You cannot cross the finish line holding someone else's baton.
It seems like a small thing, considering the magnitude of what comes next, but the idea of dying with Sarah's copy of The Great Gatsby on my nightstand makes my skin itch.
If I die with her book, that book becomes a relic. It becomes "The Book She Was Reading When She Did It." Sarah will never be able to read it again without seeing my ghost in the margins.
I can't do that to her.
I have to give it back.
I pack a canvas tote bag. It contains:
Sarah's book.A casserole dish my mother left three weeks ago (lasagna, long gone).A spare key to Mark's apartment that I "forgot" I had.
The key is heavy. It's just a small piece of brass, but it feels radioactive.
I put on my shoes. I put on my coat. I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror.
I look frighteningly normal.
That is the terrifying trick of depression. You don't turn gray. You don't shrink. You just look like a woman in a beige coat going to run errands on a Tuesday.
I step out the door.
The air outside is crisp. It smells like exhaust and roasted nuts from the vendor on the corner. My body automatically inhales, fighting for survival even when my mind has already signed the resignation papers.
First stop: Sarah.
Sarah works at a coffee shop three blocks away. It is the kind of place that smells like burnt beans and indie pop music.
I walk in. The bell above the door jingles. A cheerful, aggressive sound.
Sarah is behind the counter, steaming milk. She looks up, and her face splits into a grin.
"Hey! Look who's out of the cave!" she calls out.
She wipes her hands on her apron and comes over to the register. She looks at me, really looks at me, scanning for cracks.
"You look good," she says, sounding relieved. "You're wearing makeup."
"I am," I lie. It's just leftover mascara I didn't wash off from yesterday. "I just wanted to drop this off."
I pull the book out of the tote bag.
"Oh, you finished it?" she asks, taking it.
"Yeah. It was... sad."
"It's a tragedy, babe. That's the point." She laughs. She puts the book under the counter. "You want a coffee? On the house. You look a little pale."
"No, I can't stay. I have a lot of errands."
"Errands?" She raises an eyebrow. "Productive day? That's a good sign."
She thinks it's a sign of recovery. She thinks "running errands" means I am engaging with life. She doesn't realize I am dismantling it.
"Yeah," I say. "Just tying up loose ends."
"Well, don't be a stranger. We're doing trivia night on Thursday. You should come."
Thursday.
The word hangs in the air between us. A strange, foreign concept. A place I will never visit.
"I'll check my calendar," I say.
"Okay. Love you, mean it!" she chirps, turning back to the espresso machine.
"Love you too," I whisper.
I walk out.
One debt paid.
Second stop: The Mother.
I don't want to see her. Seeing her is dangerous. Her eyes are like X-rays; she always knows when I'm lying.
But I have her casserole dish. It is blue ceramic. If I leave it in my apartment, she will have to come get it later. She will have to step into the silence I leave behind to retrieve a piece of cookware.
I can't let her do that.
I take the subway to her neighborhood. The train is crowded. I stand between a man in a suit and a teenager with bright pink headphones.
I wonder if they can feel it. I wonder if I am radiating a frequency of "the end."
The man in the suit bumps into me. "Watch it," he snaps.
"Sorry," I say.
I am not sorry. I am almost gone. You are yelling at a vapor.
I reach my mother's house. I don't knock. I have a key, but using it feels wrong now. I am a guest in the land of the living.
I leave the dish on the porch, behind the potted fern.
I take a piece of paper from my pocket and scribble a note.
Mom - stopped by but missed you. Thanks for the lasagna. Love, Me.
It's a lie. I know she's home. I can hear the TV through the window. It's a game show. People winning money. People screaming with joy.
I stand there for a moment, my hand hovering over the doorbell.
All I have to do is press it.
If I press it, she will open the door. She will see me. She will make me tea. She will ask me how I am, and I might crumble. I might tell her everything. I might sit on her couch and cry until I am empty, and she might hold me, and I might stay.
The temptation is so strong it makes my knees weak.
I want my mother.
I want to be five years old again, when the worst thing in the world was a scraped knee, and a kiss could fix it.
But a kiss can't fix this. And if I go in there, I will just drag her down with me. I will be the anchor around her neck for another ten years.
Rule 1: Do Not Be a Burden.
I pull my hand back.
I step off the porch. I walk away without looking back.
Third Stop: The Ghost.
Mark's apartment building is on the other side of town.
This is the hardest one.
I shouldn't do it. I could mail the key. I could throw it in a sewer grate.
But Mark is the one who tries to save me. Mark is the one who calls me when it rains because he knows the gray weather hurts my head.
I need him to know I'm "okay." If he thinks I'm spiraling, he will come over. He will break down my door. He will ruin the plan.
I buzz his intercom.
"Hello?" His voice is tinny, distorted.
"It's me."
A pause. Then, the buzz of the lock.
I walk up the three flights of stairs. My heart is hammering against my ribs. It's stupid. Why is my heart beating so hard if I'm planning to stop it? It's a stubborn muscle. It wants to live.
Mark opens the door before I reach the landing. He looks tired. He's wearing that gray t-shirt with the hole in the shoulder.
"Hey," he says. He looks guarded. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah," I say. I force a smile. I make it bright. I make it dazzling. "Everything is actually really good."
He blinks. He isn't used to this version of me.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I had a breakthrough today. I cleaned the apartment. I went to see Sarah."
"That's... that's great," he says. His shoulders relax. The tension leaves his jaw. "I'm really glad to hear that."
"I found this," I say, holding out the key. "I realized I still had it. I didn't want you to worry about me breaking in and stealing your cereal."
He laughs. It's a nervous sound, but it's genuine. He takes the key. Their metal touches his skin. A transfer of responsibility.
"You didn't have to come all this way just for this," he says.
"I wanted to," I say. "I wanted to see you. To say... thanks."
"For what?"
"For everything. For trying."
He looks at me, confusion knitting his brows together. "You say that like we're never going to see each other again."
Panic spikes in my chest. Stick to the script. Rule 3: Kill the Hope.
"Don't be dramatic," I say, rolling my eyes. "I just meant thanks for being patient while I was in a funk. I'm coming out of it now."
"Good," he says. He smiles. "That's really good."
"I have to go," I say. "I have a lot to do."
"Okay. Text me later?"
"Sure."
I turn around. I walk down the stairs.
I can feel him watching me. I can feel his hope. He thinks I am fixed. He thinks the crisis is averted. He will sleep soundly tonight.
He won't call. He won't check on me.
I have bought myself the time I need.
I step out onto the street. The bag is empty.
My hands are empty.
I feel lighter. Not happier. Just lighter. like a balloon that has been cut from its string.
There is nothing holding me to the earth anymore. No books, no dishes, no keys.
I am untethered.
Now, there is only one rule left.
The Performance.
I check my watch.
I have some hours left.
I need to make them perfect.