Page 44 of The Cabin
Hands trembling, I work with ginger delicacy to open the flap of the last envelope. Within are several pages, folded thrice into a compact, flat bundle. The pages are ripped from his legal pad, the one he used for outlining and plotting and researching his stories. He would go through several of them for each book.
Immediately, I recognize the shakiness of his handwriting. He wrote this toward the end. When he could barely sit upright on his own, when he couldn’t keep food or water down, when his hands shook like mine do now, but all the time, sometimes even in sleep. When he should have been in a hospital, on an IV pushing fluids and painkillers. Instead, he was at home, making “extensive arrangements.” Whatever the fuck that means.
God, Adrian. You never did anything the easy way, did you?
I am putting off reading the letter. It represents his last words to me, when I thought his final words had been heard a year ago.
I’m tempted to have a drink before reading it. Slam vodka till I’m dizzy rather than read this.
What could he have to say? Why make Tomas—and me, more to the point—wait a whole year?
Why now?
I was just starting to find something equilibrium.
I can almost hear his sarcastic laugh, when that thought runs through my brain. Because no, I am not finding anything like equilibrium. I nearly overdosed a patient. I should tear up my RN certification. I am not okay. I sleep three, four hours a night. Sometimes up to five. Sometimes less.
I barely eat. I’ve dropped to about a hundred pounds, on a five-foot-ten frame. I’m a stick, nearly skeletal. My cheekbones could cut you. My hipbones, my pelvic bones protrude. You can count my ribs. I have no energy. I’m sick all the time. I snap at everyone. I am filled with rage and sorrow and bitterness. I have moved beyond grief. This is something else.
This is the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
I am not anything like fucking all right.
The letter shakes noisily in my hands, and I know I need backup for this.
My purse is on the counter, and it feels very, very far away. My legs struggle to support me, and I wobble like a newborn fawn. Brace myself on the counter with one hand and paw through my purse until I find my cell. Drop it on the counter from nerveless fingers. Swipe clumsily to open it. Find Tess’s speed dial, and it rings on speakerphone.
“Nads, babe, hi.” She’s in the car, I can tell. “What up?”
“I…I need you.”
“I’m there. Give me…seven minutes, tops. Don’t…don’t do anything.”
“It’s not like that. I just need you.”
It nearly was like that several times. I sat in the tub, once, a month ago, bubbles up to my neck, and contemplated dropping the plugged-in curling iron in with me. I contemplated it like one would contemplate having a fourth glass of wine, or that last bite of chocolate mousse cake.
I didn’t. Some fucked-up part of my soul told me that Adrian would be so angry if I did. And for some reason, that stopped me. A dead man would be mad at me if I committed suicide.
Okay, Nadia.
Another time, looking for Tylenol because I had a headache, I found a bottle of leftover Nuclear Option painkillers. I had a bottle of vodka downstairs. A handful of these, a few long slugs from the Goose. Bye-bye, cruel world.
Again, I didn’t. I took one Tylenol, put away the vodka, and binged on a season of Dexter until my next shift.
Two days ago, driving home from work. I’d spaced out and found myself drifting into oncoming traffic lanes. Fortunately, for me, it was three in the morning and the road was empty except for me. But I’d thought, it would be so easy. Find a semi, swerve in front of it.
But then I realized I’d be dragging that poor innocent driver along with me, and having cared for head-on collision victims, I couldn’t do that to anyone.
The thoughts occurred, is the point. Tess’s worry is not unfounded.
I hear the front door, Tess’s heels clicking rapidly. She smells like Chanel perfume, and looks like she just came from the boardroom of a multimillion-dollar company.
“Where were you?” I asked, by way of greeting.
“An interview. I accepted a position as the head of an IT department downtown. I’ve been working from home for so long, I was getting bored with it. I’m alone at home like all the time. So I figured, fuck it. Take a nine-to-five. It’s so close to my condo that I can walk to work, and it’s a stone’s throw to my favorite bar and a nice steakhouse. I’m going to love it.”
“Congratulations,” I say, summoning a genuine smile of happiness for my friend. “I’m proud of you for taking your life back. You’re reinventing yourself.”
