Let Her Be (Hush collection)

by Lisa Unger

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Lisa Unger

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781542018043

  Cover design by Shasti O'Leary Soudant

  I move briskly down Second Avenue in the crisp autumn afternoon. The city hums, and the leaves are turning. My body pulses, my senses on high, taking it all in. The car horns, the chatter of people on their phones, pretty women striding to and from this and that, the aroma from Veselka, the church bells from St. Mark’s, even my own footfalls. It’s only recently that I’ve realized how precious is the mundane, the day-to-day.

  In fact, the sad truth is that I didn’t understand a thing about life until mine was spilling, black-red, onto the white tile of my bathroom floor. Maybe no one does. Maybe we can’t grasp the gift—the crazy, mixed bag of tricks—until it is being wrested from us. My shrink says that most of his patients who survive a suicide attempt report a moment of clarity, that there’s deep regret, a clawing back toward the light. I’m here to tell you that it’s true. You cling at the end, realizing too late the blessing of it all, even the pain.

  Unfortunately, I’ve never been one for half measures, or for leaving myself an escape hatch. I’m all in. So by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late.

  I turn onto St. Mark’s Place, where there’s a sudden quiet from veering off the avenue. Trees, pretty stoops, plants in window boxes. Closer to Broadway, this street is a circus of shops and cafés, but as you head east, it takes on a quaintness that I love. To think I might never have walked the city again.

  Most men shoot themselves, from what I understand. But I don’t have a gun, and like many urban millennials of privilege, I had no idea how to even get one. Online? A gun shop uptown? What kind of gun might I need? Too much. Also, it seemed a little distasteful—loud, so goddamned inconsiderate. I mean—my parents.

  Or they jump. Buildings, bridges, cliffs, I guess. Certainly there are plenty of iconic places in Manhattan to do the deed in a spectacular final leap, to make a gruesome point with my untimely death. But truth be told, I’m a bit of a wuss. That final step—the vertiginous spin, the anticipation of impact—can you imagine?

  A straight razor was easy enough to come by. A good one can be found online for about sixty-five bucks. No permits or background checks. It’s a hipster thing, apparently. You can get a straight razor, a badger-hair brush for shaving cream, all the cool accoutrements for the old-school shave.

  Sharpness is key. Razor sharp, literally. Then, a long cut from the middle of the forearm to the wrist, deep, fast. Horizontal across the wrist is a cry for help. Vertical is for real.

  It’s amazing how fast life drains, how the light around you dims, and that indefinable force that keeps you moving, striving, wanting, loving—it just slips away. A shade. A trick of light.

  By the time the regret set in, I was immobile in the warm tub, my body limp, all strength gone. In those final moments, I thought of my mother, the novel I was almost finished writing, my childhood dog. I thought of writers’ retreats and children I’d never have, of martinis on balconies in European cities I wouldn’t visit, and the sound of a fireplace crackling inside while snow falls outside.

  And I thought of what it felt like to love her.

  That feeling—nothing to do with her or with me really. That miraculous lift of the heart, that buzzing in the brain that is wild, romantic love. If I’d lived, I thought in the waning light, if I could have just found a way to let her go, I might one day feel that feeling again.

  And that’s when Anisa burst through the bathroom door, face pale, phone in her manicured hand. She wore that black coat I like, the one that ties at the waist. I think. The details are blurry. The whole thing felt like a dream at the time, and it feels even more like one now.

  911. What’s your emergency? I heard the voice, tinny on the air.

  My fr-friend. She stumbled over the word, and rightly so. I had never been a good friend to her. I was a shitty boyfriend. A worse ex. My friend, he—she gulped back a sob—slit his wrists. Oh God. There’s so much blood. She started crying. There was someone with her, someone who pulled her back from the pool of blood and bathwater on the floor.

  Who was that? He stayed in the shadows.

  Was it him? The new man in her life?

  The memory brings an unwelcome rush of anger, darkens my mood. Dr. Black tells me to focus on my breath when this happens, to examine the anger. Why are you so angry? What story are you telling yourself? Then release it. Let the feelings, the thoughts, pass like ships on a river. I do that. It works sometimes.

  And so, today, by the time I get to the café, the rush of feeling has faded. I stop at the entrance and hold the door for an elderly woman exiting. I gaze past her, looking for my friend Emily. Maybe I’m early.

  But thoughts have a life of their own, don’t they? They’re not always ships on a river. Sometimes they’re gremlins.

  As I’m searching for Emily, still holding the door, a young mother pushes a weeping toddler by in his stroller—his face a mask of unhappiness, wet with copious tears. And his sobs remind me of Anisa crying. Which, sadly, became a familiar echo in our final weeks. I made her cry a lot as our relationship entered its death spiral.

  Once, I made her scream. Just stop, Will, she shrieked. You’re hurting me.

  I still search for the details of that now-distant evening, as Dr. Black encourages me to do. What did I say? Why was I so angry? Did I get physical with her?

  But all I can remember is the fear on her face, the dread and despair in her voice. I have no memory of myself in that moment at all. I wish I could recall, because that’s the last time we were together, before my suicide attempt.

  All I know for certain is that the authorities were called that evening.

  Not to save me from myself.

  But to save Anisa from the man I became in that moment.

  I remember afterward, though. The long, miserable hours in a city holding cell—wow, talk about how the other half lives. Before that very long night, I’d never met a person who thought it was a good idea to tattoo his whole face. My father bailed me out, looking old and confused. What happened, son?

  Apparently, assault was on the table. Stalking. Anisa didn’t press charges, but she took out a restraining order against me.

  That’s when I knew for sure that it was over between us. And this world? Without her? No thanks.

  But when I called her, even after the horrible things I did and said, she came. Anisa, I told her voice mail before I put the razor to my skin, I’m sorry. I can’t do this without you. I just wanted to say goodbye.

  Pathetic, I know. Downright maudlin. But that’s what I was, a suicide cliché.

  She saved my life. I hadn’t been a good friend to her. But in the end, she was a good friend to me.

  I slip into the warmth of the café, unwrap my scarf.

  My phone pings in my pocket; I pull it out to look. My mom. Understandably, she worries. Hope you’re taking care of yourself, sweetie. We love you.

  When someone’s life
really goes badly—drugs, suicide attempts, breakdowns—everyone looks at mom and dad. What did they do wrong? How did they fuck up? But don’t blame my parents. They are kind people who love me well and always have. They were there, covering the bills and taking turns sleeping in the chair by my bed. After the acute crisis had passed, there were six weeks in a psychiatric hospital upstate, and that wasn’t cheap. They stayed in a vacation rental nearby, but they didn’t hover. They came in for the family sessions, but otherwise they let me work my shit out with the doctors. There was some detox; I’d been drinking too much.

  My mother, of course, blames herself: I softened too many blows. We always came in for the rescue.

  Okay, yeah, I see that. But how can you fault your parents for wanting to airbag the big, ugly, hard-edged world? Especially when they’d already lost a child. I am responsible for my life. I am doing the work I need to do on myself. It’s a mantra my shrink gave me.

  There she is, tucked in at a corner table, facing out across the restaurant. I nod to the hostess and make my way over.

  Today is a new day, I remind myself. And I’m a new man. That dark night of the soul, when I thought the world wasn’t worth living in without Anisa, it has passed. And I see clearly the mistakes I made—in my relationship with her, in my life before that. I’m in therapy, on medication. I have nearly finished my novel and have some interest from agents. I’m on my way to being that best version of myself. The one Anisa and I always talked about.

  I’ve written to her, to tell her about it.

  But she won’t respond to my emails. Or return my calls. Not even a text.

  Okay. Yeah. I get that. She’s moved on. We both have. It’s probably for the best.

  She might not forgive you in the way that you want, my doctor said sagely. And you don’t need to hear the words to have closure. Sometimes silence is the only answer we get, and we have to accept that.

  That’s hard, though, isn’t it?

  Emily is the sweetest of Anisa’s friends, my ally against the others, who quickly turned against me. Truth be told, I think she might have had a little bit of a crush on me. Emily’s a poet who works in children’s publishing—bookish with round specs, flowy clothes, leather satchels. She moonlights as a social-media maven for authors, helping her clients create their online presence. I hear she’s pretty great at it.

  This coffee date is about, ostensibly, my novel. Emily has an agent friend, someone she thinks will like my work.

  I stand beside her table for a second while she frowns down at the blank page before her. Her face brightens when she finally looks up and sees me.

  “Will,” she says, rising. “You look great.”

  “So do you.”

  She does. She’s lovely with her strawberry-blonde curls and constellation of freckles, her icy-blue eyes. She wears a rose-colored peasant blouse that highlights her coloring. The neckline gapes a bit, offering a tantalizing glimpse of flesh.

  I take her into my arms, and we hug mightily, like people who have almost lost each other. And I guess that’s the truth of it.

  I hear my dad’s voice: Anisa was not the last Coca-Cola in the desert, buddy. Move on. My dad is a practical guy, not one to cling to the past. The fact that I’m noticing how pretty Emily is—the first time in a while I’ve looked at anyone that way—makes me think he might be right.

  “How’s everything?” she asks, pulling away, sitting. “How are you feeling?”

  I hate that question.

  It has such an inherent heaviness to it, almost an implied judgment, don’t you think? Like: Here I sit on my pedestal, looking down at you drowning. From this distance, I can offer only a sympathetic wince.

  Who’s kidding whom? We’re all drowning, aren’t we?

  I don’t want to be peevish. People mean well. Most of them.

  “Better,” I say, sitting across from her. It’s warm inside, a lovely contrast to the cool fall weather. “Getting there.”

  This answer seems to make people happy. Because, really, there’s nothing anyone can do for you in this life. They can’t haul you out of the mire of your own dark thoughts or circumstances or ease your suffering. Only you can do that.

  Emily watches me with a poet’s eyes, kind and seeking truth. Her smile is bright and sincere. A friend. Truly.

  “I’m so glad, Will,” she says, puts her hand on top of mine. It’s warm and soft. The noise around us—hushed voices, spoons against saucers, low ambient music—swells a bit in the warm silence between us.

  “So,” she says.

  We chat a little about my novel, about her poetry. She slides a business card across the table, the agent she told me about. A guy she knows from college who’s looking for “literary thrillers” like the one I’m writing. Though she hasn’t read my novel yet, Emily’s a fan of my short fiction, reads my blog. I enjoy her poetry—it’s smart and dark. She has a keen eye, an unexpectedly sharp wit.

  Emily has had a smattering of publications in small but notable journals. Her poetry echoes back to me sometimes when I least expect it. Like this one:

  dismay sits

  at my breakfast table

  a noxious guest

  spilling the coffee and getting jam in places

  i’ll have a hard time cleaning.

  i hope she doesn’t invite herself to lunch.

  and dinner too.

  She’s saying something about my blog now. How moving she found my entry on clawing my way back to some kind of normal after my—what are we calling it? My break. That’s how Dr. Black likes to refer to it.

  As if I decided to take a hiatus, a sabbatical—from being alive.

  “Speaking of blogs,” I say. “Have you seen Anisa’s?”

  Emily raises her eyebrows.

  “Who hasn’t?” she answers after a beat. “She’s on fire. I think she’s on the verge of a big book deal. That’s the rumor, anyway.”

  “Oh?”

  There’s a lash of something dark, which I quickly quash. It’s that thing inside. When it rears its head, that’s when I make my worst mistakes. Dr. Black and I talk about it endlessly, this part of me that becomes activated when I’m angry. I breathe through it now. I’m getting better at that. In fact, since Anisa and I broke up—or she broke up with me—I haven’t felt it much at all until now. That spin. That feeling of not being in control of myself. She wasn’t good for you, my mother has said more than once. It’s true that she brought out the worst in me at the end. But that’s not the whole truth.

  “I love her post from this morning,” Emily says, her voice an octave higher than normal. “She just looks so . . . happy.”

  But the word darkens her a bit, makes her go internal. She holds out her phone.

  There’s Anisa’s face. Angelic. Thick russet waves of hair frame the valentine of rosy cheeks and dimpled chin. Big, thickly lashed eyes, full lips. And yes, that smile. Radiant with happiness. I know that look very well, better than most, I’d venture. For a while, I was the one to put it on her face.

  Just a year ago, pretty Anisa writes, I was in a dark place—a rat in a maze. Today, the day dawned clear and crisp, and I greeted the rising sun on my yoga mat. Then, for two uninterrupted hours, I wrote. This is the dream. You can have it too. #yogaatsunrise #lovethesimplelife #amwriting

  “Yeah,” I say. The word catches in my throat a little. “Amazing.”

  Emily turns the phone back and stares at the screen for a minute. Seems to rethink her actions. That dark place—Anisa doesn’t just mean the finance job she hated or the writing dreams that lay fallow. She means me. Our relationship. She called it toxic. I was poison, she said. Of course, she was right. I see that now.

  “I’m sorry,” Emily says.

  I lift a hand and shake my head.

  “I’m happy for her,” I say. “Really.”

  Love the Simple Life, that’s her very popular new blog, soon to be a book, soon to be a podcast, possibly a television show—according to a whirlwind of social-
media rumors.

  So since that dark day when she found me bleeding out in my tub, Anisa has changed her life.

  She left her soul-crushing—but oh so very lucrative—job in finance and has moved away from the city. She and her new boyfriend, Parker, have built a tiny house, of all things, and are apparently living said simple life. They’ve pared down to just thirty-three possessions apiece. They’re growing their own food, composting. Anisa has taken up knitting.

  She posts one inspirational saying a day, one brief yoga practice (You can do it anywhere, anytime!), which she sketches in black and white, and one writing exercise (You have fifteen minutes for your writing, don’t you?).

  Parker posts vegan recipes and money-saving advice. His blog: Parker Pinches Pennies. (If that doesn’t make you want to puke, we can’t be friends.) They have nearly a million followers between them on Instagram, and they are apparently “simple life” influencers. Their website, lovethesimplelife.com, gets—according to one of Anisa’s giddier posts—thousands of unique visitors a day.

  “Me too,” Emily says. “I’m happy for her too.”

  She takes a sip of her herbal tea. The waitress hasn’t come again since I sat, so I haven’t ordered anything. Emily, noticing, offers me a sip of hers, but I wave her away.

  “Have you talked to her?” I ask, trying to sound casual. My shoulders are tense; I try to release them. Emily stows her phone, her face going a bit still.

  “Actually, you know,” Emily says, leaning back, “no.”

  “Not at all?”

  She stiffens a little. Is she lying? Or just uncomfortable with the conversation?

  “Brianna and I were just talking about that the other night,” Emily says carefully.

  The waitress, a slender tattooed woman with eggplant-colored hair, stops by, and I order a cappuccino, though I’m supposed to avoid caffeine. People who have trouble managing their anger don’t need stimulants of any kind.

  “You were saying . . . ,” I prompt Emily when the waitress is gone again.

  “Well, like, no one’s talked to her in ages. The occasional text, an email here and there. But it’s like she’s just trying to shed everyone and everything from her old life. You know she just left? No goodbye gathering or anything like that. She just made the announcement one day on Insta, and by then they’d already left the city.”