day without a drink. It’s pathetic. Just…go.”
I remember the look on her face then. The shame. It’s what I’ve seen all day in Henry’s face—the shame of not being able to shoulder the pain he’s in.
I thought my own suffering was unique, or at least my strength. I bore up when others crumbled—I was proud of that. But it was only because I iced myself over in a way that Henry cannot do. That Tanya probably can’t do.
She needed a drink. He thinks he needs to die. I can’t save either of them. I can’t make them save me.
But I can love them. I can accept what love they have to give. I can take it in and hold it for as long as they’ll let me.
I shake off the robe and run the water to clean myself up. It only takes a few minutes. My last-minute swimsuit has no special padding, but what difference does it make at this point? I put it on and it sags in the place where my left breast used to be. I open the door and find Henry.
----
It’s become full night now, and city lights illuminate the Hudson. From the rooftop pool the shimmering river looks almost holy—a black and silver vein along the body of Manhattan. Everyone must be at the bar or in bed because the pool is deserted. Just as well. I’m not sure I could have handled a normal human conversation.
Henry can’t either, apparently. He hasn’t spoken a word since we left the suite. Only nodded at me and held the doors. He kicks off his shoes and shucks the robe as soon we enter the pool deck and immediately descends the stairs into the water. His head goes under and stays there for a long time. One minute? Two? I start getting worried, and then he breaks the surface and sucks in a gulp of air.
The water is warm, and Henry reaches out a hand to me as I climb down the ladder. As soon as I’m in, he grabs me to him, bracing himself against the side of the pool with his arm.
“Christa.”
He grips my waist so hard it almost hurts, and I know, suddenly, this is the last thing he will be able to do. He gave up a long time ago, and rationed himself for only as long as it would take to put his affairs in order. I know this without needing him to tell me. Doubtless he’s set up generous posthumous donations to favorite charitable organizations, a trust for any future nieces or nephews, investments for his brother. He’s left letters exonerating anyone who might blame themselves for his death. He’ll probably leave me a letter, too, to read when I wake up tomorrow morning, under the pillow in the bed we made love in. Wishing me a happy life. Thanking me graciously for today.
I want to punch his fucking face in, but I hug him back instead and kiss his cheek and swim with him as the moon rises over the city.
I set out to trick him into believing he was saving me, and tricked myself instead. I let him close enough to feel me, and now I know what that’s like. And I can never go back.
In the oversized bathtub later, I let him wash my hair. And when he turns to me in the bed, I take him inside my body and hold him, one last time. I give him all the oblivion he seeks, gladly. Because without him, I would be dead now.
7:00AM, Henry
When I wake in the morning, the bed is empty. I have no idea what time it is, but a faint scent of coffee draws me downstairs.
On the table is a carafe, warm to the touch, with a clean mug beside it. And a note with a phone number at the bottom.
Dear Henry,
I hope you slept well. That sounds very domestic, doesn’t it? As though this were our ten thousandth night together and I’ve just run down to the corner bakery to pick up some pastries.
In another life, maybe, that could have been us. If we’d met earlier? But no, that wouldn’t have worked either.
I watched you sleeping this morning. Hopefully you know how sweet you look like that, with your cowlick all sticking up and your hand curled under your cheek. Like a child, almost. Thank you for letting me see that. As painful as it is inside your heart, there is
I remember the look on her face then. The shame. It’s what I’ve seen all day in Henry’s face—the shame of not being able to shoulder the pain he’s in.
I thought my own suffering was unique, or at least my strength. I bore up when others crumbled—I was proud of that. But it was only because I iced myself over in a way that Henry cannot do. That Tanya probably can’t do.
She needed a drink. He thinks he needs to die. I can’t save either of them. I can’t make them save me.
But I can love them. I can accept what love they have to give. I can take it in and hold it for as long as they’ll let me.
I shake off the robe and run the water to clean myself up. It only takes a few minutes. My last-minute swimsuit has no special padding, but what difference does it make at this point? I put it on and it sags in the place where my left breast used to be. I open the door and find Henry.
----
It’s become full night now, and city lights illuminate the Hudson. From the rooftop pool the shimmering river looks almost holy—a black and silver vein along the body of Manhattan. Everyone must be at the bar or in bed because the pool is deserted. Just as well. I’m not sure I could have handled a normal human conversation.
Henry can’t either, apparently. He hasn’t spoken a word since we left the suite. Only nodded at me and held the doors. He kicks off his shoes and shucks the robe as soon we enter the pool deck and immediately descends the stairs into the water. His head goes under and stays there for a long time. One minute? Two? I start getting worried, and then he breaks the surface and sucks in a gulp of air.
The water is warm, and Henry reaches out a hand to me as I climb down the ladder. As soon as I’m in, he grabs me to him, bracing himself against the side of the pool with his arm.
“Christa.”
He grips my waist so hard it almost hurts, and I know, suddenly, this is the last thing he will be able to do. He gave up a long time ago, and rationed himself for only as long as it would take to put his affairs in order. I know this without needing him to tell me. Doubtless he’s set up generous posthumous donations to favorite charitable organizations, a trust for any future nieces or nephews, investments for his brother. He’s left letters exonerating anyone who might blame themselves for his death. He’ll probably leave me a letter, too, to read when I wake up tomorrow morning, under the pillow in the bed we made love in. Wishing me a happy life. Thanking me graciously for today.
I want to punch his fucking face in, but I hug him back instead and kiss his cheek and swim with him as the moon rises over the city.
I set out to trick him into believing he was saving me, and tricked myself instead. I let him close enough to feel me, and now I know what that’s like. And I can never go back.
In the oversized bathtub later, I let him wash my hair. And when he turns to me in the bed, I take him inside my body and hold him, one last time. I give him all the oblivion he seeks, gladly. Because without him, I would be dead now.
7:00AM, Henry
When I wake in the morning, the bed is empty. I have no idea what time it is, but a faint scent of coffee draws me downstairs.
On the table is a carafe, warm to the touch, with a clean mug beside it. And a note with a phone number at the bottom.
Dear Henry,
I hope you slept well. That sounds very domestic, doesn’t it? As though this were our ten thousandth night together and I’ve just run down to the corner bakery to pick up some pastries.
In another life, maybe, that could have been us. If we’d met earlier? But no, that wouldn’t have worked either.
I watched you sleeping this morning. Hopefully you know how sweet you look like that, with your cowlick all sticking up and your hand curled under your cheek. Like a child, almost. Thank you for letting me see that. As painful as it is inside your heart, there is
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