Arms Wide and Welcoming

A December storm swirls, and twilight arrives early to northern Switzerland. I’m home alone, fueling our Kachelofen with split logs, when my son arrives from the train station. I close the stove’s glass door, clunk, on drifting ashes, leaping flames, and crackling wood. “This is a pleasant surprise,” I say.

Water trickles down Sebastian’s coat sleeves. It drips from the ends of his shoulder-length curls. He sheds the wet coat and slumps into my reading chair—still warm from my use.

His Vati’s away on business, and I’ve been keeping company with The Poetry of Robert Frost. The poet’s face glows on my side table, lit by a lamp. Sebastian’s face glows, too, in the dancing firelight. He peels off his sodden socks and tosses them, their wetness smacking the hearth tiles.

I fetch a towel and dry socks.

In his old bedroom, Sebastian’s collection of guitars, lined against a wall, needs dusting. They gently weep as I close the door.

Sebastian jiggles. He’s swollen from meds that quiet depression, anxiety, and hallucinations. But not voices. Taking the towel and socks from me, he says, “The thing is—” He presses his puffy fingers together. Nails bitten to the quick.

I half-sit on the sofa and half-smile. I’m attentive and interested, but those voices my son hears tell him I want to silence him. Or I’m mocking him. We’re both powerless against their cynicism, his absolute faith in them, and my absolute heartbreak.

The fire flickers. Something begins pelting the darkening windows—sleet. A gentle rhythm.

Sebastian sighs. Music and lyrics once sluiced through him. Hardly a trickle remains. Those voices, those meds, they choke all rush and flow. I’ve dreamed of clawing detritus away for my son to speak, my hands full of heavy wet rot.

Working with words—lyrics or journaling—could help my son drain away those voices. Clear a channel back to creativity. Back to himself.

Outside, sleet gentles into flakes of snow, and I recall Frost contemplating a crossroads in a yellow wood. Perhaps I can gentle my son onto a new path. “Have you ever tried writing poetry?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

The firing Kachelofen radiates heat. And I begin to recite “The Road Not Taken.”

Snow falls. Cold presses through the black panes. I approach the moment Frost muses his choices and picture my son keen and leaning forward, perhaps to gaze up a path bent in the undergrowth.

*

Nights of restlessness replacing deep sleep, living off takeout meals, and calling in sick to work intensify Sebastian’s sense of isolation. A lovely day might lure him outside to ride his e-scooter, photograph the river with his reflex camera, or take the train to visit us. But a lovely day can just as well plant him under his bedcovers, where loneliness fusts his thoughts like mildew.

Sebastian phones me daily—sometimes several times a day. He asks me what I’m doing. “Some translation work,” I say. Or “I’m writing.” I might be gardening, foraging wild garlic, or making jam. Maybe I’m scrolling the internet or listening to podcasts. I don’t live an extraordinary life. But for my constant worries about my son, I am content.

“My heart hurts,” he says.

Sebastian’s thirty, an adult. If I suggest he go outside, exercise, eat decent food, or make a doctor’s appointment, he answers, “I’m not a child.” Or he simply makes some guttural noise, silencing me. If I don’t offer a litany of suggestions, he may accuse of not caring.

Never mind. I thank him for phoning. I say, “I love you.”

And even if the call’s gone poorly, with him glaring at me from my phone, he’ll answer, “Love you, too.” There’s heartbreaking generosity in that. He’s a good man.

Saturday mornings, Sebastian FaceTimes me. He might say he’s taking the next train.

Our trains in Switzerland are punctual, but their punctuality matters only when you board one. I know when his train’s schedule. If the phone rings shortly before one’s to depart, he’s not on it.

His studio ceiling fills my phone screen. Turns dizzying circles.

He’s pacing.

His puffy, boyish face may appear, his sandy-colored brows furrowed and his blue eyes fixed. Perhaps the connection’s frozen. It’s not. Should I say something? Words might crack the spell. Let light in. Or shatter the conversation. He may break the spell himself, asking if I’ve spoken to Ava recently. His older sister’s moved to Venice Beach, half a world away. Sunshine, beaches, and smiles. She couldn’t have gotten any farther away from her family’s stressed narrative.

Sebastian may ask if Danielle’s home. His little sister lives in Zurich. I used to suggest he go visit her, but I’ve stopped. An averseness to visiting her might be a sleeping-dog situation. The slipstream of his visits can leave a rough wake. Best not to wake the dog.

He’s here. And the way he walks into the house, the way he throws open the door, I know whether to brace myself. Maybe he melts into my reading chair. I’ll face him and close my laptop in one smooth move: You have my attention. “Hey!” I say. I smile.

I’m already bracing myself. I always brace myself.

Maybe he asks what I’m up to in a friendly way. Maybe his tone’s unfriendly. Maybe his voice is flat when he says, “Vati home?”

Sebastian holds an envelope, meaning he needs his dad’s help with paperwork. Taxes or healthcare provision. There’s so much paperwork to healthcare provision. And deadlines are stealthy.

Do I ask for a hug?

I offer dinner, lasagna, quiche, or—anything he loves.

He makes a chopping gesture. Shut up, will you?

He’s called me a buffoon before. It’s okay to feel stung. If his dad watches in silence as our son nettles me, it’s okay. Eugene only wishes to avoid provoking shouts, stomps, and door-slams. Our son’s abrupt departure.

When Sebastian’s in my reading chair, he jiggles his foot. He might level an accusation: “Why do you think you’re better than me?”

Protesting my innocence provokes a fury of pacing.

“You make my heart hurt,” he says. He spins a dizzying narrative: my actions are controlling his well-being. Rendering him incapable of getting out of bed and going to work.

I want to say, “If you hear hoofbeats, think horses. Not zebras.” Instead, I say, “That makes no sense. Why would I want to hurt you?”

He scoffs. “You’re the sick one. Not me.”

Finally, I realize what’s going on. When Sebastian phones, it’s to see what I’m doing because he suspects me of willing him harm. He comes home to see for himself what I’m doing because he suspects I lie on the phone. Even standing in front of me, he suspects me of lying.

In trying to lead him away from this tangled path, I conjure a scene from his childhood, the Saturday market in the French village we once lived in. Yes, he remembers the carousel.

“A little red Ferrari was your favorite.” I say.

Somehow, this time, it works. A calmer Sebastian makes himself a coffee. He fills us in on his week and his plans for an evening out with a friend. Before I start dinner, he wraps us in goodbye hugs. “Love you,” he says.

“Have fun,” we say.

Eugene returns to his office space and a computer monitor filled with Excel spreadsheets. I get out my knives and cutting board. I trim and chop and slice. Carousel memories spin. The colored lights strobe. Music blares. I feel my boy’s excited grip. He releases me and runs. I’m sidelined, watching him spring aboard the ride, passing his sisters on painted ponies, and reaching the Ferrari before anyone else. Under his little hands, the steering wheel turns.

Sebastian goes ’round and ’around, his racing car bolted firmly in place.

*

I arrive home from work, and Eugene says, “A package came for Ava.” His home office lies just off the front door. He nods to the front hall table. On it, a clear plastic bag containing packets and bottles. “You can take it with you,” he adds. In a few weeks, I’ll be flying to California to visit her, a trip I take twice a year.

One bottle is huge, certainly half a liter. “I don’t want to check a bag,” I moan. I’m tired, and Eugene knows I travel light—only a carryon wheeler and computer bag. Grab and go. Basta.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll take it.” He’ll be flying over a week after me.

But I realize I plan to pack several bottles of wine for Ava and her roommates, who enjoy evening glasses of red. Eugene’s already picked out several regional varieties for me to take. “They’re on par with the best,” he said, smiling as if revealing a secret. Swiss wines aren’t famous for one reason only: ninety-eight percent of them are consumed locally.

Ach, I’ve always been absent minded, but stress and old age are broadening my skills.

Following Sebastian’s breakdown, Ava no longer felt safe at home and craved adventure. She accepted a job transfer, sublet her Zurich apartment, gave away most of her possessions, and waved a jaunty goodbye to us, her boarding pass in hand and sunglasses perched on her head—all within six weeks of signing a new contract. Of course, we worried about her being alone in a new country, city, and job during a pandemic but reasoned that she’s resilient, always landing on her feet.

We’d considered Sebastian resilient, too.

It’s funny that she’s ordered products from Switzerland. I would have thought everything cheaper and easier to get in the States. I talk to her on the phone several days after her package arrives, but neither of us mention it. Never mind; some things are self-evident.

The bag’s still on the front hall table when Danielle, our youngest, comes home with a “Hiya!”

Tuesdays. Eugene and I work from home and take noontime bike rides. Danielle joins us.

From the kitchen, I hear the plastic bag crinkle. “I love this body lotion,” she says. “It’s expensive.”

That big bottle. I tell her it’s Ava’s order. We hug.

“And what’s this?” She pushes a pill packet to the top of the bag. “Sandoz,” she reads. “Antidepressants?” She cocks her head. “Ava’s taking antidepressants?”

Eugene’s already in his biking clothes. “Time’s tight, today,” he says. “Go get changed.” He and I are heading to an appointment right after our bike ride. We see a shrink about Sebastian—how best to respond to his anxiety, depression, and schizophrenic tendencies. For our sakes. And his.

On our ride, we have a flat tire. There’s an unexpected detour. We return late. Danielle sets up her laptop on the kitchen table to work remotely, and we’re showered and waving goodbye.

En route, Sebastian phones. His voice sounds flat, coming through the car speakers. Could be his mood. My reflex is to ask if he stayed in bed all day—the fall weather’s brilliant, sunny, and warm—but I stick to answering his question. By lying. “We’re going to a bank appointment,” I say.

We’ve never told him about seeing a shrink.

He asks if we went on our bike ride.

Eugene shares the detour exploits—over a stretch of gravel road—and adds, “Danielle’s staying the night. If you want to come home.”

“How about joining us for dinner?” I say.

“I have to work tomorrow,” he says, his usual reply. Work is hardly an excuse. The trip by train takes him thirty minutes each way. The last train gets him home by ten. And he works half-time. In the afternoons.

On the way home after our appointment with the shrink, I tell Eugene about the prescription pills Danielle found.

“Ava’s taking antidepressants?” he says.

We list reasons for our daughter to be taking pills: her brother’s situation, pandemic stresses—including a breakup—heavy workloads, and living alone, all before moving to LA.

Sure, we get it. But why keep her depression from us?

“She doesn’t want to worry us,” Eugene says.

“And now she wants us to know? It’s an odd way of doing so.”

I tell him how upset Danielle was about Ava not confiding in her. “She said nothing to her sister.” And, as if to underscore our youngest daughter’s upset state, we get home to find Danielle in hysterics. “I can’t work. I can’t stop. Thinking. Of Ava,” she hiccups. “We have. To talk. To her.”

Out comes Eugene’s phone. He’s pulling up Ava’s number.

Now, my phone’s buzzing. Sebastian. I flash the screen at the others—and take the call.

“So, what’s for dinner?” he says. He’s on the train. He’s grinning. Sometimes, just getting out of his studio must feel like an Olympic win. “I’m there in fifteen minutes,” he says. “Danielle still around?”

It’s a good thing I took his call.

While I’m speaking to Sebastian, Danielle uses Eugene’s phone to message a photo of the plastic packet to her sister. There’s a responding ping. “Not mine,” Ava’s written. “Ask Danielle. She uses that expensive lotion.” In the photo, the antidepressants are hidden by the big white bottle.

So, the package isn’t Ava’s.

“There’s been some kind of mix-up?” Danielle says. Her eyes are still puffy red, but the hiccupping is gone. She picks up the plastic bag. There’s a sticker with the pharmacy’s logo and address. “Zu Rose is in her old neighborhood. She might have used it.” Ave lived in a district neighboring Danielle’s, within walking distance.

Two clients named Ava? It’s an old-fashioned name, quite uncommon, but our last name is the Swiss equivalent of Smith. So, who knows?

Eugene shifts the packet to his desk. “I’ll call the pharmacy tomorrow,” he says. “Clear up the mystery.”

“I’m just so happy the pills aren’t Ava’s. It’s a sobering reminder of how close we all are to—” she stops herself.

“Take care,” Eugene says. “Take good care of yourself.”

The front door opens. Sebastian. His shoulder-length hair shines clean, and his clothes smell laundered. “Vati,” he says, holding out a hand to shake. Eugene embraces his son.

“Hey, Bruder,” Danielle says. “Wie gehts? Gut?”

“Ja,” he says. “Sehr gut.”

She stretches her arms wide and welcoming and surrenders her relief upon him, her eyes glistening.

Like mine.