Looking for Jane (103)

Maggie raises herself out of the tub and shivers slightly in the cold air. She flips open the little box with a wet finger, leaving moist spots on the yellow cardboard. She picks out a razor, holding it gingerly in the pruned palm of her hand. There is a stillness in the air now, the heavy mist of the hot water has clouded the windowpane and condensed on the glass jars and bottles beside the sink. She hears a car horn from far away, but it is well beyond this dream.

Maggie swallows the lick of fear that has climbed up her throat and settles herself back down into the tub. She looks at her wrists. Her skin is soft from the bath, and she has no fat on her body anymore. That will make it easier.

It.

The thought hovers like a hummingbird in the air above Maggie’s head as she runs her thumb over the flat edge of the blade. This might even be easy. Likely painless. And then it will be nothing. She needn’t worry about anything beyond that. The thought settles itself down deep in Maggie’s core, warm and reassuring.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but it seems intuitive. Maggie lets out one last breath, then runs the blade along her wrist, pressing down as hard as she can, grimacing against the welcome sting. She doesn’t stop, even when her stomach feels as though it’s flipping over. Even when the blood pours into the bathwater, unfurling like red smoke beneath the surface. Even when every instinct in her body is screaming at her to stop.

Stop! she hears.

Soon.

Maggie!

It’s done now anyway.

Maggie lets the blade fall from her slippery fingers as the bathwater turns redder with each passing moment. She leans back against the hard ceramic.

Now she’s floating. She’s a child again, and all she can smell is roses. She can taste lemonade and hear the rustling of the maple trees. Her brother calling out her name across the garden. She plucks one of the roses. A thorn pricks her finger, and she sees a red pearl bloom on her skin. A woman’s voice, probably her mother’s, asking her what she’s doing. Grabbing her by the hand, demanding an answer, as always.

Maggie, you promised.

I am dying, Mother. And you cannot stop me.

Maggie smiles and slips out of her grasp as she fades into the fog of the past.

The bathtub is filling with blood as the curls of dark crimson waft from her wrist. The razor blade drops and sinks down into the dark water. She closes her eyes and her head swivels to the side, knocking the soap dish off the edge of the tub. It falls to the tile floor and shatters.

“Maggie?” Jack’s voice calls from downstairs.

Silence.

Moments later, a key jiggles in the lock. Jack is on the other side of the door, shouting to someone.

The door opens, and a gasp shoots through the misty air of the bathroom.

In a single lunge, Jack is at the edge of the bathtub.

“Lorna! Lorna, get my kit!” he screams over his shoulder.

Jack holds Maggie’s wrist tightly in one hand, his thumb pressing the wound. He reaches down into the tub and there’s an unmistakable plunk of the plug being pulled, the deep grumble and sucking sounds of the water swirling down into the drain.

“Maggie!” Jack gasps. “Maggie. Oh my God. Maggie, please don’t…”

Lorna bursts into the room, a large black case in her arms. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find it right away! It wasn’t in the closet and I had to look.” She gasps. “Oh my God, Jack. Is she…?”

“There’s a pulse but it’s weak. Quickly, Lorna. I need to transfuse her.”

She rummages around in the bag and begins pulling out instruments: a long tube, needles, and other implements. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“No!”

Lorna looks down at him, stunned. “Are you serious, Jack? She’s dying! She might be dead!”

“She’s not dead, Lorna, and I need you. Sanitize the needles with alcohol, then come here and suture her wrist. I can’t do it with the needle in my arm and I need to transfuse her.”

Lorna hesitates. “Will this work?”

Her husband sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “I don’t know. But we have to try.”



* * *



Maggie’s eyes flutter open slowly, the sleep sticking her eyelids together. She rubs the inside corners with her knuckles, flicking away the crust. Her dry eyes itch as they strain to focus on the wall across from the bed. A painting of a pair of white kittens, cuddling on a puffy chair.

Where am I?

It takes her a moment. Her brother’s voice is faint in the distance, echoing up the stairs from the floor below. The same voice that had sternly instructed her to hold his hand when they were children, crossing the street on their way to school. The voice that had helped her to say aloud the secret she was carrying in her heart and belly, encouraging her to tell their parents, who would of course understand. The voice that drifted in and out, said her name over and over, pleading with her—Stay with me, Maggie, stay with me—as he filled her veins with his own blood.

He says her name again, this time from outside the door. “Maggie?”

She buries her face in a pillow that smells like dust and lavender. She’s in Jack and Lorna’s guest room at the end of the upstairs hallway, decorated sparsely with an odd collection of outdated furniture, lamps, and art prints.

“Maggie? Are you awake?” A soft knock on the door.