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"You don't?"
"I'm not sure I ever did," I say. "But after Deidre, I couldn't keep pretending. I couldn't go to church on Easter and Christmas. I couldn't look at my mom's rosary without raging."
"You rage?"
"Yeah."
"I can't imagine that," she says.
"It's more stewing, I guess. I get mad, but I stay in my head. I think about how fucked up the world is."
She watches me carefully.
"It was so tempting, to believe that story, that she was selfish or weak or somehow at fault. Because then I wouldn't have to ask myself what I missed, what I could have done to help her, what part I played."
"It's not your fault."
I should object, but I don't.
"She… I guess I don't know your relationship, but if it's anything like the one I have with my sister… that was probably the only thing keeping her here."
"She was living for me?"
"She wouldn't want to hurt you," she says. "She'd hate that she was hurting you. Even if she was too depressed to see it, if she felt like a burden or a failure, if she knew you'd be sad but she believed you'd be better off without her…"
Did she really feel that way?
"I'm sorry… I… excuse me." She stands and moves toward the downstairs bathroom. "Restroom."
"Sure."
She locks herself in the bathroom and runs the water.
I stand, stretch, try to remind myself to do the honest thing.
Is that the right thing? I don't know, but I know it's what she would want.
Don't freak out. I know.
Don't leave.
Please.
I need this connection.
But that's the problem.
I can't lose her.
Not the Imogen I know here. And not the one I know there either.
If she changes her site, stops writing—
That's too big a loss. Not just for me.
For everyone who finds understanding in her words.
The bathroom door opens.
