The truth was, if she fell in I’d jump after her, but not to save her. To drown myself at her side.

I was already drowning in dry air. Just dying to finish it.

Sometimes I’d sit on the dock and let the magnetic tug of the ocean draw at me till I lay flat on the planks, my body pressed as thin and small as it could go. Longing to be pulled under. To disappear.

You’re depressed, Vada, the psychiatrist would say. Take this pill and pretend it will fill the hollow where you used to be whole.

You fall in love with it a little. Depression. It’s an abusive romance. It hurts like hell but you don’t want it to stop, because at least hurt is a feeling. At least it reminds you you’re still alive.

It was a two-mile walk back, my lips chapped and the chill lodging bone-deep in my marrow, just like loneliness.

At work I slapped on a fake smile and poured espresso and steamed milk into cups. I didn’t see a single face, only the play of light on my own hands. The right looked normal unless you knew where to check for grafting scars. Ghost hands. The world they’d once shaped now passed straight through, nothing but a cold rush in my veins. My left was still clumsy. I hefted a coffee kettle with it, poured a whole mug before my wrist twisted, mug and kettle and a pastry platter crashing to the floor, all over my pants, my shoes, my life.

Which was how I ended up in my boss’s office, wishing I were invisible.

“It was my fault,” I said to the floor. I was very good at saying that when it didn’t matter.

Curtis rolled a joint and offered me the first hit.

“I’m on the clock.”

“Our little secret?” He exhaled. Sweet smoke clotted the air, the earthy perfume of forest animals and wild girls.

“I’m good.”

“We need to talk, Vada.” He was my age, college dropout. Around here, college didn’t mean much. Most jobs required a pair of sturdy hands. Unlike mine. “This is your third incident. I don’t ride your ass about it, but it’s starting to cost me.”

Funny thing was, I’d planned to ask for a paycheck advance. Month behind on rent. I’d promised Mrs. Mulhavey I’d have it today.

“I can work a double this weekend.”

“Weekend’s already scheduled.”

“Curt, look. My insurance doesn’t cover everything. I have to pay half this shit out of pocket.” No more pain meds. Couldn’t afford them. “I’m not asking for charity. I want to work. Is there anything you can do?”

Please don’t fucking make me beg.

He toked, held a lungful of smoke as he rolled his bloodshot blue eyes all over me. “I can give you some extra shifts.”

“Thank you,” I said dully, knowing what came next.

“We’ll keep you on register. No heavy lifting. Good work ethic’s worth more than a few broken dishes.” He shrugged. “You know, I’m off this weekend, too. We should hang out.”

There was no “should.” I’d do it, or find a new job.

We met at a bar a few months back. I’d asked the owner if she could train a new bartender and she said, You’re pretty, hon, but pretty don’t cut it. I need experience. Pretty got me a referral, though. Out in the alley I found Curtis sitting on a pier piling with a blunt. He was rawboned-skinny but wearing only a T-shirt and vest in winter. Typical Mainer. He whisked a joint through the night while he talked, a tiny meteor streak. Maybe he could use some extra coverage at his coffee shop. We could chat later. Meanwhile there was a party at Someplace in Somewheretown and we should go. I went, and my half-healed hand ached and I hadn’t fucked anyone since the night of the accident and I felt borderline subhuman, so I smoked Curt’s weed and gave him a handjob in his truck, mostly to see if I still could. I lasted two minutes before the pain turned my bones to ripsaws and shredded my skin from the inside. I finished him with my mouth.

I really needed that job.

It was a mistake. I know that. He still doesn’t.

“I’ll text you when I know my plans,” I said, and made for the door.

“Friday. After nine.”

“Wait for my text.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

I almost spun around and slugged him. You don’t whittle down a yes. A yes is something that’s built up, not conceded out of desperation, a hunk of raw meat tossed to a starving dog just so you can flee the moment.

But instead of saying no like I meant to, I carved a piece from my body and threw it to him. “I’ll go, but I can’t stay late. Finals are coming up.”

“It’s only April.”

“It’s grad school, Curt.”

“Art school.”

I turned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

If Elle were here, she would’ve flashed me the warning look. Temper, Vada. This is your boss.

“I mean, it’s not, like, med school.”

“It’s master’s-level work.”

“Didn’t they give you medical leave?”

I swallowed. My throat felt like a fuse, fire eating its way down. “I didn’t take it. I don’t need it.”

Straight lies. I was behind on everything, no hope of catching up. Yesterday I downloaded the forms for medical withdrawal.

“But you’re handicapped. Why not, you know, take advantage?”

My right hand shot out before I could stop myself. I grabbed the collar of his T-shirt and wrapped it in a fist, drawing his face close to mine. “Does this seem like a fucking handicap?”

Curtis gaped, expelling weed fumes. He was stunned enough not to notice how my hand shook. How weak my grip actually was. How tears collected in my eyes and threatened to paint my pain all over my face.

He pried me away. “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”

I muttered something pseudo-apologetic.

“It’s fine,” he said, looking elsewhere. “Go ahead. Take the rest of the day off.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’ll miss the bus.”

Dismissal.

The walk to the stop didn’t cool the hot spike drilling through the center of my chest. I missed the bus anyway. Of course. I sat on the hood of someone’s car and made a fist and smashed it on my thighs, but that wasn’t satisfying, so I hit the hood, too, which set off the car alarm, which was a little better. Tourists on the sidewalk stared.

I wanted to scream. Let everyone know how not okay I was. But all I did was side-eye the car as if it had thrown a tantrum on its own. Sometimes people actually feel relief when a machine breaks down—it’s not okay to show your not-okayness publicly anymore, everyone thinks you’ll shoot up a movie theater or a classroom, but when a machine malfunctions we can pretend to disapprove while secretly we’re cheering, living through it vicariously, willing it to spin and vibrate and explode, take out someone’s eye or hand, do something real. We want someone, something else to revolt, because we can’t.

What the fuck is wrong with me, Ellis? How am I supposed to make sense of anything without you?

The alarm finally died and the quiet pulsed as rawly as screamed-out air.

My landlady was waiting for me in the kitchen.

I stood on the porch, peering through the window. Sometimes you see disaster coming, the edge of the bridge rushing up, dark water waiting, and you’re so fucking empty and hopeless you don’t bother to avoid it. You don’t swing the wheel, slam the brake. You speed up. Meet your doom head-on.

I went in and sat at the table.

Mrs. Mulhavey smiled, not unkindly. Pushed a mug of hot cocoa over. I didn’t drink, but wrapped my hands around it. Heat merged with pain, muscle fibers pulling apart by millimeters, not pleasant but at least different from the ache I was used to. If I could choose my pain, I’d prefer unraveling to exploding.

We faced each other. Regret tightened her smile.

“I don’t have the money,” I said in the same monotone I’d used with Curtis. “When do you need me out by?”

“Next week, dear.”

No argument. We’d already had that discussion. I was a good kid, Mrs. Mulhavey said, a good kid dealt a bad hand, no pun intended, but she had bills to pay and meds to buy, too. It didn’t move her that I was out of options. I didn’t have cash for the security deposit everyone else wanted. This was my end of the line, and fate took it away from me. Like I deserved.