See Me Not

by Janelle Harris

  I cast my eyes around outside, taking in as much of the street as I can. A police car sits a couple of hundred meters away, and two policemen with notepads are speaking to some people stopped on the street corner. A second ambulance is parked outside a humble fruit and veg shop. The lights are switched off, and all the doors are closed. The ambulance sleeps, just waiting to carry Jane’s body away. Tape cordons off that portion of the street, stretching from one side to the other as if it wraps around an invisible box. I can’t see clearly, but I imagine nothing more than a white sheet hides Jane’s lifeless body from the curious spectators lurking for a glimpse of the girl who jumped. I’m sure some of the people waiting are witnesses, the ones who wear the most solemn expressions. The ones who saw too much and will never be able to wipe their memory clean. The rest are simply nosy busybodies. They’ll go about their lives in an hour or two. They’ll read the story in the paper and get their thrills from telling a neighbour or friend that there were at the scene when it happened. Few will think about Jane again in a day or a week. I will never forget.

  A guy in uniform from the local coffee shop carries a round tray dotted with paper cups with steam coming out the top. People nod and smile and take a complimentary hot beverage gratefully, but no one speaks. Even the most nosy and curious people don’t chance words.

  ‘I’m not the only one in shock,’ I say, pointing towards the world outside the safety of the back of the ambulance. ‘The people who saw her fall must be shaken.’

  ‘Yeah, I think everyone is pretty freaked out.’ David sighs. ‘It’ll make the news, they reckon,’ David explains. ‘We should probably be prepared for that.’

  ‘They reckon? Who’s they?’

  ‘The police. They say to expect journalists knocking on our door in the coming days. They’ll be after the story. I suppose it’s not every day a body falls out of the sky on the streets of Dublin.’

  ‘Yeah. I guess not.’

  ‘Maybe we should go away? We could stay in a hotel down the country. Just until all this blows over.’ David wilts. ‘There’ll be a new story in a few days.’

  ‘Someone else will have killed themselves by then, eh?’ I sour.

  ‘No. God no, Emma. That’s not what I meant. I just … Look, I’m worried about you. I want to protect you. I’m doing the best that I can here.’

  I lift my head and press my lips against David’s open mouth. ‘Just stay beside me. Then I’ll be okay. We don’t need to run away.’

  ‘But the journalists?’

  ‘They just want a story, David. Not blood. I can handle a few questions.’

  ‘Actually,’ the paramedic pipes in. ‘If you’re able for it, the police would like a word. You can do it now, or they’ll come to the hospital later. Whichever you’re most comfortable with.’

  ‘Later,’ I say, taking one last, long look at the street. ‘Can we go now, please?’

  ‘Sure.’ The paramedic smiles. ‘I’ll let the police know which hospital we’ll be in.’

  I watch as she walks into the distance and taps one of the many policemen scattered about on the shoulder.

  ‘Are Kim and Andy here?’ I ask, relieved to finally be alone with my husband.

  David shakes his head. ‘They’re on the way. I called them.’

  ‘Did they tell you where I’d be?’

  ‘I think they were going to, but I just couldn’t wait. As soon as I knew where you were, I had to come.’

  ‘How did you figure it out?’

  ‘You left me clue without even knowing it.’ David smiles. ‘You left my laptop logged into my emails. As soon as I knew you read the address that Andy found, I knew you’d go searching. I just wasn’t too sure what you’d find.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I admit. ‘I should have told you. I’m sorry if I freaked you out.’

  ‘But you’re okay now. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.’

  David kisses my free hand, and the tears twinkling in his eyes pinch my heart.

  ‘Here …’ David unbuttons his coat and reaches inside to fish out an envelope. It’s small, white, and my name is stretched across the front in handwritten, capital letters. ‘It’s from Amber. I mean Jane. The police will probably want to see it, but I thought you’d like to read it first.’

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I say, my fingers fanning the white paper, and I recognise the writing. It’s David’s writing. Not Jane’s.

  ‘Amber left it for you. Well, sort of.’

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘I didn’t see any letter.’

  ‘Well, it’s for you. It has your name on it.’ David trembles as he points at the envelope, awkwardly.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ David whispers.

  I poke my finger into the tiny gap on one side under the flap and tear the envelope open, taking care not to damage the note inside. My hands tremble, and my chest tightens as I pull out a piece of white printer paper. It’s folded in half and typed in easy to read, large black font. A little ink is smudged around the edges where the paper was forced into the envelope before the ink had time to dry.

  Confused and disturbed by the words I’m reading, I drop the paper. It falls onto my knees, the letters blurring and no longer forming words as I stare down at it.

  ‘What is this?’ I say; my eyes switch to my husband’s face in search of clues.

  ‘They’re messages that people have left for you on Facebook. I printed them off …’ David begins.

  ‘No,’ I cut him off, pointing at the paper. ‘These aren’t normal messages. These are condolences. Some of these say RIP, for fuck’s sake. I don’t understand. Why would you show me this? What even is it?’

  ‘Emma, I have no doubt Jane intended to push you off the rooftop today. Or if not, she certainly wanted to drag you with her.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’ I exhale. ‘But she didn’t. I’m still alive. I’m still here. Why are people posting messages saying they’ll miss me? Do people think I’m dead?’

  ‘Yes.’ David sighs. ‘Yes, people do. Your Facebook page says you passed away.’

  ‘What?’ I flinch. ‘That’s fucked up.’

  David nods. ‘Yeah. It is. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously when you told me about all this internet troll stuff. I had no idea how twisted Amber really was. It’s so messed up; I can’t really get my head around it.’

  ‘David, why are you showing me this?’ I shake my head.

  ‘Because this is what the world would look life if you weren’t in it. Read on, Emma. These messages are heart breaking. People would be distraught without you. There are almost a hundred messages. A hundred people whose lives would instantly be worse if you were gone. I’ve never been able to get you to understand that before, but maybe you will understand now.’

  I drop my eyes onto the paper and read more, my gut twisting and my heart breaking with each word.

  ‘What does the next message say,’ David asks when I shake my head and sniffle back tears.

  I reach for his hand, and his fingers instinctively slip between mine. I pull my eyes away from the blurry words and stare at the worried face of the man I love. ‘It says I’m going to be okay.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  DAVID

  I wake before Emma every morning. It’s become a ritual, but I usually pretend to be sleeping when she finally stirs. I don’t want her to know the nights are long and I’m restless, and when I do finally drift off, nightmares poison my sleep.

  The hospital phoned yesterday, and Emma took the call. I watched on as she nodded and listened, running a single finger under her eyes every so often to catch a stray tear. Before Emma hung up, before her eyes found mine, and before she opened her mouth to say a word, I knew what she was going to tell me. The look on her face said it all. The results of the autopsy were back. The hospital confirmed the news that Emma and I were desperate never to hear. Jane was pregnant when she died.

  The hospital also explained
that, as Jane’s only living relative, Jane’s body would be released to Emma—if she was happy to receive it. I voiced my objection and disgust, but Emma ignored me. She busied herself making tea, and she found a packet of biscuits in the cupboard. We sat, drank, and ate. We didn’t talk. I watched Emma’s hands shake as she raised the teacup to her lips and sipped on the too-hot-for-comfort beverage, and as if I could see straight into Emma’s head, I knew exactly what she was thinking. She was thinking of Danny. She was thinking of how much she wished things could be different.

  Emma reacted how I imagine many people would when told their deceased, estranged sister was coming to them. She poured some mid-morning wine and made a few phone calls. Within a couple of hours, the local funeral director and the priest were both on their way to our home. A home Jane had never stepped foot inside. I looked on, unable to partake in the charade. Jane almost destroyed my wife, and now, we’re supposed to butter up a few sandwiches and have a wake. Have a send-off for a woman who nearly split us up. If Jane had her way, I’d be saying goodbye to Emma.

  I watched Jane or Amber or whatever the hell her name was fall to her death right in front of me. I watched her tumble off the roof like discarded rubbish. Dragging my child that grew inside her with her. Sometimes, at night when I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling, Emma asks me if I’m okay. And I lie and say I am. Sometimes, I ask her the same question, and she lies too.

  By the time the morning of Jane’s funeral rolls around, Emma’s and my relationship has deteriorated to mere snippets of conversation as we pass each other in the hall. Today, I’m even more exhausted than usual. I pull on a suit and tie. It’s dark navy—so close to black I doubt anyone will notice the subtle difference. The crisp, white shirt and charcoal tie I pair it with darkens it even more. It’s taken me four attempts to get the knot in my tie to stick, and even now, it’s uneven and doesn’t sit right. But there’s no point in trying again as my hands are shaking too badly to get it right. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and a stranger looks back at me. He’s wearing my face and a suit that I’ve worn to work often, but he’s not me. I don’t want him to be me. I don’t want to be a man with a sad heart and dull eyes.

  Emma has been in the bathroom for a long time, so I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the key rattle in the lock. Emma appears and looks beyond elegant, but I can tell she’s on edge. She’s wearing a figure-hugging black dress that stops just below her knees. Her legs are slim and defined. She’s thinner than ever, and it’s unnerving, but I’m far more worried about the state of her head today.

  ‘We need to be in the church by ten thirty,’ she mumbles as she collects some pearls out of her jewellery box on her dresser. ‘The coffin is closed.’ Emma coughs and clears her throat. ‘So there won’t be many people coming up to offer their respects.’

  I had no doubt the coffin would be anything other than closed. It’s a funeral, not a horror show. And for the first time, I realise I’m bitter. I’m angry that life can be so easily extinguished. One moment, you’re standing on a rooftop, and a change of footing later, you’re gone from this world. Life is so fragile. Why does nobody ever notice?

  ‘Okay. We should leave soon. I’ll drive, yeah?’ I suggest even though my head is foggier than if I’d been drinking the morning away.

  Emma eagerly agrees, and moments later, we leave our home and get ready to say goodbye to a woman who has changed our lives forever.

  We park close to the church gates, and despite the artic conditions, it’s a relief to get out of the car because I’m desperate for fresh air. The last time I walked this footpath was at Danny’s funeral. I certainly didn’t think I’d be walking this same path again so soon.

  I’m not religious. I don’t attend church, and I never pray. But today, I find myself wondering if there is a God, and if there is, I want to thank him for sparing my wife and plead with him to help her get through this in a way I’m not sure if she can.

  The church is empty, but it comes as no surprise. There’s a harpist perched ready to play in one of the side aisles, and she catches my eye and smiles, unsure. Emma and I take a seat in the first pew. The priest told us that was where we should sit, being family. I wanted to scream, but I smiled and held my wife’s hand as we spoke about readings and prayers as if this was all normal.

  I take one more look around the silent church, drop my head, close my eyes, and will the next hour to be over. Within minutes, the pews behind us begin to fill. Soon, people are in the aisles, and someone behind us mumbles that there isn’t any more standing room inside. Mourners are spilling out the doors into the church grounds.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I whisper into Emma’s ear.

  ‘Everyone is here to say goodbye.’

  ‘All these people can’t possibly know Jane,’ I say. ‘There must be a couple of hundred people here.’

  Emma looks up at me and smiles. I haven’t seen her smile so brightly in years. I see a spark of the teenage Emma who I feel in love with, and for a split second, I believe that girl is still in there.

  ‘They don’t all know Jane personally. But they know a Jane of their own. They know someone who left this world too soon. Or they’ve been suicidal themselves. They’re here to say goodbye to Jane and to make a stand against suicide,’ Emma explains softly

  ‘How do they know? How did they know to come today?’ I shake my head.

  ‘I answered the journalists’ emails.’ Emma’s smile grows even wider, and for a second, I forget to breath as I remember how beautiful she looks when she’s happy. ‘I gave them copies of the letter.’

  ‘What letter?’ I ask. ‘Did Jane leave a suicide note? I didn’t see it.’

  ‘No. The letter isn’t from Jane. It’s for her. The national papers printed it. Most of the smaller presses did too. Jane is trending on Twitter. Can you believe it?’ Emma says. ‘Hashtag be strong for Jane. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?’

  I pull out my phone, and despite being in a church, I search for the hashtag. The hits are endless but taking pride of place is a link to a letter printed three days ago in the Irish Press.

  Dear Jane,

  You died on a winter’s day when snow was scattered on the ground. You were thirty-three years old. You were my sister. And you took your own life.

  I wonder how you felt when you got up that morning and you knew you would never face another day. How did you feel knowing you would never again wrap up in a warm coat with a hat, scarf, and gloves and walk through crunchy snow under your boots? Did you stop to think what you were giving up by giving up? How did you feel knowing you would never see another sunrise or gaze up at another starry night sky? Never feel blissful summer sun kiss your skin until you are golden brown. Never swim in the sea, never see another movie, never eat until you think your belly might explode. Never. Live. Another. Day.

  I read somewhere once that more than seven billion people are on this planet. Yet it is possible for someone to feel completely alone. I understand. I bet many of the seven billion people understand what loneliness feels like.

  I am sorry that you will forever more be a statistic. I am sorry that you won’t be a name, just a number. A number among the other hundreds of people who take their own lives around the world. Every. Single. Day. I am sorry that you will never grow old. But mostly, I am sorry for you. I am sorry for the pain inside your head, and I’m sorry that the only way you knew how to make it stop was to make your heart stop beating too.

  And I am so, so sorry that you won’t be the last.

  With love,

  Emma

  ‘Emma, you amaze me.’ I smile, sliding my phone back into my inside jacket pocket. ‘I don’t think I could ever forgive Amber the way you have.’

  Emma breaks away from me, and her eyes meet mine with intensity so fierce I swear I can feel the heat radiating from her pupils. ‘I don’t forgive her. I think I understand her, on some crazy level—which scares me a little. But I didn’t deserve her venom. I never
asked to be born. I never asked for Danny’s love. But she also never asked to be abandoned and rejected. I hate Amber Hunter, the crazy bitch who tried to ruin my life, but I feel sorry for Jane Burke, the girl who lost her whole world. And. Her. Mind.’

  I reach across Emma’s knee to find her hand resting on top. My fingers slip between hers effortlessly, and I squeeze gently. ‘I don’t forgive her,’ Emma reiterates, turning her head away from me to look straight ahead. ‘But I finally forgive myself.’

  For the first time since I was a little boy, I allow myself to cry. My body quivers and shakes as tears stream like salty raindrops down my cheeks. Maybe I’m crying for Amber and for the colleague I thought was a friend. Maybe I’m crying because no one should die because life makes him or her unhappy. Or maybe I’m crying because, for the first time in longer than I can remember, my wife wraps her arms around me and cradles me close to her and tells me she looks forward to growing old together. And I believe her.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Six weeks later

  EMMA

  The waiting room for Dr Brady’s office has a unique smell. It’s always been that way; a cocktail of mentholated spirits and something acidic like lemon juice. Sitting here now, with my legs crossed and my arms folded, I feel a little like a scared kid again. It’s painfully silent. Only one other patient is waiting, and she’s not a talker. David hasn’t arrived yet. I texted him to confirm the appointment time twice yesterday and once this morning, but he didn’t reply. I can’t help but worry he’s not coming. Things have been hectic for him with his huge promotion in work, taking over Jane’s role and overseeing the merger of the Dublin and Boston office. Maybe he hasn’t had time to check his phone. Or maybe his mother has been in his ear, telling him to stay away from me. My mother has certainly been offering me the same advice. She can’t seem to get past David’s mistake, and she’s pleaded with me not to stay married to a man like my father.