By the Time You Read This

47

THE PILLS WERE ON her desk, little blue lovelies the soothing indigo of late evening. There were nearly thirty of them, just under a month’s supply, kindly prescribed by Dr. Bell when she had first started seeing him. What a blessing they were when sleep deserted you. When the night stretched ahead and the inside of your skull seemed lit up with floodlights, they soothed your brow like a mother’s warm touch.

A tall glass of water stood on the desk beside them, drops of condensation beading on the sides. Melanie lifted it up and put one of her Northern University notebooks underneath.

Saying goodbye was taking longer than she had expected. She had intended to write just a brief farewell and then be gone. But she found she could not do that to her mother. Or to Dr. Bell, who had tried so hard to help her.

She spread the pills out in a line on her desk, tiny blue pillows. Twenty-five of them. Using a ruler, she divided them into groups of five. She lingered over this process for a few minutes, arranging the pills into little star shapes.

Don’t ever blame yourself, she wrote, this is not your fault in any way. You were always a good mother to me, you always gave me everything I needed. Anyone else would have grown up into a happy, well-adjusted young woman.

She swept five pills off the desk into the palm of her hand and tossed them to the back of her throat. Two swallows of water and they were down.

I love you very much, she added in neat script, and paused.

A few moments went by, during which she just stared, not at the note, but through it. Then another five pills. She would have to be quick now, or she would just fall asleep and wake up feeling worse than ever. She didn’t want to wake up.

Dr. Bell, I don’t blame you for turning away from me. Some of the things I said to you were pretty disgusting and it’s understandable they would make you sick.

She tossed another five pills into her mouth and picked up the glass of water. The memory of the things she had told Dr. Bell last time made her choke. She got the pills down, but had an uncomfortable coughing fit and had to drink nearly all her water to calm it. Her eyes stung with tears. But I won’t cry, she told herself. I’m done with crying. Forever.

Being a good doctor, I guess you saw that I was beyond help, even though you tried so hard to help me and couldn’t bring yourself to tell me I was terminal.

Another five pills.

I’m sorry.

Another five pills.

So sorry for everything.