Chapter 9: Crossed Wires

It was a Friday morning, and I was in the kitchen putting away dishes when I saw Thomas walking across the yard to the mailbox. He opened it, took out the mail, and sorted it. Then he put it all back in the box and closed the door. He did so gently, carefully. After that, he walked slowly back to the Airstream. It was a sunny day – already warm – and the light bounced off the trailer’s silver skin

We were supposed to leave for Big Bend in four days. This was my trip, really. I’d wanted to go for years and talked Thomas into taking me. He had left the planning to me, which was fine. He could be scattered – usually because he had too many things on his mind. I was excited about the trip. I’d scheduled a visit to the 1,500-foot cliffs of Santa Helena Canyon, planned a drive along the famous Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive, and was looking forward to visiting the Hot Springs Historic District.

While I pored over web sites and guidebooks, Thomas’s job was to get the trailer ready. He had been working on that all week – there was always something to fix or replace. He had mentioned something about installing lighting upgrades, putting in a new solar port to replace a broken one, and fitting – finally – a toilet that was low enough for me. He admitted the one he had originally installed was too tall for him, too.

At least, he had been trying to get things ready. But something was off. He hadn’t been himself for a month. He was a little quick to anger, and to snap at me – something that seemed to start right after the barbecue, when he was such a jerk about his precious cast-iron skillet.  And he was quieter. I had come to understand that he was not always a big talker, but now he seemed to shut something down. And shut me out. Then there was that odd mailbox ritual I’d watched – and not for the first time. It seemed to me he was expecting something; I had no idea what.

I decided to walk out and check on things. Maybe I could be useful. But I didn’t want him to think that was my goal, so I made a fresh Americano and took the steaming mug with me.

Thomas was on his knees at the front of the trailer; the dinette table dismounted and shoved aside. There were bits of wire and tools scattered across the plywood cushion-less dinette seat – crimping tool, wire strippers, a box I was pleased to realize I recognized as containing heat‑shrink solder connectors. His head was halfway into the plywood compartment that held the batteries and the power converter. He was wearing a Seattle Mariners ballcap – backwards – and a headlamp. Most of the lights were off. "What's wrong?" I asked. I set the Americano on the kitchen counter.

"Nothing." He didn't look up.

I leaned over him to see what was going on. "I brought you coffee." He twisted and looked at the steaming mug. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll get to it.” Then he turned and rummaged around in the compartment. Like any RV, Airstreams were economical with space, and I could see his hands struggling to work in close quarters. “Ground fault somewhere – I think.” he said in a tense voice. “I can't find it." The trailer was stuffy – it heated up fast when the sun hit it. The back of his dark T-shirt was now almost black from sweat. “What about the negative bus?" I asked. "Could the ground…"

"No." The word came out with a bite. So, I zipped it. He stared into the battery compartment, shoulders tense. "I don't need help," he said without looking at me. "Okay," I said quietly. "I'll go check the camping crates in the shed." I walked back outside and began to organize camp equipment – one big plastic bin for what we used around camp, the other for trailer-related things. That meant the big camp lantern and telescoping hot dog forks in one, wires for the solar chargers and the accordion-like sewer hose support in the other. “The poop chute,” he called that when it was set up. We would both laugh at that.

I was debating where a coil of nylon cord should go when I heard Thomas shout, "CHARLOTTE!" I dropped the cord and ran back to the Airstream and up the steps. He was still on his knees. When he turned to me his face was red and beaded with sweat. "Where did you go?" he snapped. "I needed help."

I blinked. "Thomas... you told me to leave."

"Well obviously this takes more than two hands,” he said crossly. I looked at him, at the wires, at his hands, which were shaking slightly. "What do you need?" I asked. He handed me the wire crimper. "Hold this." I took and the crimper and watched as he reached into the battery compartment and tried to gather loose wires. He almost had them together when a thin copper strand slipped under his thumbnail. "Ouch! Crap!" He stood up fast – then hit his head on the overhead storage locker. “GOD…DAMN…IT!” he barked. Oh God for a second that was pure slapstick. Then he kicked the plywood battery enclosure. The sound echoed through the aluminum shell. I didn't move.

"Thomas," I said finally. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing,” he said, wiping his forehead with a hand. “I'm just frustrated."

I set the crimper down on the dinette bench. "It's not just the wiring,” I said. “You know how to do this. You always say, ‘it’s just twelve-volt.’”

Thomas looked at me, his brow furrowed, and wiped a red handkerchief across his forehead. "You've been like this for days," I said. " Snapping at me. Awake all night. You told me to leave ten minutes ago, then yelled at me to come back." He stared at me for a long moment. Then he sat down on the dinette bench. Something caught my eye outside, and I saw Jack ambling past the open door. I thought for a second he might come in, but he had other plans.

 A long moment passed.

"I made a mistake,” Thomas said finally, scratching the stubble on one cheek. Some of it was turning the least bit gray.

 "What mistake?" I asked. “With the wiring?”

“No,” he said. "I stopped taking my meds."

My head went back a little in surprise. "What meds?"

He looked at me and took a breath. "Lexapro,” he said. “It’s an antidepressant."

So that's what this was. When we first met, he mentioned he often was depressed, but until recently he had seemed fine – at least to me. "When did you stop?" I asked.

"Three weeks ago. Maybe four."

I sat on the dinette bench opposite him and reached across to put a hand on his knee. "Why did you do that?” I asked. “You’ve seemed fine." He looked at his hands. They were still shaking. "I felt good,” he said. “I thought... I don't know. I thought maybe I didn't need them anymore."

“Why not?”

“Because I felt OK. I felt that maybe you and I…”

I heard the cows lowing,

“…you and I were together. That maybe I didn’t need the pills anymore. I felt better.”

I leaned back slightly. Processing. “How long have you been taking them?”

“Six years. Since my brother died.”

David. Three years older. I knew Thomas missed him even now. David was calmer than Tom. They had texted or emailed almost daily, and Thomas was always coming across some predicament in the shop or the trailer and say, “Dave would love this.”

But he was gone, and there was a hole. Now there was just Eloise, their irascible eight-two-year-old mother.

“Did they help?” I asked. “A lot,” he said, nodding emphatically. “I stopped dwelling on the past so much. Getting so angry.”

And he had stopped. Cold turkey. Maybe tapering would have been OK. Instead, he lit a brushfire in his nervous system. We sat there for a minute. The Airstream creaked in the afternoon heat. "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. "Before. That you were on them."

He shrugged. "It didn't seem relevant. I was managing it. It was just part of my routine."

"But then, why stop?"

"I thought I was doing better,” he said. “I’ve probably been depressed my whole life, and now I wasn't." I guessed that was a compliment. It was hard to tell. "That's not how it works,” I said, trying to sound stern.

"Yeah. I'm figuring that out."

I stood and took three steps to the sink. I filled a glass with water and brought it back to him. "Drink this,” I said. He did. "Have you eaten today?" I asked. He thought about it. "Not really."

"Okay. Come inside. I'll make you something." He shook his head. "I need to fix the wiring."

I picked up the mug of now-cold coffee and tipped it into the sink. "The wiring can wait,” I said. “I need you to take care of yourself."

"Charlotte…"

I put a hand on his shoulder. "Thomas. The wiring. Can. Wait."

He looked up at me. He wasn't angry anymore. Just tired. "Okay," he said.

I made toasted cheese sandwiches and scattered some potato chips and apple slices on the plates. He sat at the kitchen table and watched. "I'm not good at this," he said.

"At what?"

"Talking about this kind of stuff." I set a plate in front of him, and at my place. "I noticed."

"I'm sorry,” he said.

I took a bite of sandwich. "Stop apologizing,” I said. “Just talk to me next time before you make a big decision like that."

He ate some sandwich as well. "Okay."

"I mean it."

"I know."

I heard a truck on the county road.

"So," I said. "What else should I know? Like, what to expect next?”

He thought about it. "Well,” he said. “I talked to my doctor and told him I thought the Lexapro tamped me down too much. I asked him about trying something else – Wellbutrin. But I’ve read that it can make things worse before – before they get better. I think that’s where I am right now.”

"Okay,” I said again.

"And I might have trouble sleeping." He was a night owl anyway. "Alright,” I said. He glanced at me. "And I'm sorry – I’m sorry in advance if I'm difficult." I looked back at him. "You're always difficult." A small smile. "Fair point."

I nodded slowly. "So, we take it easy in Big Bend. Shorter hikes. More rest days."

"You don't have to…"

"We're going," I said. "I want to go – with you. We can adjust. That's all."

He looked at me. "You sure?"

"Yes..."

He exhaled. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not making this a bigger deal than it is."

I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Thomas, it is a big deal. But we’ll figure it out.” After lunch, we went back out to the Airstream. I stood in the doorway while he knelt back down in front of the battery compartment. "What can I do?" I asked.

"Hold the flashlight?" I came over and knelt beside him. Pointed the beam where he needed it.

He traced the wiring harness from the fuse box back through the frame. Found a loose connection at the negative bus bar. Tightened it. The lights came back on. "There we go," he said.

"Was that it the whole time?" He let out an exasperated sigh. "Probably." "You spent an hour on that?" I didn’t mean it like that. "Yeah,” he said. “Yeah – I did. I wasn't in the best headspace." I bumped my shoulder against his. "No kidding."

He sat back. Wiped his hands on his jeans. "Big Bend in four days," he said.

"Big Bend in four days."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"I can't help it."

"I know."

We sat there on the floor of the Airstream. Tools and wire scattered around us.

"You know," I said, "I'm glad you told me about your meds."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I was starting to think maybe you were just an asshole."

He laughed. "I might still be an asshole." I laughed too. "True,” I said. “But at least now I know why." I stood. Offered him my hand. Pulled him to his feet. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s clean this mess up, then do something that doesn’t involve electrical systems.”

“Like what?”

“We have some maps to look at.”

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