She runs a bath to the bottom of the overflow valve with water just on the edge of too hot. She lights the candles on the vanity and lowers herself into the tub. She lies absolutely still for what could be a minute or it could be a half hour. There is no sound but the occasional plop from the end of the faucet and the intermittent sighs that are her substitute for sobbing or screaming. At length, she lathers up her leg and shaves it. Slow motion strokes. This long white leg. The shaving ritual is detached but fond, like preparing a loved one for burial.
“Well, that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it?” she begins a two-sided conversation with herself.
“Don’t be silly. No one ever killed herself with a Gillette Venus and you won’t either.”
“Pills then.”
“We decided for the sake of the children it had to be a plausible accident.”
“Drowning or highway. I’ve heard drowning is pleasant.”
“Yeah, after the initial thrashing and retching. Whoever told you that is still alive and therefore has no clue.”
“Highway accident I run the risk of ending up a vegetable or killing innocent bystanders. I might as well live.”
“That’s Dorothy Parker. If you’re going to steal someone’s line you have to cite your source.”
“But I’m stuck in this life that isn’t a life—it’s a sentence. I can’t get out. Don’t you think God would have mercy on a diseased mind?”
“Classic Catch-22. If your sane enough to reason that crazy enough to deserve an exception, you’re not crazy enough.”
“Virginia Woolf did it.”
“Virginia Woolf was crazy.”
“And I’m not?”
“Do you believe I’m real?”
“No.”
“Well then. Besides Virginia Woolf had no children to worry about and we all know she did it. And neighbor children found her body three weeks later.”
“Eew. But still, how romantic to fill your pockets with rocks and walk into the water! How lovely to create your own sunset! God, I’m tired. And I’m tired of being tired. I feel like an armadillo that’s stuck in its shell. I can’t uncurl. I have to keep myself tight in this ball or the bear will get me. As it is, I’m the bear’s damned hacky sack.”
She lathers up the other leg in mental silence. Then the underarms.
“There’s a whole bottle of Tylenol in the medicine chest.”
“We already discussed that.”
“Fine, but I’m picturing the funeral.”
“Oh, go ahead.”
“She was so young and full of life. She had these beautiful children. She was so talented and lovely. So much to live for. And in small private clumps they will whisper behind their hands, ‘That bastard! He crushed her spirit.’ I think Gary should knock his teeth down is throat. Who could blame a grieving brother?”
“So why aren’t you picturing his funeral?”
“Gary’s?”
“No, Nut Job. Darling Husband’s.”
“Oh, believe me, I have.”
“Why don’t you leave? I mean really, how long before I get sick of talking you down from the ledge?”
A knock at the door startles her and she drops the razor.
“Are you still in there? Come to bed.”
“Yes, sorry, I’ll be right out.”
She knows the demands that are about to be made of her. She carefully folds herself away where she can’t be reached. She feels the familiar lump swelling in her throat like a jagged-edged peach pit is lodged there.
“Before you get out of the tub…” the voice of reason has one last thing to say. “You’ve given him custody of your will to live. Don’t you think that’s too much power for anyone?” She swallows hard, pulls the plug, and, soggy but refreshed, she gets the hell out.