to the new place. Poor kid, really got attached to people.

 “I have no proof that my son is dead,” Mullen was saying, “but common sense, and my heart, tell me that he is. Though I’ve never given up hope, to continue believing he’ll turn up one day has become unbearable. So I grieve for him.”

 The room was silent, all eyes on Mullen, standing at the head of a single long table surrounded by the eight other participants that included Peter in this small, cement-floored church basement with the stations of the cross on the wall.

 Now Mullen sat, the scrape of his metal chair breaking the spell. He looked at Peter and said, “For the benefit of our new member, Peter Croft, why don’t we introduce ourselves and fill him in briefly on why we’re all here.” He shifted his gaze to the woman seated to his right, giving her a somber smile.

 Peter could feel the pain in this room in his chest, a low G-force pressing in on him, making it difficult to breathe.

 The woman looked across the table at him. “My name is Emily McGowan,” she told him. “Welcome to the group, Peter.” Peter thanked her and she said, “My son Sheldon was visiting a friend’s house last August. I told him to be home in an hour. There was another boy there, an older boy, and he found a handgun in a closet. For fun he aimed it at Sheldon and pulled the trigger. The gun was loaded. Sheldon was eight.” Her eyes welled with tears and the woman next to her clutched her hand. Then that woman looked at Peter and told her story.