Page 60 of The Art of Drowning

“I’m up and out of bed. I’m going to start my laundry now, and then I’ll shower.” My bones were made of lead, and the thought of trying to strip my shirt off was almost more than I could handle. “Why are you so mean to me?”

“Oh, honey, this is what love looks like. This is me not letting you wallow in misery like you planned to do.”

“How—”

“Please, Callum. I know what depression looks like. I know what it feels like. I understand how heavy it is. Get undressed and get in the shower.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“Did you want to Facetime me and make sure I wash behind my ears?”

“Don’t tempt me. You know you’re cute as a button. Just shower. I’ll order you something to eat.”

“Ginny, no.”

“Too bad. If you don’t want me to look after you, then you need to start looking after yourself again.”

She ended the call, and for a second I stood there, still holding the phone to my ear. Then I was walking to my bathroom. The thought of just stepping into my shower fully clothed crossed my mind, but wet clothes were almost impossible to take off.

I stripped slowly, keeping my mind carefully blank by focusing on Ginny’s instructions. Shower. Change sheets. Eat food. Shower. Change sheets. Eat food. It kept all the other thoughts at bay while I scrubbed the filth from my body. When I was clean, I didn’t let myself linger in the shower.

Changing my sheets took all my remaining energy, and by the time I was done, I was thankful that Ginny had ordered dinner for me and had it delivered to my front door. It arrived just as I was finishing up, and I retrieved the bags and instead of eating in bed like I had been doing, or eating handfuls of shredded cheese while standing in the middle of the kitchen, I took my dinner to the living room.

Ginny had ordered from a Thai place that she knew I liked, and she’d gotten me enough food to last me a couple of days. I snapped a picture of the order after I spread all the containers out on the coffee table and sent the photo to Ginny.

Then I sent a selfie of me with my wet hair as proof of life.

I hated that she’d been right about the shower, which meant she was going to be right about the food and the clean bed.

I opened the Pad Thai and practically inhaled half before I stopped to see what else there was to eat. Eating had kickstarted my appetite, and I realized how ravenous I was. It was easier to think with some food in my stomach and days of depressed funk washed off my body.

Ginny was right. She was often right. And if I asked her what to do, she’d tell me to get it over with. The only way to deal with something was to face it.

Later.

Definitely soon but not right now.

At that moment, all I wanted was to eat until I burst. Eating was remembering that life still happened when I was busy floundering. Eating was acknowledging that I still had a meat suit to care for, even on hard days.

The first time I’d had a real depressive episode, I hadn’t known what was happening. But Zeke had. Zeke had clocked me from a mile away because his mom had struggled with her mental health and he knew the signs. The withdrawal from your social circle. The lack of energy. I mean, it was also pretty obvious when I didn’t get out of bed for three days that I wasn’t just sad.

The way Zeke had scraped me off the floor of despair and held me up while I put myself back together wasn’t something I took for granted. Unless I wanted to end up back there, I was going to have to do something I didn’t want to do.

I was going to have to open that fucking envelope.

Soon.

I ate. And ate. And ate a little more. And finally I put the containers away and wiped the coffee table down, and when I’d run out of things to procrastinate with, I went to my dresser and retrieved the envelope.

It looked innocuous enough. A plain white rectangle with my name scrawled across the front. It felt thick, like maybe there were a couple sheets of paper in there, and I wondered what Sam could possibly have to say to me after all this time.

I’d tried to reconcile that with when he’d been sick, but he’d not wanted much of anything to do with me. My olive branch had been all but thrown back in my face. After that, I left him alone. I respected the fact that he wanted his space while he fought his cancer.

When he went into remission, I thought maybe that would be the time.

I slid my finger under the corner of the sealed envelope, then ripped it down the side. My hands trembled when I pulled the papers out of the envelope.