You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

He should be terrified of me, and one look at his face confirms that he is, a little bit. My power, restored. I hope I never have to see him again.

On my way back to the living room, I check Arjun’s flight info on my phone. He was at a professional conference in Philadelphia this week, and he was supposed to get back to Seattle tonight. His plane wasn’t delayed and he must be home by now, so I send an innocent text: How was your trip?

Arjun will love me the way Eitan couldn’t. I don’t have time for anything less.

He hasn’t replied. It’s three in the morning, and he was supposed to be home hours ago. What if he got in a car accident on the way home? Since I can’t sleep, I crawl out of bed and check the local news, the police blotter. There are no mentions of a sexy viola teacher perishing in a fiery crash.

I try to rationalize Arjun’s silence. His plane must have arrived late, and he was tired, and he didn’t want to wake me up. Philadelphia is three hours ahead. So it’s really six in the morning for him. He didn’t forget. He’s just tired.

Repeating those words eases my anxiety only an infinitesimal amount. If I could see him now, I’d brew some tea, ask questions about his trip, stay up all night talking. Relationship things. I toss and turn for another couple hours, scripting conversations in my head.

I will be too tired for first period tomorrow, so I turn off my alarm. On days I skip school entirely, I ride the bus around Seattle, pick up shifts at Muse and Music, practice viola. Sometimes my mother doesn’t realize it’s a weekday and I should be in class. Other times I am able to convince her we’re off for the day or I am not feeling well enough to go.

Having half convinced myself everything will be fine and I’ll hear from him in the morning, I take my phone with me into the bathroom. I grab the nail scissors and start trimming my nails; I have to keep them short for viola, considering I’ll be auditioning soon.

I make sure my hands are steady. No shaking. I was so calm a week ago, and now I’m not.

Drastic mood shifts: one of Ima’s first symptoms.

It makes me wonder if it will soon be time to set my plan in motion, a thought that fills me with a cocktail of adrenaline and terror.

As I wash the white half-moons down the drain, I get an idea. The only pain I’ve ever felt has been accidental. Tripping on the sidewalk, stubbing my toe, slashing my finger with a box cutter. What would it feel like to hurt on purpose?

I pull down my pajama pants so my thighs are exposed and aim the scissors at my skin. I need to prepare myself for what is going to happen.

For an early death.

A death that might be pain or infinite peace or nothing at all.

At first I poke at my right thigh with the metal point. I’m too cowardly, I think, until finally I grit my teeth and dig the metal into my skin. A whimper catches in my throat as I drag the small scissors across my thigh. The blade is sharp and it goes in much deeper than I thought it would, much deeper than I thought I’d be able to stomach. Red comes to the surface, and though I’m biting the inside of my cheek because it hurts, it feels like something else. . . .

Like a release. Like relief.

Someone knocks on the door, startling me, and the scissors drop to the floor.

“Adina?” Tovah.

“I’m in here!”

My phone lights up on the counter.

Jet-lagged. Sorry.

I have been balancing a grand piano on my shoulders, buckling beneath its weight, and with these words I can finally stand upright. I breathe out a sigh mixed with a laugh that takes with it all the tension in my body.

I need to see you. I can’t wait until my lesson. I delete it, then type, I miss you so much. Delete that. I want to see you is what I finally decide on.

Tomorrow evening?

Yes, I text back, remembering how good it feels to breathe deeply when my chest isn’t knotted up like one of my mother’s balls of yarn. We can still make this work. I have time.

Tovah bangs on the door. “I need deodorant. I’m going for a run.”

The blood has formed a thin river across my thigh. I clean the scissors and return them to the drawer.

“I’m still in here.” Here she is again, acting selfish: She is the only one who matters. Her run is so important. She cannot always get what she wants, even if it is something as simple as deodorant.

“It’s four in the morning. What are you even doing in there?” She smacks the door again. “Come on. Are you five years old right now?”