a single slice

In July, I was suicidal. I had been sinking into the hole of depression for years, and the pandemic had expedited my descent. Abilities fell away like the layers of an onion; first, I stopped eating, then I stopped replying to texts, then I stopped talking, then I stopped interacting with others altogether. Each new dawn was the biggest betrayal. How dare the sun come up when I was unable to move? How dare the world keep spinning when mine had come to a screeching halt?

I only knew it was Friday because my phone told me; each day blurred into the next and time lost all meaning. It was eleven in the morning. The tears started to fall the moment I opened my eyes. It hurt so damn much just to be alive.

I probably tried to eat something. I definitely did not succeed. Feeding myself was unnecessary; it only prolonged this wasted life.

The only thing that brought me any joy was driving. Summer in Seattle is a glorious thing, rich and warm and simmering with possibility. The evergreens tilt their sturdy, silent selves towards the sun, relaxing for the first time in months, feeling their winter resilience finally rewarded. Boats flock to the lakes. Every blue is the bluest blue you’ve ever seen. The entire city emerges from their homes, tentatively poking a cold toe into the water, hope burbling as hibernation ends. We are met with a feeling of renewal and kinship. Summer in Seattle feels like coming home.

That year, summer was choking me. The corpses of that summer are hot and bright, my life constantly dampened like I’d looked at the sun for too long. It was so much easier to just keep my eyes closed.

Mid-July, the earth hanging at its zenith. I got in the car and turned the volume up as loud as it would go.

I think I spent the day at the grassy beach, or maybe on the crest of the hill looking out over the water. I drank vodka and diet lemonade out of a reusable Nalgene from REI. I brought a book, or maybe a notebook, but never cracked the spine of either. I couldn’t bear to experience the story of my own life; why would reading about one be any different? It was hot. I was sweating. The grass left marks on the backs of my thighs, angry dents that I let dig in too deep. Earbuds in, volume even louder than in the car, so loud I could hardly understand the lyrics. Anything to feel something. I watched the people around me as if I were underwater. They moved through different air than I did, laughed at things I couldn’t understand. The way they touched each other, like they were permanent. I was not permanent. I was fading.

I called you when the vodka wore off, the liquid buzz oozing out, leaving a drooping shell behind. You picked up after three rings, launching into a flurry of excuses before stopping abruptly after hearing my voice. There was no life in it. You quickly acquiesced, saying you’d be home for the rest of the night.

High summer in the North means the light never dies. It must have been nearing nine before I found myself on your street, running on autopilot, no memory of how I’d gotten there. After sixteen years, I could have made it to your house with my eyes closed.

It took everything in me to walk up your stairs. There are twenty-three of them; I counted. Each step felt dragging bags of lead. Literal dead weight. My muscles had atrophied from lack of use; my desperately poor nutritional status was breaking me down from the inside out. I had to close my eyes on your front stoop, catch my breath.

You took so long to get to the door that I nearly turned around and left. When you finally materialized, the expression on your masked face melted from expectant delight to outright fear in record time. We stood there for a moment, so far from the carefree children we used to be. Then you grabbed my hand and tugged me into a quick hug, jerky and tight.

In your backyard, you led me to a chair, the pale green one I’d curled up in so many times. The firepit was crackling in a slow rhythm, replacing the day’s dying heat with the remembrance of evenings gone by, two little girls in the yard, all the world before them. You brought me a glass of wine. I drained it. Your brow furrowed. You brought me another one.

I don’t think I said a single word. You kept up the conversation like it was with your reflection, counting down the minutes until the pie was ready. It was marionberry, you said excitedly. You’d picked them yesterday.

The sky oranged and pinked and purpled, drifting off to sleep in the slow but steady manner of a resigned toddler. I downed rosé and turned down the cheese you offered me. At the first sign of a breeze, you brought me a blanket, the thick wool one from your couch. It was covered in cat hair, just as it always was. Your chatter filled the air, your words floating off into the night. Gentle and soft.

When the oven dinged, you jumped up like a runner at the gun. The kitchen came alive with the scents of berry and sugar and flour, warmth and safety tucked in alongside the crust. You threw the windows open, allowing the scents to drift out to me. Something tugged from deep inside me. The corner of my mouth twitched, the preliminary phase of something akin to a smile. You beamed.

You cut into the pie and handed me a single slice.

~~~

Some time later, having survived, I called you again. This time, you must have been able to hear the smile in my voice. I got in the car and arrived just as the last dregs of the sun were seeping from the sky. You met me on the porch with a plate and a fork.