Her Death in the Tub, His Empty Words Outside

1
We spent everything, burying ourselves in debt to save our premature son. But in the end, we lost him.
After that, I fell into a deep depression. Noah, terrified Id do something reckless, tried everything to make me smile, even with the debt crushing him.
Babe, we can always make more money, hed say, holding me. As long as I have you, we have a home.
He worked day and nightdelivering food, driving for a ride-share. No matter how exhausted, hed hug me the moment he got home. For a year, he held us together with sheer grit.
I thought wed make it through. I thought one day Id tell him I was okay.
But then I saw some kids playing outside and broke down.
Noah, who had just walked in with bloodshot eyes, finally snapped.
Enough! When does this miserable life end?! he screamed. Everyone feels sorry for you. But what about me? Who feels sorry for me?
He threw his helmet down and ran out into the rain.
I was alone.
My eyes drifted to the utility knife on the windowsill.
It would be better to be dead.
Dead, so Noah wouldnt have to pretend anymore.
Dead, so I could be with my baby.
The rain hammered against the window, a frantic, desperate rhythm.
Noah was gone.
The security door slammed shut with a deafening bang.
I stood there, staring at the closed door, the frame still trembling, my heart trembling with it.
Who the hell is here to feel sorry for me?
The words echoed in my mind, a relentless torment.
He was right. Who was there for him?
To pay for my therapy, to pay off the debts from a child we couldnt even keep, he worked through fevers, through exhaustion.
I was a burden.
No child, no job. Now, I couldnt even offer a sliver of emotional support. I just made things worse.
My gaze fell on the windowsill, on the utility knife Noah used to open packages. The blade glinted in the dim light, a cold, silent invitation.
It would be better to be dead.
Once the thought took root, it was impossible to shake.
Dead, so Noah wouldnt have to pretend to be strong anymore. He wouldnt have to eat leftovers to save money, wouldnt have to force a smile for a five-dollar delivery fee in a downpour.
And I could finally be with the baby who never got to call me Mom.
I walked over and picked up the knife. It was light, yet it felt impossibly heavy.
I went into the bathroom and locked the door. I stuffed a towel into the crack beneath it. I didnt want the smell of blood to escape. Noah hated the smell of blood. He used to hide whenever I had to clean a fish.
I turned on the faucet and lay down in the tub. The cold water seeped into my clothes, but I couldnt feel it.
I picked up my phone and opened my messages. His name, My Husband, was pinned to the top. The last message was from him, sent that afternoon: Babe, what do you want for dinner? Ill pick it up on my way home.
He was still trying then. Still trying to coax a smile out of me.
I typed a new message: Going to a friends to clear my head. Dont look for me.
My finger hovered over the send button. Finally, I scheduled it to send at 8:30 PM.
He would be home from the evening rush then. Hed be a little annoyed, but also relieved. He wouldnt have to face me. He could get a good nights sleep.
I placed the phone on the sink, the screen casting a pale light on my face.
I took the knife and drew it, hard, across my wrist.
Once, twice. The skin parted, and a fountain of crimson erupted, blooming in the clear water like grotesque, garish flowers.
I closed my eyes and leaned back. The warmth was draining from my body, bit by bit. As my consciousness faded, I saw my baby, smiling at me from the clouds, his chubby little arms reaching for me.
Mommys coming, baby, I whispered. Tears mingled with the blood in the water. You wont be alone anymore.
Just before the darkness consumed me completely, I heard the rain stop.
Good.
The rain has stopped.
And I dont love you anymore, Noah.
2
When I opened my eyes again, I was floating near the ceiling, my body weightless.
I looked down and saw myself in the bathtub. My face was waxy, my lips blue. The water was a dark, still red.
I was dead. It was a strange, detached feeling.
I heard a key in the lock. Click.
The door opened.
Noah was back.
He was soaked, his hair plastered to his scalp, water dripping down his face. In his hand was a plastic container from the little takeout place down the street, my favorite noodles.
He stood in the doorway, peering cautiously into the dark apartment. He slipped off his shoes quietly, afraid to wake me.
Babe? he called out, his voice soft.
No answer.
He seemed to relax, probably assuming I was asleep, or still sulking in the bedroom. He placed the noodles on the table and peeled off his wet jacket. His face was etched with exhaustion, his eyes a web of red veins.
He pushed the bedroom door open a crack. The bed was empty.
He froze, then his eyes darted to the bathroom. The door was closed. The light was off.
He walked over and tried the handle. Locked.
Babe? Are you in there? He leaned against the door, his voice hoarse, pleading. Are you still mad at me?
I floated in front of him, my heart aching at the sight of his hunched, weary form.
He waited, but there was no sound from within. He sighed, figuring I was ignoring him, and slid down the door to sit on the cold, hard floor. His pants were still damp.
There we were, separated by a thin sheet of wood. My body on one side, his tired back on the other. Life and death, so close.
Babe, Im so sorry, he whispered, picking at the grout between the tiles. I was just so tired. I got a complaint today, they docked me fifty bucks. I was just so frustrated, and then I saw you crying, and I just lost it. Please, dont ignore me. Yell at me, hit me, anything.
He pulled a small, crushed box from his pocket. Inside were a few strawberries, slightly bruised, but still a vibrant red.
Look, I bought you strawberries. Not many, but theyre sweet. The guy said it was the last box. Please, just open the door. Come out and have one.
The bathroom was silent, except for the occasional drip, drip, drip of the faucet.
3
Noah let out a bitter laugh.
Fine, you dont have to come out. Just listen to me talk for a bit.
Babe, we only have two hundred thousand left on the debt. Just give me another year. No, half a year. Ill work my ass off for another six months, and then things will be easier. Ill take you traveling. Well go to all the places youve ever wanted to see. Well have another baby, okay?
His voice broke on the last words. He buried his head in his knees, his shoulders shaking.
I miss our baby, too Im in so much pain but Im a man. I have to hold it together. If I fall apart, what will happen to you?
I watched him cry, wanting so desperately to stroke his hair, but my hand passed right through him.
You fool. Youd be so much better off without me.
He rambled on for a long time, talking about the past, the future, the child we never got to raise. His voice grew quieter and quieter until, finally, he fell asleep, slumped against the door, his arms wrapped around his knees.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. 8:30 PM. My scheduled message had sent. He was sleeping too soundly to hear it.
Dawn broke. A sliver of sunlight pierced through the curtains, falling across his face. He stirred, then shot awake, his first instinct to check the time. He scrambled to his feet.
Shit, Im going to be late for the morning rush!
He grabbed his jacket, but then he remembered. He looked back at the bathroom door. Still closed.
He checked the bedroom again. The blankets were neatly folded, untouched.
Mia? he called out, a flicker of confusion in his voice.
He pulled out his phone and finally saw the message from the night before.
Going to a friends to clear my head. Dont look for me.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, then his shoulders slumped. A sad, tired smile touched his lips.
Probably for the best, he muttered to himself. At least she wont have to look at my miserable face. And I can focus on work.
He believed it completely. Id gone to my friends place after fights before. It never occurred to him that I was just on the other side of that door.
He saw the cold noodles on the table, the grease congealed into white clumps. He didnt throw them away. He sat down and shoveled the cold, greasy noodles into his mouth, washing them down with gulps of cold water. He ate quickly, then carefully placed the bruised strawberries in the fridge, sticking a note on the door:
Babe, strawberries are in the fridge. Dont forget to eat them when you get back. I love you. Dont be mad anymore.
Then he put on his helmet and rushed out the door.
I was alone again. I looked at the note. Those strawberries I would never get to eat them.

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