Janice.

"What a beautiful night. I could just swim in this darkness—swim and drown myself in it."

His wife’s words. From across the room. The words touched on a bitter chord buried deep inside his heart. Pervading throughout the room was Chopin’s Nocturne—her favorite—entangling them both in soft depression. He lay there on the bed, looking over at her. He could see her slender moonlit body beside the window.

"This is where. . . " he uttered inside his mind, "this is where. . ." He lost everything. This is where what? This is where what happened? He hurt inside. There was some ache inside him that wanted to manifest itself. It was tearing him apart, he knew it. It was a longing of the heart, and it hurt. He wanted to drive that pain away, but he knew that it was futile for it would come back always, in the darkness and in the light. Crossing over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders, gazing longingly at the silvery moonlight reflected off the water. Everything was beautiful and desirous, every nuance painful because here they were, trapped in each other’s arms, hiding their tears from the other. Michael concealed his tears better than his wife. He was crying inside—everything outside was just too lovely, the night was too resplendent—he knew not why. Janice, oh poor Janice, she whose tears were trickling down her face this moment. It hurt to see her cry.

"What’s wrong?" he asked her. "What’s wrong Janice?"

She turned her pallid face to him, and it looked decidedly tragic. "I don’t know—the night—thinking of you—me sitting down by the pool when it was light—crying—no one here for me to talk to—wanting to—to cut myself—not knowing how else to..." She broke into tears. He could feel her whole body start to tremble.

Michael’s heart seemed to stop beating. Oh no, not that, he thought—no please, not that. She had been doing so good today. They had had dinner in the city. She had looked so much like a little flower in her blue dress, her face radiant and devoid of the pain ill-concealed now by the moonlight. Afterward, they had gone to the opera, locking their hands as one, surrendering their selves to the light but powerful music. Kissing her soft lips in the darkened foyer, Janice’s eyes shining bright, not with tears then but with happiness. On the back terrace, dusk an intimation of something malignant, he could see her. She was lying on her chair, with her palms rubbing at her eyelids, thinking terrible thoughts, like wanting to hurt herself—and him miles away, not driving home fast enough, hoping vainly that she was alright all by herself. He hadn’t wanted to leave her alone, but he couldn’t give up his job, couldn’t or else how was he supposed to support them both? And, in any case, the doctor said she was doing better—better every day. She wasn’t crying as much as she used to. She was sleeping, and she had stopped cutting herself. It was called subliminal cutting. That was what the doctor had told him at the hospital—a way of punishing oneself, an act of contrition in his wife’s case.

It pained Michael to have to think of those dark, unsure months at the hospital, not knowing whether or not the doctors would ever release her. He had wanted so badly for her to come home with him, but he had concurred with the doctors that it was better that she get through this, better not to take her home until she was well again. That was three months ago, and there had been no relapses since. But now he looked at her intently, penetratingly. Please let her be okay, he prayed. I don’t want to have to take her back to that place. It took everything I had to take her there before. Please, don’t let this be a relapse. I don’t think either of us could handle that.

She entered his embrace, and he let her cry against his bare chest. Stroking her hair, kissing at her temples, trying to comfort her as best he could. God! It was only too easy to break down and cry along with her. But he couldn’t—he had to be strong. He had to be there for her.

"I’m sorry," he said. "I’m sorry I had to be away for so long."

"It was long," she said through her tears. "I thought you’d never come back, it was so long. . .and I thought I was going crazy."

"You know I can’t be here all the time, Janice. I wish I could be, but with all these obligations at the college— Teachers aren’t excused very easily."

"Oh, I know, I realize that, Michael. Believe me—the last thing I want to do is interfere with your work. I know how important teaching is to you. Still, it’s hard for me. Sometimes I just need somebody to talk to, and no one’s ever here to listen. I have all these bad thoughts in my head, like cutting myself. I don’t want them there. I can’t get out of them..." Her hands went to her eyelids and she rubbed at them in consternation, as if trying to abate all the pain behind them.

"This isn’t easy for you, I know. But look, it’s only been a couple of months now since you got out of the hospital. You’ve got to give the medication time, Janice. The doctor said it could take up to six months for your body to get stabilized. And look how far you’ve come. . . ."

Both of their minds were led back to the night three months ago, the horrifying one which had set off all the events which had followed.

Janice on the bathroom floor, her face buried in her arms, sobbing. It had pained Michael greatly to see her reddened eyes when she looked up.

"What is it?" he had said with a tremor of fear in his voice. He had never before seen his wife cry so uncontrollably. Her whole face was covered in tears. She was sweating and her whole body was shaking. "Janice, what’s the matter? What happened?"

His wife opened her mouth, but she had not the ability to even speak. He saw that she tried to speak, but it was as if her mouth was not able to move. He was frightened for her.

"I...I..." It was all she could get out. She got on to her knees and wrenched up the contents of her stomach into the toilet. He saw that there was blood on her arms. She was wearing a black silk blouse with veins on it, and there was blood on her arms. Michael’s senses went numb, indeed his whole body was anesthetized with shock. That blood on her flesh...

He bent down to her and put his arm on her back, thoughts kept racing through his mind—what had happened, why was she crying, had she cut herself, was she dying—this had to be a nightmare, nothing like this could happen outside of a nightmare. He saw the knife on the counter for the first time. He lighted out. It seemed as if a blackness was rushing towards him, rushing all around him, trying to blind him. The toilet flushed and Janice was looking up at him, her face ghostly pallid, a shadow of its former beauty.

"Michael, I..."
(cut myself)

A deep cough issued from her throat, and she collapsed onto the floor. He caught her just before her head came into contact with the tile floor. Then taking her to the hospital, an unreal drive in the darkness, a myriad of thoughts coming at him as mercilessly as the blinding headlights of the cars in the opposite lane. That was, he considered, the hardest night of his life. Janice crying uncontrollably, saying unintelligible things, her body trembling against his, seemingly holding on to him for dear life. And how hard it had been to close her hand in his and let the doctors lead her away. It took everything he had to stand there and assure her that everything was going to be alright. He kept his tears inside for her, until late that night when he couldn’t take it anymore, and let them spill out onto the kitchen table. Sleep was impossible. He sat by the downstairs window the entire night, kept seeing her huddled on the bathroom floor, bleeding from the wounds she had inflicted upon herself. That word—why?—kept resounding off the walls of his mind like an echo, and again and again there was no answer.

". . . all the progress you’ve made," he finished, and drew her towards him. "You’re going to get through this I know it."

Her tears slid down his chest and he held her tighter. "I can’t," she cried. "I can’t, I know I can’t. Sometimes, in the day, I think things are going to be alright, but at night, all alone, getting scared by all these bad thoughts—I don’t know if I can do it anymore, Michael. I’m sorry but I just can’t. . . ." She broke up. She couldn’t handle it anymore, all these thoughts in her head, making her so depressed that she couldn’t even function, watching helplessly as the bloodstain began to spread outwardly and take shape.

Michael stroked her hair, kissed at her temple, tried to comfort her. He brought back the night, reminded her how well she had done that evening. They had dined at The Hilton with Paul McKuen and his wife Anna, two people they hadn’t seen in ages. Paul was a teacher like Michael. He taught computer science at a business school in Sacramento, not very far from the university where Michael worked. Anna was a writer with one published novel to her credit. Mostly what she wrote was romantic. The four of them had had a splendid evening together. Paul and Anna used to live right next door to them, and they had often gone out together. Now it was like old times. Janice had seemed so happy at dinner. She had smiled and confided in Anna and for a moment Michael’s earlier misgivings had disappeared. Her face was glowing underneath the soft lights of the bar, so animated and strong. Her dark blonde hair seemed to shine. Her eyes were alive with life, and there was no trace of the woman from the bathroom in their blue depths.

"You can," he told her. "You’ve got to keep telling yourself that."

"I know," she said weakly. "I’m trying, Michael—really I am."

"You did so good today, Janice. I wasn’t even here and you did good all on your own." (Janice by the pool; thoughts of wanting to hurt herself slipping into her mind) "I don’t know how I did it. I needed you the whole time, needed you. . . ."
"You were fine. I went to that faculty meeting and you were fine. The next one I can go to and I don’t even have to worry."

She murmured something below him. Doubtless it was some sort of opposition toward being left alone again at night.

They held each other for a long time. He caressed her tenderly, endeavoring to stop her tears. After a while the moonlight revealed a collected version of his wife, which he thanked god for. The lines of agitation had dissipated from her face, leaving a cool sheet of serenity.

Janice was quiet beside her husband. She was thinking of earlier in the day. She liked to go out and sit by the pool and read. Reading was the one thing she loved to do. Going outside and sitting under the warm sunlight, getting lost in a book, putting all her troubles aside for the interim, escaping into herself—it had literally saved her life so many times that she was indebted. This afternoon, though, she had been sad. She had been reading Persuasion. She especially liked Jane Austen. But then, without warning, she had started weeping, wetting the pages with her tears. Then she had did something she never did. She threw the book as hard as she could and it landed face-down in the pool. She had something of an obsession with keeping books clean and in good condition. What shocked her was the fact that she never would have intentionally ruined a book. Then the world started getting foggy. She got up from the recliner and made her way back up to the house. She started drinking. Then went upstairs, got naked, and slid into bed. The rest was a blur. She slept so long, though, that it was getting on towards dark when she regained consciousness. Then she had been more herself. Michael came home. They went out.

"Paul and Anna are very nice," she voiced into the darkness. She needed that, needed to get out socially. It helped her. Paul and Anna’s invitation couldn’t have come at a more opportune time.

"Yes, they are," her husband corroborated.

Anna was slightly over forty, attractive, with ash-blonde hair, penetrating grey eyes, exuding a certain sexuality and maturity that made men fall over backwards for her. Her breasts were supple and well formed, her skin soft and radiant. There was no question that she did not stir something physical in her husband. She did. She knew Michael wanted her, wanted to fuck her, wanted to taste her. All of her suspicions were not based on fact, however. It was something internal that suggested it to her, a sharp feminine intuition honed to perfection after fourteen years of marriage.

"Anna sure was pretty tonight," she remarked, thinking of the black, silken dress she had been wearing, of the delicate coiffure pinned neatly behind the ears, of the healthy, rosy color of her cheeks.

"Yes, she was. She was pretty." He wanted—needed—to feel her physically, needed someone to hold onto the way Janice depended on him. Someone like Anna who was so perfect, and who on the surface appeared to have no problems—let alone those of his wife. In short, he wanted something that he could never have. The music faded; Janice’s heart descended with it. She was tired, so, so tired, in her husband’s arms.

"Sorry, Michael," she said, her forehead pressed against his chest. "I was just overcome earlier, and I wanted to feel you like I’m feeling you now."

"Don’t apologize—don’t ever apologize. I love you, Janice."

"I love you, too." She heard quite clearly the sincerity behind his words, and admonished herself for letting any thoughts of his infidelity enter into her mind.

"You know they invited us out to their house this Saturday," he said later when they lay in bed.

"Oh did they?" she said, her feelings in a discord. "That really was very nice of them. Was that when Anna and I left?"

"Yes. Paul asked. It’s their twenty-second wedding anniversary."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him we’d go, so long as you wanted to."

"Why, yes, I think I’d like that." Her words were slightly uncertain.

"Good. I’ll give him a call and let him know we can make it. Anna’ll be thrilled about it. I could tell she enjoyed having you at dinner tonight."

She started to say something. The word Anna was formed on her lips. She let the darkness swallow it up.