The Things We Do to Our Friends(91)

There’s something to be said for my years with Ava; she’s such a natural planner and some of those skills have rubbed off on me. I understand the angles better now. I tossed a pebble down there while my husband was gripped by his emails back at the cottage and saw how it cut through the water in a second. I threw an armchair over in a rage when I first visited alone, the old one from Tabitha’s where the innards seeped out through the holes. I have pictured the bulky thing, pictured where it would fall and how the waves would consume it.

One of the only people I’ve told about my little house near the cliffs is Tabitha. I ran some thoughts past her, and she may have twitched.

I think she approves.

In my dining room, I open the sliding door and I gesture to my guests to come through to the library for coffee. I’ve already brewed a pot just how I like it, so strong that it’s almost a punishment to force it down.





Epilogue


A final night in Périgueux before I moved to England to stay with my granny.

My parents were not speaking to me.

I heard the word.

Psychopathe.

They whispered it to each other.

“Do you feel guilty that he died?” my mother asked me.

One of her final questions before I left France, because we’d hardly discussed it at all. But she knew there was more to it all. I didn’t answer her straightaway; I wanted her to see that I was considering her words.



* * *



—

Dina and Adrienne and I drank champagne, because it felt like an occasion.

It was the first time I’d ever drunk it, and it was delicious; I swilled it around my mouth to make the taste last longer. Nothing I’ve ever tasted since has evoked the same bliss as that first glass. I didn’t know words like “rounded” or “full-bodied.” Back then, I just thought it was some kind of magical elixir that made the world brighter. The bottle had been from Dina’s father’s cellar and we brought it into the house that night. We drank out of plastic cups in the kitchen—we hadn’t even bothered to chill it. We screamed in delirium as the cork fired into the air, and I remember how we finished the bottle and the giddiness turned into a vague sort of indeterminable nausea.

It was fun at first and they enjoyed it, we all did. Their reticence seemed quelled. Maybe everything would be fine. In its essence, the plan was simple. We force-fed him in the most fitting way—punished him with vegetarian food—and it was perfect. They joined in in a way that was nearly willing.

The night didn’t stay fun. Dina was worried about him. She kept disappearing off to the toilet with Adrienne and they edged away from me.

They wouldn’t go near him after a while.

We played music—the same songs on repeat again and again. He’d been tied up for most of the night, and we’d stopped feeding him hours before. I poured the water for him. He dribbled as if he’d lost some of the ability to control his mouth, and his eyes were bulging, like if you were to squeeze a fish. He gulped at us.

The girls had both been crying, but they had tried to hide their tears. They were trying to be assertive.

“We could leave now,” Adrienne said, her voice unsteady, almost pleading. “If we left, no one would ever know. Maybe he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“It’s too late to leave,” I said. I had a plan.

“Why are you laughing?” Dina asked softly, looking at me like I was insane. I had hardly even noticed, but she was right, I was laughing, just a little.

They were so nervous, and I could see Adrienne backing away. The two of them looked petrified.

Dina was brave enough to speak up. “Why are you doing this?” she asked me.

“This is your fault,” I replied. I didn’t explain it to them fully, but I needed them to know. “You made me do this,” I said.

I walked over to him where he sat, just slightly away from the house, ever so quiet and hardly moving. The drugs from earlier were probably causing the gulping. The veins on his neck stuck out, and he tried to swallow and get more air into his body.

Bright moonlight, and you could still see the mess of it all. Stickiness on the ground, on our hands, and on the table. Food everywhere with a slimy film setting on the remains. I could see he’d spat some of the meal out and that would need to be cleaned up later.

Dina was pulling at me, breathing fast. “We should get him to a hospital.”

I turned to her slowly, feeling light, like I was made of air, and I put both hands on her shoulders. Her eyes were wide open in terror and she pulled at me to hold me back, and keep me with her, but I pushed her away.

A plastic bag lay to the side of him, just at his elbow.

I took it in both hands and placed it hard against his mouth, so the skin became a taut bulge. His breath made it expand and contract, and the bag itself looked like a shiny branded organ. A Carrefour lung. Those are the kind of thoughts I had as I pushed harder and harder.

He wheezed heavily, so labored, but he was alive. When I pressed down (because the other two wouldn’t help), he was grateful, I’m sure of it.

He didn’t struggle, although I knew that was because of the drugs in his system. He wouldn’t have been able to stop struggling otherwise, even though he was ready for it all to be over—it’s part of the human condition to want to stay alive, to grasp and pull at that final stretch of life even if you realize it’s for the best.