She stared at me, through me, across the dismal room, as if into a fog. She couldn’t see me at all.
Maybe she never had.
I had to make her see me, but I didn’t know how.
I said, Laura, listen to me. Try to hear me. Try to see me. Don’t do this to yourself. It doesn’t matter what happened with gymnastics. Forget your mother. Forget your old friends. You can’t believe you are nothing. I don’t care if that sounds stupid. Believe me, I know things now. I’ve seen things. I know your life is bad. I know it hurts. But you can change it. It won’t always be this way. You have to believe me.
She was small, lonely, and afraid. Her face was so full of pain that I couldn’t stand it.
I wanted to touch her, but I knew she wouldn’t feel me. I wanted to scream, but I knew she wouldn’t hear. She didn’t hear me at all, and I knew it.
I kept talking anyway. I’ve seen what’s in the box, Laura. I’m sorry I looked. I love your paintings; they were beautiful. I looked everywhere. I saw everything. I know it’s killing you. But it doesn’t matter. Not to me. I never loved you for those things, Laura. I love you, Laura. I don’t think you’re a failure. You were done performing your routine, that’s all. You’ll do other things. I wish I could tell you what you hope to find, but only you can find it. I hope it will be beautiful, but I just don’t know. All I know is that it’s your life. It doesn’t matter what other people think. To hell with them. It doesn’t matter if they don’t love you.
She shivered, her eyes frozen with dismal misery, staring through me into the gloom.
I looked at her.
I tried to finally see who she was.
All I could remember was the moment I’d met her.
The moment she’d woken me to something I’d never imagined could be real.
She’d woken me to love.
And it was wonderful.
But it had hurt me too.
Falling in love doesn’t seem possible until it happens. I never believed I could love until I met her. She brought love out of me, and it was something hidden so deep I hadn’t even known it was there.
Now all I knew was that I hoped I could do the same for her.
I got on my knees in front of her.
Listen to me, Laura. I know you’re in pain. But you’ll find other people. You’ll find other love. You found me. I loved you. And now that I’ve seen everything, I love you even more. I’ll always love you. You saw something in me that no one else ever saw; I hid it from everybody! You saw that little bit of value I have that lets me be myself. See it in yourself, Laura. But you have to hear me. I can’t stop you, and even if I could, it wouldn’t work. The time would only come again. You have to do it, Laura. Pull the gun away.
Did she hear me? I didn’t know. Her eyes were wet. But she did not pull the gun away.
It was hopeless.
I knew her.
I knew how hard and determined she could be.
I had to tell her everything.
Every reason in the world why she mustn’t do this.
But there was nothing more to say.
Every reason I thought of fell apart instantly.
In the face of death, everything was trite and stupid.
I told her she had to want to stop, and stop right now. I told her that she could tell somebody how she feels, a counselor at school or a doctor, and she had to get help, because she was wonderful and beautiful and worth it.
I know. That was a mistake.
I really didn’t mean to say it. I knew it was boring and redundant—my mom had told me—and I’d said it a million times before and it had never done any good.
But I just couldn’t stop myself.
I tried to think of other things to say.
Really.
I told Laura again that she had to stop and not do it and that everything would be all right and that if she found help she would believe that, because she herself was so much more than anything she could possibly ever do or be for anyone else.
I told her that I knew I’d never been able to help her; that she’d looked to me for help but never found it because I’d never had the courage to really show myself to her, but she had to see me now.
I closed my eyes because I was crying, and all I feared was that I’d hear a horrible noise, and I wanted to tear the thing from her hands, but I couldn’t—only she could do that.
And so I just started to say it, even though I didn’t think it was even the right thing to say, though in my soul I knew it was the only thing to say: You’re wonderful, you’re beautiful; you’re wonderful, you’re beautiful.
I think I said it ten thousand times—You’re wonderful, you’re beautiful—and I knew it was hopeless, even though I heard her starting to sob.
I couldn’t stop her.
I kept saying it over and over like a prayer.
You’re wonderful, you’re beautiful.
And I closed my eyes and waited for the sound I dreaded hearing, and I slid into a clump on the floor at her feet.
I lay there for longer than I can remember. Until I knew I was alone.
But I guess she heard me.
Because when I opened my eyes, she was gone downstairs, and had left
