Page 94 of Beach Bodies

‘But Jessica said—’

‘What are you suggesting, Lily?’ interrupted Beth Ann, her tone elevated. ‘That we kill my daughter?’

‘Well.’ Dr Banerjee’s voice was soft, calm. ‘Removing life support is not considered—’

‘We talked about it,’ I tried again. ‘I remember.’ Tears clouded my vision, but I wiped them away and pressed on, trying to sound mature, reasonable, someone to be taken seriously. ‘It was on our first date. We were asking each other weird first-date questions– like, if you had to lose a limb, which would it be– and… what was your preferred way to die. And she said, on the surgical table because then at least it wouldn’t hurt, and then she said, “But I never want to be a vegetable.” I know she said that. I remember.’

‘Stop!’ yelled Beth Ann. ‘My daughter is not anobject! You need to leave, Lily! This is our daughter, and these are our decisions!’

‘Do you happen to have Jessica’s wishes in writing?’ Dr Banerjee said to me gently.

I shook my head. My body was so tight it might have snapped any minute.

‘Go home,’ said Don. ‘Her mother and I need some space.’

Dr Banerjee gave me a concerned look, and I could see that she was about to speak, but I didn’t want her to have to defend me. It would somehow just diminish me even further.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, grabbing my purse from the vinyl couch. ‘I’ll leave.’

God. If I lived through that now, they’d have to prise me away from Jessica’s side with a fucking crowbar. They’d have to knock me unconscious and drag me out. But I was only twenty-four. Still so young, and standing there next to BethAnn and Don, I felt it. And at the end of the day? They had power of attorney and I did not. It didn’t matter that I was the one living with Jessica; that I loved her and she loved me; that we owned a business together and made love and knew everything about each other, from our pet peeves to our darkest secrets. I had no power, and no way of getting it.

Over the next days, I haunted the hospital. I sent Beth Ann and Don articles about Jessica’s condition. I texted them and called them and pleaded my cause–Jessica’scause.I don’t believe Jessica is in her body any more. Please let her go.

When a knock came at my apartment door two weeks later, I was stunned to be served papers. It was a restraining order. I wasn’t allowed to be within one hundred yards of Jessica.

I called Beth Ann. Now it was my turn to shriek.

‘What the fuck are these papers about? You mean I can’t see her any more?’

‘Why would you want to?’ she shouted back. ‘You want her to be dead!’

Over the years, sometimes I stalked Beth Ann’s Facebook, which, though on private mode, she miraculously hadn’t blocked me from. She’d occasionally share pictures of a birthday party they threw for Jessica in the hospital. It was gruesome, the contrast between the pale, unconscious woman I loved with the golden birthday sign above her hospital bed. The expressionless form she made against the big smiles of her parents and the nurses wearing party hats, holding up cupcakes, a mockery of a celebration.

Every now and then, I’d call Beth Ann. Always the same. Please, let her go. It’s been a year. Two. Three.

What takes more strength? I asked myself at the Riovan.To hang on? Or to let go?

Maybe I’ve been making the same mistake Beth Ann and Don have been making for all these years. Hanging on. Allowing Jessica’s body to keep working, and somehow, stopping her from attaining peace. Stoppingmefrom attaining peace.

It’s not like I didn’t try to achieve it another way, though. Five years ago, stripped of power and barred from ever seeing Jessica again, I went back to the place where our downward spiral began. The place that had ruined us.

I went back to the Riovan.

*

Jessica and I visited the Riovan in late spring; I went back in early fall and booked two nights, which was all I could afford. I’d sent my emails to the news outlets asking for help, describing how Jess had spiralled after our ‘dream vacation’ and ended up in emergency treatment. I didn’t have the heart to type out the whole sordid ending of her life as I knew it– it felt too raw to send in an email blast– but I did say that she ‘attempted suicide’. Even with that, I’d got nothing back. The Riovan was not going to fall; it was going to continue on as if nothing had happened. No one cared what had happened to Jessica or to me.

I walked the beaches, trying to remember every little thing about her that I could. I wished I had ashes to scatter; something physical. I sat on the jetty and imagined the scene of me proposing to her, over and over, until it almost felt like I had done it, and Jessica had said yes, and we were back here for our honeymoon.

While I was walking on the beach the second day, I overheard one of the nutritionists be an absolute bastard to a guest. ‘You keep eating French fries, you’ll just keep being a fat slob. I thought you were here because you were ready for a change.’

My heart and my gut squeezed so hard, I thought I might explode. In a cloud of rage, I went back to my room and sobbed for hours into the expensive down comforter and the beautiful sheets. Nothing was going to change here at the Riovan, but how could I accept that? How, when the same darkness that destroyed Jessica was still at work in this place?

That evening, I went out for a final swim before packing for my early morning flight. The water was frisky, but I’d always been a strong swimmer. I knew I was probably swimming too far out, but I didn’t stop until the shore was a distant smear. Then, I floated on my back and watched the first stars pop out of the blue, and wished and wished that Jessica would appear to me and tell me she was OK, she was at peace, she was free.

I yelped as something encroached on my vision– a paddle boarder, skimming by just inches from me, like he hadn’t seen me at all. I righted myself, treading water as he passed me, too stunned by the close call to even cry out. Then I recognized him. It was the nutritionist. Invading my space, my evening swim, my attempt at communing with Jessica.

‘Fuck you,’ I remember breathing as I swam away. ‘Fuck you.’

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