difficult to breathe deeply. Like some weird bubble is pressing up against the inside of your chest.
Out on 171 you stop for a red light; the engine down to a low drone. The wipers pump back and forth. You notice that your fingers are numb; it’s because they’re squeezing the steering wheel. Your blood has given trying to make its way into those too-tight fists and is hurrying back to the heart to get air.
What you really want to do is give up trying, too. Lay your head down on the steering wheel and quit squeezing, quit breathing, quit trying.
The problem is, you can’t. Just quit, that is. When people want to quit, they have to choose. Make a decision Take action.
If it was you who had to quit, you wouldn’t pick gor pills. You’d pick your dad’s razor. After all, he wasn’t that much older than you are when he died.
It would make a mess to do it properly—cut toward the palm instead of across the wrist. You don’t remember where you read that, how people try to kill themselves and end up alive with severed tendons.
The truck idles. The wipers fight to keep your view clear. Just ahead, in the drizzle, a street sign says Keller Avenue. You’ve stared at it for a while before you really see it—and then you realize where you are.
A right turn will take you toward Heather’s house.
Everything inside you shifts a little. Decisions hang off somewhere in the distance, like a little cloud that can’t quite see. And won’t have to see, if you just turn right.
A car honks behind you—the light’s green.
You cut the wheel and turn. Your fingers must have loosened a little; they start to tingle.
Your hands know all the turns by heart; your feet know just when to brake and when to accelerate.
In front of the Mackenzies’ house, you kill the engine and just sit for a few moments. The blades of grass bright green in the slackening rain. The long driveway that edges past the house is spattered with puddles.
Heather’s house.
A small house. Shutters inside windows, closed. The concrete porch where she kissed you good night.
You pull the door handle and slide out of the truck. The air is steamy hot. Drops plop on your neck and face. Your feet stride around to the curb, carry you all the way up the sidewalk. Two steps up to the porch, and you’ standing in front of the door. Your finger presses the doorbell, and after a few moments the door opens.
For a split second you don’t recognize Heather; catch a flash of big startled eyes, but everything else is very un-Heatherish impression—oversize, faded shirt; baggy shorts; white athletic socks—before she pushes the door almost closed and peeps at you from behind it.
Even then all you can think is that she looks different, her hair in a ponytail, wisps hanging down around face. Her lips paler, her face younger.
She does not look pleased.
“Hey,” you greet her, suddenly aware you have reason to be here. “I was on my way home. Thought drop by.”
Silence. Heather’s face is expressionless; she stares point somewhere around the middle of your shirtfront.
“Hang on a sec,” she finally says, and the door shuts in your face.
Through the glass panel you see her blurred figure scuttle off to the right, down the hallway. You wait.
And wait.
And wait. The rain picks up again, making a curtainaround the house—but it’s okay. You are dry, here on the porch.
When she finally opens the door again, she’s wearing denim shorts and a sleeveless blouse, tucked in. Her hair falls over her shoulders, shining and perfect. Her face looks different, too, more defined.
She steps back to let you in. “The rule is,” she announces, “call before you come. Then I won’t make you wait on the porch.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“No, it’s okay. Come in,” she urges, when you hesitate. “All I’m saying is, next time call first.”
She pulls the door shut behind you. You follow her into the living room, watching her walk. You know
Out on 171 you stop for a red light; the engine down to a low drone. The wipers pump back and forth. You notice that your fingers are numb; it’s because they’re squeezing the steering wheel. Your blood has given trying to make its way into those too-tight fists and is hurrying back to the heart to get air.
What you really want to do is give up trying, too. Lay your head down on the steering wheel and quit squeezing, quit breathing, quit trying.
The problem is, you can’t. Just quit, that is. When people want to quit, they have to choose. Make a decision Take action.
If it was you who had to quit, you wouldn’t pick gor pills. You’d pick your dad’s razor. After all, he wasn’t that much older than you are when he died.
It would make a mess to do it properly—cut toward the palm instead of across the wrist. You don’t remember where you read that, how people try to kill themselves and end up alive with severed tendons.
The truck idles. The wipers fight to keep your view clear. Just ahead, in the drizzle, a street sign says Keller Avenue. You’ve stared at it for a while before you really see it—and then you realize where you are.
A right turn will take you toward Heather’s house.
Everything inside you shifts a little. Decisions hang off somewhere in the distance, like a little cloud that can’t quite see. And won’t have to see, if you just turn right.
A car honks behind you—the light’s green.
You cut the wheel and turn. Your fingers must have loosened a little; they start to tingle.
Your hands know all the turns by heart; your feet know just when to brake and when to accelerate.
In front of the Mackenzies’ house, you kill the engine and just sit for a few moments. The blades of grass bright green in the slackening rain. The long driveway that edges past the house is spattered with puddles.
Heather’s house.
A small house. Shutters inside windows, closed. The concrete porch where she kissed you good night.
You pull the door handle and slide out of the truck. The air is steamy hot. Drops plop on your neck and face. Your feet stride around to the curb, carry you all the way up the sidewalk. Two steps up to the porch, and you’ standing in front of the door. Your finger presses the doorbell, and after a few moments the door opens.
For a split second you don’t recognize Heather; catch a flash of big startled eyes, but everything else is very un-Heatherish impression—oversize, faded shirt; baggy shorts; white athletic socks—before she pushes the door almost closed and peeps at you from behind it.
Even then all you can think is that she looks different, her hair in a ponytail, wisps hanging down around face. Her lips paler, her face younger.
She does not look pleased.
“Hey,” you greet her, suddenly aware you have reason to be here. “I was on my way home. Thought drop by.”
Silence. Heather’s face is expressionless; she stares point somewhere around the middle of your shirtfront.
“Hang on a sec,” she finally says, and the door shuts in your face.
Through the glass panel you see her blurred figure scuttle off to the right, down the hallway. You wait.
And wait.
And wait. The rain picks up again, making a curtainaround the house—but it’s okay. You are dry, here on the porch.
When she finally opens the door again, she’s wearing denim shorts and a sleeveless blouse, tucked in. Her hair falls over her shoulders, shining and perfect. Her face looks different, too, more defined.
She steps back to let you in. “The rule is,” she announces, “call before you come. Then I won’t make you wait on the porch.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“No, it’s okay. Come in,” she urges, when you hesitate. “All I’m saying is, next time call first.”
She pulls the door shut behind you. You follow her into the living room, watching her walk. You know
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