“It’s …” she began, but stopped, her eyes focusing downward. She was hunched in the other armchair, cradling her tea with long, pale hands. “It’s been hard.” She looked me straight in the eye, maybe anticipating a dismissive word or gesture. I nodded, slowly.
“I know it has.” I tried to smile, but it felt bleak on my face. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not being there.”
She shrugged, and stared into the abyss of her green mug. Now I could see how the pain had eaten at her. There was a sprinkling of grey in her cropped hair and the skin around her eyes was showing the first creases and furrows of age. Oh, my poor girl, I thought. I’d visited her that first time she was hospitalized, but only once. I’d found her subdued, withdrawn; every word was an effort, every grim smile a titanic struggle. But what I’d really seen in her was shame – shame that she’d allowed this to happen to her, embarrassment that I was there to witness it.
When she was finally released we kept in touch and things were normal for a while, then she was gone again – no calls, no answer on the phone. When I rang her dad he told me about the suicide attempt. After that she was in and out two, three times a year. Sometimes we kept in touch when she was out, sometimes not so much. When she was in, I told myself I didn’t visit to save her the awkwardness and humiliation. The truth, though, is that the experience of going in there that one time, of seeing her among the zombies and the broken, was so jarring for me that I was never able to go back again.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked. “Maybe I could have helped.”
She gave me the saddest look I’ve ever seen. “Oh, Dave. I couldn’t. I couldn’t … burden you with that. And anyway, no-one could’ve helped.”
“I would’ve liked to try.”
“It doesn’t matter now. It’s gone, over.” I sipped coffee for a while; she just swirled her tea around.
“Did you …” I began, then faltered. “Are you OK physically? I mean, after …”
“The doctors think I might have damaged my liver.”
“I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.” She grinned at me. It broke my heart.
“What happened? I mean, last time. You were doing so well,” I gestured around me, “this place. I thought everything was OK.”
She squirmed in her armchair. “I was. I mean, I was good, but … Dave?” She looked at me. I knew she was making a decision, whether to talk to me about it or not. Usually she decided not to. In five years I’d learned precious little about what it was actually like for her.
“Tell me,” I whispered. “Please.”
“I hear things,” she said. “Voices. They tell me to do things. They tell me, over and over, they don’t let up. And it’s getting worse. Each time, it’s getting worse. They’re getting stronger, and I’m getting weaker.”
“No,” I said – the word just came out of my mouth. “No, that’s not true. What kind of things do these voices say?” She scrunched up her face, put a fist against the side of her head. I knew it was hurting her to talk about it.
“One night, they wanted me to go out and lie on the road. It was late and it was dark. They said I should lie out in the middle of the road. It took me all night to fight them and to not do it.”
“The road outside here? The street?”
“No, at my parents’ place.”
“Jesus! That’s a … that’s a busy road, but it’s pitch black at night.” She nodded, knowingly, the first glimmers of tears in her eyes.
“The voices were trying to kill you. To get you to kill yourself.”
“I nearly did it, Dave. Very nearly.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. Not that night. But it gets harder and harder.”
I set down my cold coffee and moved to kneel before her. I took away the tea mug and clasped her hands in mine.
“Listen. I know … I know, someday, you’ll go. I know it, and I’d do anything to stop it from happening. But I can’t. I love you.” I reached up and lifted her chin. The first tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. Her skin was soft and cool under my touch. I hadn’t touched her like this in a long, long time. “I love you, and I always will. And any time you need me, I’m right here. I promise. You hear me? I’ll never not be here for you.” She just looked at me, a lost soul look. I drew her forward and held her, and she sobbed on my shoulder for the longest time.