I just want to sleep. Stay beneath the water permanently.
I don’t want to face another day like this one… and with what happened, tomorrow is going to be so much worse. Why did I say yes? Why…
Lifting my hands out of the water, I grip the edges of the tub and force my body, which is trying to float away from the cool surface of the bathtub’s bottom, to push back downward. I don’t want to come up; I don’t want to breathe.
As my eyes close, my mind realizes that my body needs oxygen; it is begging for it, but I am too far gone within my own self to respond. So I ignore the ache in my lungs that is quickly morphing into an intense burning.
Around my head, the floating strands of hair begin to change. Until they are not hair at all, they change. Burgundy seaweed undulating in the saltiness around me. And atop the crimson seaweed is a coral crown. Where am I? My mind begins to tire, its functions slowing down because I am not breathing. If not by conscious choice, basic instinct should force me upward and out of the water, into life, but there are no instincts here, no need to breach the waves above. The waves…
Eventually, my grip weakens, my hands slide into the water, my body lifts from the smooth bottom, and I float—a dead, beautiful mermaid in the wetness that seems to be expanding larger and larger by the second until it is a great sea without horizon.
I am swimming now. Cutting through the water with ease, my arms are tucked against my sides; I speed toward some unknown draw in the distance. I give no thought to my legs, how they feel fused behind me, how they beat up and down methodically, propelling me through the water with untapped power.
The water feels wonderful, its saltiness filtering through my gills. It is a sensation that is so hard to describe—the feel of a dolphin’s wet skin, the flavor of salted potato chips, and the gritty and pleasant texture of sand.
“The water’s out of her lungs. Why isn’t she breathing?”
A frantic voice carries through the water; it is desperate and sad, but strangely, beneath that desperation is a thin thread of relief that makes no sense to me. Yet it is still nearly enough to make me turn around and abandon whatever is calling me forward. For a fleeting moment, I feel a hard, ridged surface against my back. But that doesn’t make sense. My back is sliding through the water with the rest of my body. It is facing toward the surface above. Or is the surface below me? I don’t know anymore.
“Clear!”
Paddles press against my chest, hard and unrelenting. They send a shockwave through my body; it pulses in the water around me, a different kind of current that is unnatural and jarring. And now I do not want to turn around and face such pain. I am here in this different place to escape agony and terror and grief… that much is obvious to me when everything else is confusing and peculiar.
“Clear!”
Another shock and I can no longer swim; around me, the ocean begins to dry, shrinking into a desert. The vibrant seaweed “hair” and coral crown have returned to wet and dull human hair. The tile against my back is now familiar. I hate that familiarity. I want the water back. So much.
“We’ve got a pulse!” The voice is triumphant, a sharp counterpoint to the very poignant sense of loss building inside my body.
“Leave me alone,” I mumble, my chest aching. “Just leave me alone.”
“Lena, what the hell were you thinking?” The male voice is so close to me, but I refuse to open my eyes, refuse to face the reality that I am back here, on dry land, where everything is ruined. “You promised me. You promised me that you would never try something like this. You aren’t allowed to leave me, Lena.”
And those are the words, the reason that I should never have said yes. You aren’t allowed to leave me, Lena.
Like I am a prisoner, chained to a hellish “happiness”… one that many other girls would die for. Maybe I did promise him, but that was so long ago, after I was caught with a sharp razor at my wrist, hiding in a dark closet—when I had left Truman and he’d left me and everything was shit and I’d just needed to feel. But then he had come back to me, like the end of some epic, cinematic love story, and I’d been his again and he’d been mine. And I hadn’t wanted to hurt myself anymore.
But promises are made to be broken, especially when love begins to hurt like hell.
Chapter 2
Resurrection
I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to wake up.
Bright afternoon light is pouring into the room. The night was terrible: an endless parade of nurses and doctors—all at Truman’s expense, I am sure. After the unpleasantness of darkness, I should welcome the light with open arms. I do not welcome it, that damn illumination that seems to scream “you’re still alive, Lena!” In fact, I want to punch it with my thumb tucked beneath my fingers so it breaks as I make brutal contact.
My brain hurts, pins and needles eviscerating gray matter behind my closed eyelids. If they knew how I really felt, they wouldn’t poke and prod me, insist I get up and walk around. But they don’t know how I feel. No one does.
Truman has been by my side nonstop, breathing down my neck every minute like his entire world revolves around me. A long time ago, maybe that’s what I’d wanted—a man who put me at the center of everything. Now, all I want is to be free—free from Truman, his family, and their expectations.
Yesterday, he’d asked me to marry him. He’d gotten down on one knee, dirtying his expensive suit, and he’d said those words—those four little words that sent my entire world crashing down: Will you marry me? And then his family had appeared, crawling out from nooks and crannies like the eavesdropping, ever-present parasites that they are. All so faux-loving and touchy.
And then I hadn’t known what to do. I hadn’t wanted to embarrass Truman or myself, ruin what should be a happy moment. So I’d said yes. I’d said yes and I had instantly known it was the worst kind of falsehood. It was the kind that betrayed my own body, rather than someone else’s.
No one understands. That’s why I’d stopped trying to explain a long time ago.
Truman is strong, good-looking, and sometimes thoughtful. But he is also clingy in the way that a man possesses. He wants to know where I am at all times, who I am with, when I’ll be home. I am tired of the constant checking in. It is suffocating, like I am walking around with a plastic shopping bag over my head, my lips adhering to the recycled material and then puffing away from my mouth until it once again collapses against my face. Maybe it would be easier if the bag tightened, kept me from ever drawing another intake of air.
His family, my “friends”—they all say he does it for me, to help keep me safe, safe from myself… Me—the orphan who had once cut herself to feel and escape oblivion for a little while.
So I am the victim and the victimizer. And Truman is my white knight.
But the real truth is that I’ve never wanted to hurt myself more than when I am with Truman. In the past year, our love has become my kryptonite. He is killing me.
Killing me with kisses.
And I don’t know how to leave him. Or even if I should leave him.
He is in my head; he has taken root. His words have burrowed into me like tendrils, sucking away the marrow of my confidence. I am not strong enough, I am not skilled enough, I cannot make it on my own. Those sentences are a looped audio in my head.
“Lena? Are you awake?” Truman’s mouth is at my ear, his hot breath an acrid thing, stinking of hospital coffee and cherry tobacco. He only smokes when he is truly stressed and his façade is cracking. I secretly love the smell, because it is the smell that means Truman isn’t his perfect self, he is less-than, out-of-control, and more real. And that makes me feel sane for no longer loving him, this wonderful man that every women fawns over.
They don’t see him for what he is, though.
A controller.
A handsome, sensual, possessive controller.
“Sweetheart, wake up. I’ve brought your ring. I love you, Lena. Please wake up.”
I close my eyes tighter, hoping he
will believe that I am still asleep. I have never been a good liar, but now I try harder to lie than I ever have. Despite my quiet state, I feel him slide the silver band crowned with the large diamond onto my ring finger. I have to suppress a shudder that threatens to give away that I am feigning sleep.
Eventually, Truman gives up and leaves the room. Perhaps to have another go at his pipe or to call his mistress—the one he doesn’t think I know about, the one he’s hidden so well from everyone else in his life so that he stays perfect in their eyes. She isn’t the first. I doubt she will be the last.
Yet I am the one he’s asked to marry him. Why? Because I am weak, easy to manipulate. I’ve never seen her, but I know that the other woman is strong—stronger than I will ever be. And Truman cannot control her, so he will not make her his wife. I am Mrs. Lucky.
The engagement ring feels heavy on my finger, like it carries the weight of a white picket fence, charming house, and three bonny children pulling at my skirt hem for attention.
***
I don’t know how much time has passed.
For once, Truman has not shown up again quickly. He has left me alone. I like the aloneness. It doesn’t make me want to hurt myself. Not anymore. Truman is my new oblivion, my dark closet, my razor blade. Once, I’d cut myself at his absence, now I cut myself at his presence.
“Time for your vitals.”
I must have fallen deeply asleep again. The pins and needles are back, ready to remind me what it means to still be alive. I hate the reminder, almost as much as I hate Truman’s incessant Post-It Notes at home, colorful and everywhere, invading my space and keeping me in a life of schedules and to-do lists. I can only imagine that there is a new note at home, large and pink and garish: “plan our wedding.” Like I would need a reminder of that. A reminder that I have pledged to marry a man who loves me in his own way… which will never be enough for me, never be real and true.
And again, I don’t want to wake up, but the lights come to life in the private hospital room anyway. They shine through my still-closed lids, bright and unyielding. I want them to stop, but they won’t listen to my mental shouts. No one listens. I just want out, out of everything.
“I’m going to sit you up. I know you’re probably still groggy. If you feel nauseous, let me know. I can give you something for that.”
This nurse sounds nice—not bossy and cruel like the last. Reluctantly, I part my eyelids and she smiles. It’s a wonderful sight, wide and displaying a mouth of straight, white teeth against rich, dark skin. Like cocoa dotted with floating marshmallows. And suddenly, I am thirsty. Thirstier than I have ever been. I taste salt water on my tongue and I gag, coughing violently.
My whole body is shaking and the nurse immediately places a hand on my back, rubbing it gently. “You’re okay, just let it pass and then we’ll have some water.”
The coughing fit goes on for several minutes. When it finally stops, I apologize. “I’m so sorry,” I croak out. The residual salt in my mouth gives me snapshot images of coral reef, of cleaving quickly through dark blue wetness, of another world that leaves a yearning in my belly.
I look at the nurse now fully and she looks at me. She seems taken aback when she looks into my eyes. Most people are; they’re unusual—as unusual as Liz Taylor violet. Only mine are not lavender; my eyes are a bright and gold-flecked cobalt. My third foster mother used to say they reminded her of a glitter-filled water globe, the way the metallic seems to float inside the iris.
“Now, don’t you have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen?”
I smile slightly, embarrassed, but I’ve heard the words before so they do not affect me as they once did. “Thank you.”
“They’re just like the ocean, aren’t they? I swear, I’ve never seen their equal.”
This too, I have heard before. “Thank you,” I breathe out again, my throat still sore from coughing. It is almost a shame—that I am numb to compliments that should bring me a kernel of joy.
“Oh, goodness! How about that drink? Here.” The nurse holds a thick plastic straw to my mouth and I take a long draught.
My lips release it quickly as the cool water shoots down my throat and seems to settle inside my lungs instead of where it belongs. The cough wants to come back, but I fight it.
“See, isn’t that better?” Her kind words are a blessing and I am grateful.
“It helped. Thank you.” I hesitate, reading her name tag for the first time. “Vera, could I have something warm to drink instead, though… maybe hot chocolate?”
Vera smiles then, but it’s apologetic. “You’re on clear liquids ‘til the morning, but I’ll see if I can’t sneak you up something. Won’t hurt you none, Ocean Eyes.” Her own eyes are twinkling now, reveling in her cleverness.
Ocean Eyes. Something about the endearing name seems familiar, like someone who once loved me had called me that. But that is impossible. I don’t remember my family—what they looked like or sounded like or where they were from—so it is impossible to recall some sweet nickname my father or my aunt might have called me.
As Vera is leaving, she turns around abruptly and looks at me. It is so fast an action that it surprises me. “I almost forgot.” She walks back to me, and in her hand is a long silver chain.
“This seems particularly fitting with those peepers of yours.” Vera smiles again, the expression still so full of kindness.
I know the necklace; I’ve worn it all my life. My middle name is carved into the back in flowing script. Meri. The silver starfish pendant is shabby and bent, half the decorative pearls missing, and the original chain is long gone, but I love it nonetheless.
I love this priceless yet worthless starfish, because it is all that I have of whatever home I came from.
“Where did you find this?” My fingers grasp the delicate jewelry and I fumble about, trying to unhook the clasp so I can thread it around my neck, where it nearly always is except for when I am showering. The drainage grate has such large holes in the master shower in Truman’s condo. I always worry I will lose it—that the chain will break and the starfish, and everything it means, will be whisked away down pipes and out into the ocean nearby. Maybe it would be a beautiful symmetry, to lose the sea-themed necklace to the sea.
“Your fiancé had it. He gave it to me as he passed the nursing station. Asked me to give it to you.”
“Where did he go?”
“Home to shower. He tried to wake you to say he was leaving, but I guess that sedative is still making you sleep pretty heavy.”
“I thought I had it on…” My voice is a whisper, so I don’t expect to be heard. The necklace is a dead weight in my hand now; it anchors me.
“Nope. He said you always take it off when you’re bathing and then they found you…” Vera’s words trail off, as if she is embarrassed to bring up the fact that I tried to drown myself.
“In the bathtub.” I finish the sentence for her, letting her know that I am okay; she doesn’t have to walk on eggshells. “I normally keep it on in the bath, though. So strange.”
I begin to fumble with the clasp again, and finally Vera takes pity on me.
“Here, give that to me. You just lift that pretty red hair of yours.”
I obey, handing her the necklace and lifting my maroon locks away from my shoulders. She has the chain around my neck in seconds. The weight of the starfish against my chest is soothing, no longer too heavy against my palm. Yet having it there is another reminder of something that dances along my subconscious, teasing me. Something about salt water… the ocean… swimming.
“Thank you,” I murmur, lost in thought. I feel I have thanked this woman more times than I can count. But she deserves the thanks; no one has ever been so kind to me. I know it is her job, but still… the kindness seeps through my pores and into my body, snaking toward my heart, nearly prying away some of Truman’s hold on me.
“Course, Ocean Eyes. Now you try and rest again. I’ll be here until six, and then back in the morning.”
“Oh… that other nurse won’t be back? She was kind of…”
“A sourpuss?” Vera smiles. “Yeah, Beverly doesn’t have the best bedside manner, that’s for certain. Now close those eyes and sleep some before that handsome man of yours comes back.” With that, the lights in the room die out and I am plunged into beautiful, bearable darkness.
As the door to my hospital room clicks fully closed, I whisper, though no one is around to hear me, “I don’t love Truman.” Tears begin to build at the corners of my ocean eyes. I do not fight them. Their saltiness is a strange, comforting river down my cheeks.
Chapter 3
Daydreamer
I’ve been in the hospital two days now.
The hours seem everlasting; the ticking of the large white-and-black clock hanging over the dry erase board is more akin to a hammer slamming against an anvil.
The psychiatrist says I am sane, because I have convinced him that I did not mean to harm myself; that I was simply tired, so very tired, and the tub was so warm and soothing. Truman is satisfied with this news. This news that I am sane. I wonder if he would marry me if I was damaged—a moody bipolar or a suicidal schizophrenic? Would one of these labels free me?
But I am none of those things.
I am sane.
Sanity seems a terrible thing to me now.
Because it means I cannot reflect on that experience in the tub, when the salt water flowed past my transformed body, and consider it real.
Truman had even brought up my history to Dr. Lenderman, the doctor he flew in from a mental health hospital in Florida… Port St. Lucie, or something like that. He has dragged into the light the singular red mark in my life ledger, the one that sent me to counseling. Truman and I had broken up after six months of being together and, feeling lost and unlovable and generally confused, I’d taken my foster father’s straight blade from his box cutter tool, and when he’d come looking for it, he’d found me curled up in my closet with an angry line of shallow engravings running the length of my left inner forearm.
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