Page 84 of Keeping Her Under

“Did you tell her this?”

“Yes!”

“And what did she say?”

I run a hand through my hair. Nearly all of it is grey now; the stress has taken its toll. “She said it’s the perfect compromise because she knows I’ll take care of her.” I tried to tell her I can do that now, but she told me it wasn’t the same. She wakes up every morning, wishing she didn’t, already feeling like such a failure. But if she could give it all up – every worry, every decision, every goddamn choice… If she could be dead without dying… That is what she wants.

“Okay, so she’s consented,” Asher says.

“She’s not in her right state of mind! Her brain has shrunk due to the depression, affecting her amygdala and hippocampus.” I recall the MRI scans of her brain. How blatant the physical changes have become. I tried to explain to her that it was just like any broken bone or enlarged spleen; it’s an organ that needs to heal. I told her that learning to be happy again while also healing from her depression was like a person learning to dance with a broken leg. Any bit of progression was utterly amazing, an iceberg of achievement. But it didn’t help. I’ve read all the papers. I’ve met with so many specialists. Nothing is helping.

“Regardless,” Asher says, “helping someone isn’t about forcing them to do what is comfortable for you. It’s about listening to them. To what they need.”

My heart breaks as his words hammer into me. I glance over at my angel. Everything inside of me wants to resist this. It’s telling me it isn’t right. It isn’t healthy.

But is this? I’m forcing her to live in more and more stress every day. Cell atrophy and straight-up loss is difficult to reverse.

Shuddering, I collapse against the counter. Asher stands up and walks over to me. As I fall apart, he holds me without a word. But he knows what I’ve decided. It’s time to stop putting myself first.

Summer has begged me for years to listen to her. To let her heal how she needs to heal.

It might still feel wrong to do this, but I’m not the one suffering from it. I don’t get to choose how someone else heals.

After I tell Summer that I’ll do it, she smiles for the first time in years. We even have sex and spend the day together outside of the house. I don’t remember the last time we did either of those things.

She laughs as she walks with me through the park, our hands entwined. The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming. I’m tempted to go back on my word about putting her under. She seems happy now. Or at least, there is the hope of us being happy again if she’d just give us another chance.

But I know that is foolish thinking.

I know that there is often a happy period before another suicide attempt. She isn’t happy because of me. She’s happy because she knows it’s about to be over. That I’m about to give her peace.

The day is so beautiful it hurts.

So happy, I want to curl up and cry.

But I keep my tears at bay. I focus on the present and on building the most memories out of this single day. I drink in her laughter and her joy. She gets me a recording teddy bear, and once we’re back home, she tells it how much she loves me.

“I love you too,” I say before making love to her on the living room floor.

Then, all too soon, it is time.

I promised.

She holds my hand. My heart. My soul.

I lead her into our room, where everything is ready.

“Thank you,” she says to me before kissing me long and slow. “I love you so much for taking care of me.”

She lies down on our bed.

I want to ask her, “How can you do this to me? How can you leave me behind? Aren’t I enough to make you happy?”

But I don’t. Because I already know she loves me. Her depression has just advanced too far.

“I love you,” she whispers right before I begin.

I choke on a cry. “I love you too, Mrs. Slader.”

She does not answer.

Closing her eyes, she falls back into a coma.

But oh, dear God, she smiles.