CHAPTER SIX #10
A group of people gathered around a picnic table decorated with pink and white balloons. A woman held a small child on her hip while another person carried a cake toward them. Melissa watched. John wished he could turn the entire park away from her.
“How old do you think she is?” Melissa asked.
John followed her gaze.
The child wore a small paper crown.
“Two, maybe.”
Melissa nodded.
“I wanted a girl first.”
John closed his eyes briefly.
“I remember.”
“I would have put bows in her hair.”
“I know.”
“She would have had your eyes.”
“You always said that.”
“And your smile.”
He looked at her. Melissa was crying again, but her face remained strangely calm.
“I used to picture her,” she said. “Not clearly. Just little pieces.” Her fingers curled against the bench.
“Red rain boots. A yellow coat. Running through the house while you chased her.”
John’s eyes burned.
“She never even existed, and I miss her.”
He slid closer until their shoulders touched. Melissa did not move away. “I know that sounds crazy.”
“It doesn’t.” “I miss someone who was never real.”
“She was real to you.”
Melissa’s lower lip trembled.
“She was supposed to be.”
John wrapped an arm around her. For a moment, she remained rigid. Then her body softened against him.
“I think something is wrong with me,” she whispered.
John pressed his cheek against the top of her head.
“You’re grieving.”
“It feels worse than grief.”
The words made him pull back slightly. Melissa stared ahead. “I don’t sleep unless I take something.”
“We can talk to your doctor.”
“I don’t want more pills.”
“Then we’ll talk about something else.”
“I don’t want to talk to another person who writes everything down and looks at me like I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken.”
“I barely shower unless you remind me.”
John said nothing.
“I haven’t answered my mother’s calls in over a week.”
“She’s worried.”
“I know.”
“You should call her.” “I don’t want to hear her voice.”
“Why?”
“Because she cries.”
Melissa’s eyes filled again.
“She thinks I don’t notice, but I do. She speaks slowly, like she’s afraid one wrong word will make me fall apart.”
John looked down.
“I hate everyone treating me like I’m fragile.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“You hide things from me.”
His body went still. Melissa did not seem to notice.
“You take phone calls in the other room. You whisper to my mother. Every time I walk into a room, everyone stops talking.”
“We’re worried about you.”
“I know.”
“That’s all it is.”
She looked at him. For one terrible second, John believed she could see everything. The hospital room. Her mother’s tears. His promise. The truth he had carried home and buried beneath excuses. But Melissa merely lowered her gaze again.
“I heard you crying last night.”
John swallowed.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I was pretending.”
He stared at her. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t know how to comfort you.”
The admission cut deeper than he expected. Melissa rubbed her palms against her thighs.
“You’re losing things too.”
“I haven’t lost you.”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t say that.”
“You deserve better than this.”
“I decide what I deserve.”
“And you chose this?”
“I chose you.”
She shook her head.
“You chose me before.”
“Before what?”
“Before I became this.”
John shifted toward her.
“You are still the woman I love.”
“You don’t know who I am anymore.”
“I do.”
“I don’t even know who I am.”
Her voice cracked.
“I used to be happy.”
“You will be again.” “How do you know?”
“Because I’m not giving up on you.”
A tear traced the curve of her cheek.
“What if I’ve already given up on myself?”
John’s breath caught. He took her face gently between his hands. “Melissa, look at me.”
She did. There was no anger in her eyes now. Only exhaustion. A frightening, bottomless exhaustion.
“Have you thought about hurting yourself?”
Her expression changed. Not shock. Something closer to shame. John felt his heart begin to pound.
“Melissa.”
“I don’t want to die.”
The answer came too quickly.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
She pulled away from his hands.
“I said I don’t want to die.”
“Have you thought about hurting yourself?”
“I don’t know.”
John stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
“It means sometimes I want everything to stop.”
Her voice became smaller with every word.
“I want to sleep without dreaming. I want to wake up without remembering. I want to walk past a child without feeling like someone is cutting me open.”
John took her hand again.
“We need to call your therapist.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“You’ll treat me differently now.”
“I’m going to keep you safe.”
“I’m not going to do anything.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t.”
“I believe that you don’t want to die.”
Melissa looked at him.
“But you are hurting, and I’m not leaving you alone with that.” She looked toward the ground.
“I’m tired of people watching me.”
“Then let me sit beside you.”
“I’m tired of people asking if I’m okay.”
“Then you don’t have to say you are.”
“I’m tired of trying.”
John squeezed her hand.
“Then let me try for both of us for a while.”
Her face crumpled. He pulled her into his arms before the first sob escaped. Melissa clung to him.
“I’m sorry,” she cried.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I’m ruining everything.”
“No.”
“You would be happier without me.”
“Never.”
“You could have a real family.”
“You are my family.”
She buried her face against his chest. John held her as her body shook. Over her shoulder, the birthday celebration continued.
The little girl blew at the candles with help from her mother. Everyone cheered when the flames disappeared. Melissa heard it. Her fingers tightened in John’s shirt.
“I hate them,” she whispered.
John looked down at her. She immediately pulled back, horror spreading across her face.
“I don’t mean that.”
“I know.”
“I don’t hate them.”
“I know.”
“I don’t even know them.”
“You’re hurting.”
“What kind of person looks at a happy family and hates them?” “You don’t hate them.”
Melissa shook her head desperately.
“I hate that they have what I want.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It feels ugly.”
“It’s grief.”
“Stop calling everything grief.”
Her voice rose again.
“Grief is supposed to end.”
“Not quickly.”
“It has been months.”
“Months isn’t long.”
“It feels like years.”