Page 10

That’s the thing I don’t understand, more than the act of suicide itself. Shit happens. Life sucks. Sometimes people can’t deal and choose to opt out. Sad as it may be, it happens all the time. Even to people like Lisa.
But she used a knife. Not a bottle of pills washed down with vodka. (My first preference, if it ever comes to that.) Not the soft, fatal embrace of carbon monoxide. (Choice Number Two.) Lisa chose to end her life with the very thing that almost stabbed it out of her decades earlier. She purposely slid that blade across her wrists, taking care to dig in deep, to finish the job Stephen Leibman had started.
I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if Lisa and I had stayed in touch. Maybe we would have eventually met in person. Maybe we could have become friends.
Maybe I could have saved her.
I make my way back to the kitchen and open the laptop that’s mostly used for blog business. After a quick Google search of Lisa Milner, I see that news of her death has yet to hit the Internet. That it will soon is inevitable. The big unknown is how much its impact will reverberate into my own life.
A few clicks later, I’m on Facebook, that insipid swamp of likes and links and atrocious grammar. Personally, I don’t do social media. No Twitter. No Instagram. I had a personal Facebook page years ago but shut it down after too many pity follows and friend requests from strangers with Final Girl fetishes. Yet one still exists for my website. A necessary evil. Through that, I can easily access Lisa’s own Facebook page. She was, after all, a follower ofQuincy’s Sweets.
Lisa’s page has become a virtual memorial wall, filled with condolence messages she’ll never read. I scroll past dozens of them, most of them generic but heartfelt.
We’ll miss you, Lisa Pisa! XOXO
I’ll never forget your beautiful smile and your amazing soul.
Rest in peace, Lisa.
The most touching comes from a doe-eyed, brown-haired girl named Jade.
Because you overcame the worst moment of your life, it inspired me to overcome the worst moment of mine. I’m forever inspired by you, Lisa. Now that you’re among the angels in Heaven, keep watch over those of us still down below.
I find a picture of Jade in the many, many photos Lisa posted to her wall over the years. It’s from three months ago, and it shows the two of them posing cheek to cheek at what appears to be an amusement park. Crisscrossed in the background are the support beams of a wooden roller coaster. An enormous teddy bear fills Lisa’s arms.
There’s no question that their smiles are genuine. You can’t fake that kind of joy. God knows, I’ve tried. Yet there’s an aura of loss around both of them. I see it in their eyes. That same subliminal sadness always creeps into pictures of me. Last Christmas, when Jeff and I went to Pennsylvania to visit my mother, we all posed for a picture in front of the tree, acting as if we were a real, functioning family. Later, while looking at the photos on her computer, my mother mistook my rigid grin for a grimace and said,Would it have killed you to smile, Quincy?
I spend a half hour poking around Lisa’s photos, getting glimpses of an existence far different from mine. Although she had never married, settled down, and had kids, her life seemed to be a fulfilling one. Lisa had surrounded herself with people—family and friends and girls like Jade who just needed a kind presence. I could have been one of them, had I allowed it.
Instead, I did the opposite. Keeping people at a safe distance. Pushing them away if necessary. Closeness was a luxury I couldn’t afford to lose again.
Scanning Lisa’s photos, I mentally insert myself into each one. There I am, posing with her at the edge of the Grand Canyon. There we are, wiping mist from our faces in front of Niagara Falls. That’s me tucked into a group of women kicking up our two-toned shoes at a bowling alley.Bowling Buddies!!reads the caption.
I pause at a picture Lisa had posted three weeks ago. It’s a selfie, taken from a stretched, slightly overhead angle. In it, Lisa is raising a bottle of wine in what appears to be a wood-paneled dining room. For a caption, she had written,Wine Time! LOL!
There’s a girl behind her, mostly cut out of the tilted frame. She reminds me of those alleged pictures of Bigfoot I sometimes see on cheesy paranormal shows. A blur of black hair turning away from the camera.
I feel a kinship with that unnamed girl, even if I can’t see her face. I too turned away from Lisa, retreating into the background, alone.
I became a blur—a smudge of darkness stripped of all my details.
PINE COTTAGE
3:37 P.M.
At first, the idea of the cabin made Quincy think of a fairy tale, mostly because of its whimsical name.
Pine Cottage.
Hearing it conjured up images of dwarfs and princesses and woodland creatures eager to help with chores. But as Craig’s SUV bucked along the gravel drive and the cabin finally came into view, Quincy knew that her imagination had let her down. The reality of the place was far less fanciful.
On the outside, Pine Cottage appeared squat, sturdy, and bluntly utilitarian. Only slightly more elaborate than something that could be built with Lincoln Logs. It sat among a cluster of tall pines that towered over the slate roof, making the place look smaller than it actually was. Huddled together with their branches intertwined, the trees surrounded the cabin in a thick wall, beyond which sat more trees, spreading outward in silent blackness.
A dark forest. That was the fairy tale Quincy had been looking for, only it was more Brothers Grimm than Disney. When she stepped out of the SUV and peered into the tangled thicket, an unwelcome tickle of apprehension flitted over her.
“So this is what the middle of nowhere looks like,” she announced. “It’s creepy.”
“Scaredy-cat,” Janelle said as she moved behind Quincy, lugging not one but two suitcases.