I awoke hours later to a slew of manic messages from Simon, and the sun in the window, heralding a brand new day.
In Between
I didn’t head right to my new apartment on Bleecker Street, although I wanted to. Simon had sent seventeen messages between two and four A.M.
Come home, Chere
Where a u
Im to high Ser
Yes, when he was high, he forgot how to spell my name. That wasn’t unusual. But the last message read, Ths is the end, and that terrified me out of my luxurious hotel room and into a taxi.
The end? What end? The end of us? The end of his life? I imagined Simon alone, too high, haunted by drug demons and surrounded by his destroyed artwork. I’d always feared accidental overdose, but would he purposely kill himself? I shouldn’t have left him alone so soon after our argument, and I shouldn’t have spent the night at the Mandarin.
I urged the cab driver to hurry. He sneered in the rearview mirror at my frizzed hair, morning face, and low cut maxi dress, and made the obvious, belittling conclusion. Whatever. The last thing on my mind was some stranger’s judgment. What if? What if…
When I arrived, I found the door to our loft ajar. That wasn’t unusual either, unfortunately. We’d been robbed twice, because when Simon was high, he sometimes forgot to close it. Or had the police been here? EMTs? No. They would have shut the door behind them. It had been four hours since he sent the last text.
“Simon?” I called out to him with a shaky voice. I went into each room, afraid of what I might find, but I found nothing. The last room I checked was his studio. That was where he’d kill himself, if he’d chosen to kill himself. Please, Simon, no…
I saw a blanket on the floor behind the couch. I walked over and found Simon and Rachel entwined in each other’s arms. They were both naked, still as the grave. I studied them, afraid to move closer. “Simon?” I said softly. Nothing. Dread choked my throat. They looked so gray and stiff, and I couldn’t see either of them breathing. Was this what overdose looked like?
Then Simon twitched, and I screamed. I screamed so loud it reverberated off the walls and windows, and the wrecked pile of paintings, but still, neither of them moved.
“Simon.” I didn’t know why I bothered saying his name when he didn’t respond to a scream. I knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. He felt warm and alive, even if he looked dead. Rachel stirred and pulled him closer. There was a bottle of bourbon on the table to their left, and a bent spoon and needles on the floor beside it.
I was glad he wasn’t dead, but Jesus. We were so over. He was right, this was the end.
I thought about waking him up and confronting him about Rachel, and ruining his blissful high. But then I realized we’d already had enough fights, too many fights, and that our last fight was just that, our last fight. I didn’t have the power to save him. Isn’t that what all those self-help books said? You can’t save an addict.
And then I realized that I was an addict too. I’d been addicted to Simon, to protecting Simon and saving him from the dire consequences of his actions. This was my rock bottom, standing over him as he drifted in the arms of his junky girl-on-the-side. Well, she could be his main girl now. It was time to save my life.
I went to our room and packed my clothes and anything we hadn’t bought jointly. I had a few DVDs, a few books, my laptop and toiletries and hair accessories. My whole life, without Simon, fit into three suitcases and five boxes in the back of a cab. I left a note beside my key, on the counter where he’d see it when he finally woke up and looked for food.
Dear Simon,
I think it’s time for me to leave. I hope you get better one day. I won’t forget the good times we had. Please don’t call.
It wouldn’t matter if he called. I blocked his number on the way to my new home, and started composing another letter in my head.
Dear W,
You can’t save an addict, but you can help one save herself. Thanks for the apartment. It was the right gift at the right time.
I mentally crossed that out and started again.
Dear W,
You’ll never understand how much your generosity means to me. You’ve given me the strength to do what I should have done a long time ago. You have literally changed my life.
I mentally crossed that out too. It was too gushy, too many blathering words.
In the end, it came down to this:
Dear W,
I love you.