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Nessa is asleep, not in the master bedroom, which she feels is too big and uses for storage, but in the larger of the two bedrooms down the hall to my right.
I pass a family portrait: Nessa with her mom and dad, dressed in their church clothes. To my left is a framed photo of Nessa with her best friend, Hope. On the right, a pressed, framed rose from Ryan.
I pass a closet door. I look down and—
“Fuck!”
I throw my arms out, trying to keep my balance, while Nessa’s cat, Cheshire, dashes off, then doubles back, his tail waving, to look at me. I lower my hand, but I can’t make myself crouch down and pet him.
“Sorry,” I murmur silently.
I move slowly, walking softly. I don’t want to wake her up. I don’t think she’ll wake up.
Stay asleep, Nessa. Stay asleep.
Her bedroom door is slightly ajar. Thoughtful.
The room is dark, but the blinds are open, letting in starlight.
I pause at the threshold. The Ziploc bag feels heavy when I pull it from my pocket. It’s melded around the small cylinder inside.
Taking care to be quiet, I peel the ‘zipper’ open. I stick my fingertips inside, grasping the end of the syringe. I dig a little deeper, until I can feel the cool glass of a vial I mixed up just for Nessa.
I’m surprised my fingers work. Amazing, what can be endured when choices are so limited. I stick the needle in, draw the plunger. My jaw aches, a precursor to tears. A scream builds in my chest. I lock it there, where it belongs.
I step over her pink polka-dotted rug. My limbs feel heavy, as if I’ve sampled Nessa’s cocktail.
I take half-steps, past her feet, her knees, until I’m level with her hips. Under the lilac covers, she is just a lump. It strikes me that is all she’ll ever be again. My eye twitches.
Nessa’s bed has a large, carved headboard her mother had imported from Italy, if I remember. I can’t see much of the carving, even here, beside her, but I stare up at it for a minute, because I want to see what’s on it. My eyes never fully adjust to the darkness, as deep down I know they won’t. I’ve got acquired night blindness. All I’m doing standing here is waiting.
Long enough, apparently, for Cheshire to come join us.
Shit.
I take long, steady strides toward the door and scoop the cat up. “C’mon... Stay quiet,” I murmur to his soft head as I spirit him down the hall, toward the stairs. I set him down and stroke his neck and back. He arches to my hand. “That’s it. Good boy.” M
y voice quavers. Cheshire perches like a gymnast on the bannister.
When I return to Nessa, she’s rolled over on her right side, with her back to me. I take a deep breath. I position the syringe between my fingers and lean over her. My hand hovers by her neck. Her hair is in my way. I move it slowly, relishing the softness of her curls. My fingers tremble. I will them still.
The jugular is not a mystery when you’ve dealt with it as much as I have. I locate hers with a gentle touch. She doesn’t stir. It takes a moment to position the needle, and when I’ve done that, I plunge quickly in.
Nessa’s breath hitches, and for a horrifying moment I think she’s going to wake up just to die.
But she doesn’t. The cocktail includes Midazolam, a sedative. Also, Dilaudid. So much of both drugs, the truth is, Nessa doesn’t have a chance. And still, I stay. I wrap a copper curl around my finger and, with my arms still propped on her bed, I sink down to my knees. Her breaths go shallow. Shallow. Quiet.
When I fear the sound of my own heart will drive me mad, I get up and go.
“TAKE THOSE CLOTHES OFF—EVERYTHING... is what Arethea said. And then you’ve gotta put them in this bin.” She points at the big, yellow garbage can, shoved into the corner of the bathroom. I can see her arm jut out, even though my eyes are focused on the floor. “You know the drill,” she adds softly.
My gaze breaks away from the tile and throws itself at Whitney’s face. In another life—one I lived just days ago—this girl’s wide smile and mismatched green and blue eyes heralded homestyle comforts. Whitney Marsh: knitter of beanies and floppy socks. Whitney Marsh: Pinterest-a-holic. This girl can make a turkey out of an Oreo, a Hershey’s Kiss, and candy corn. When life gives Whitney lemons, she makes lemonade in every color of the rainbow, sweetens it with Stevia, and donates the proceeds to childhood cancer. In a few more years, Whitney Marsh is going to help autistic children learn to talk through special iPad apps. She’s Methodist. A little Marxist, which she won’t reveal until she’s had a few stiff drinks. Whitney was a virgin until my brother.
And so it’s strange that she’s my prison warden now.
Her mismatched eyes reach out to mine, so warm the heat of them threatens the ice I’m using as a shield. I shift my eyes away. They sink like anchors to the floor.
I shrug my shoulders, grateful that the simple motion sends my jacket falling to the blue tile.
