Perfect Strangers

32

One year later

When the phone call comes,it’s raining outside.

I’m in the hospital bed Chris installed in the living room because the mechanical whirr of my ventilator disturbs his sleep. As I watch through the patio doors, the rain slides down the glass in meandering silver streams, like tears. Twilight is falling, but hasn’t quite engulfed the yard yet: the grass reflects glints of the setting sun. The mulberry trees shimmer and gleam.

It’s a gentle rain. Soft and melancholy, blue and misty, the perfect backdrop against which to die.

At least I hope it will happen tonight. I can’t bear the thought of another day of living.

Another day of living without James.

I was never able to crack the code, you see. Whatever trigger pushed me off the cliff into insanity and my visit to Rockland, I haven’t been able to reproduce it.

With Kelly’s help, I’ve spent twelve months researching the known causes of psychosis, poring over thousands of individuals’ cases in medical journals, reading everything I could find online on the subject.

But all that I discovered agreed with what Edmond told me: psychosis is a slow slide, not an abrupt snap. Almost always, a psychotic episode is preceded by gradual, progressive changes in a person’s thoughts and functioning that can take anywhere from several months to several years.

And in the few cases where psychosis did seem to occur without any outward signs or triggers, the cause remained a mystery.

It’s a terrible thing, living without hope. It’s the worst thing imaginable. A person can survive even the most brutal physical or emotional trauma if they believe—somehow, some way—there will be an end to it. But when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, when every day is a cold, black, unending road of misery and hope is only a faint memory you once had, the only thing that can help is death.

For people in my position, death is a friend we wait for. The merciful friend whose face we long to see.

I’ve been waiting for quite some time now. I don’t remember if it was after my throat muscles stopped working and the feeding tube was inserted into my stomach or after my lungs stopped working and the breathing tube went into my neck. Either way, I’m waiting for death to come and set me free from this wasted body and release me into the sweet relief of nothingness.

Maria answers the phone somewhere in the house. Her murmuring mingles with the patter of the rain. Then she’s walking toward me with the cordless phone in her hand.

“There’s a call for you,” she says softly, bending over the bed. “Do you want to take it?”

I can’t nod or shake my head because the muscles that control those motions are paralyzed, but I can still blink. Our system is simple: one blink for yes, two for no.

I blink once. What the hell, let’s see who wants me so late in the game.

Maria presses the speaker button on the phone. “I’m here with Olivia now, Ms. Perkins. You’re on speaker. Go ahead.”

Andrea Perkins is the literary agent Kelly found to represent my book. She knew a guy who knew a guy who worked at a literary agency, and she asked him if someone at his company might be interested in taking a look at my story. As it turns out, one of their agents—Andrea—had recently sold the true account of a woman who had an inflammation of the brain so severe her doctors thought she was suffering from schizophrenia and committed her to a psychiatric ward.

The book was an instant bestseller. The acquiring editor at the publishing house Andrea sold it to was in the market for a follow-up hit.

As I was a complete unknown with no publishing cred, I didn’t get an advance. Chris bitched and moaned about that, but I didn’t care. The money never mattered to me.

Having other people meet James did.

I wanted them to love James, too, so he could live on in their memories the way he lives on so vividly in mine. That’s the only way we can ever achieve immortality. Love is what binds us together eternally, the only thing that survives after death…or the end of a psychotic episode.

And if you laugh that I think my love for James is as real as your love for your spouse or partner, just remember where love truly exists—in the mind.

“Hi, Olivia! I hope I’m not calling too late.”

This evening, Ms. Perkins sounds happy. I don’t read anything into her bright tone, because she’s always like that. She has the personality of a terrier: smart, loyal, and easily excitable. I like her a lot.

“I just wanted to share some incredible news with you. You’ll find out formally tomorrow when the lists are published, but…” She squeals in excitement. “Until September is a New York Times bestseller! In its first week out! Isn’t that amazing?”

It is. I wish I could jump up and down and start screaming, but my heart is doing it for me, so that will have to be enough.

Maria exclaims loudly in German. Either she’s happy or she just spotted a stain on the carpet. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

Andrea says, “I’ll let you go, I just wanted to be the first to share the great news. Fantastic job, Olivia! We’re so proud of you.”

It’s ironic that she’s proud of me for being a head case and inventing a grand love affair, but she’s getting fifteen percent of the proceeds, so I suppose it makes sense.

“We’ll be in touch. Thank you, Maria. Talk to you both soon.”

She clicks off. Maria hits the End button on the portable. Then we stare at each other in amazement as night creeps into the room.

Chris wanders in from the garage. He’s talking on his cell phone, his head bent, his voice low. “Yeah, I know, honey. I love you, too. Just a little longer. No, I told you, I’ll sell the house after she’s—”

Dead.