"Um … Doc … are you sure that's sharp enough?" I ask hesitantly.
"Of course it is," he says indignantly. "Your leg is barely hanging on. It should come off quite easily, and then we can butter our bread."
No, wait … that sounded ominous. He drops the knife and presses the edge into my skin, right near the opening of a large wound. I feel nothing, even when he starts sawing. I watch in morbid fascination as the doctor puts all his muscle into the effort of trying to saw through my skin with a butter knife, but he isn't making any progress. Sweat pops out on his brow, and he has to repetitively wipe it dry with his sleeve in between cutting attempts.
"Hold up," I cry out in frustration. "It's not working. You need something sharper."
"We don't have anything sharper," the doctor says as his movement halts. He looks at me with guilt, but it is the women he turns to who surprises me.
Jillian is standing in the corner of the room with Maria, and they are both looking at me with concern.
"I'm sorry," the doctor tells them quietly. "I can't get it off."
Jillian and Maria's eyes fill with tears as they nod their understanding and grasp hands in solidarity. They look across the room at me with pity.
"I'm sorry, Christopher," Maria says in a pained voice.
"But we can't stay with you unless that leg comes off," Jillian adds.
My head whips toward the doctor. "Take it off," I shriek at him. "Take the fucking thing off."
"I can't," he says in defeat, holding up the butter knife.
"Take it off," I shriek again.
My eyes pop open and I let out a tentative gust of air, terrified that I actually cried out in my sleep. That nightmare was real, vivid, and is still hanging around me.
But Jillian is sleeping soundly beside me. I had apparently rolled onto my back at some point after we had fallen asleep all wrapped around each other. She's on her side with her face pressed up against my shoulder and a hand curled around my bicep. It feels warm and secure, but my racing heart feels anything but.
I've never had a nightmare like that before. Maria's never entered one that I can remember, and to have Jillian there with her freaks me out. And I totally don't understand why them wanting to be with me hinged on my leg coming off. I would have thought they'd want me as whole as possible.
It's so fucking weird and disturbing all at the same time.
I'm wide awake now, my body actually tingling from the thought of my leg getting cut off with a butter knife and my hands shaking from the terror of it. I know there's no way in hell I'm getting back to sleep without a little bit of help, so I slowly slide away from Jillian and out of the bed. It takes me no time at all to get my leg on and throw on a minimum of clothes.
Gym shorts.
Sweatshirt.
The matching tennis shoe to the one that's on the prosthesis.
Reaching into my duffle bag, I grab the baggie of joints I'd rolled back in Colorado and a lighter from the side pocket. I head out the door as quietly as I can, gazing at Jillian's form still soundly sleeping on the bed just before I close the door.
When I turn around, I almost trip right over someone sitting on the bottom step of the room-duplex we're staying in. I can't see who it is, but I immediately recognize the smell of marijuana and know it's Barb. We'd split the total haul of joints between us, and she had her own little baggie.
"What are you doing?" I whisper.
"Getting high," she says, and I watch as she inhales deeply on a joint. When she pulls it away from her mouth, she reaches her hand up to offer it to me. I take it and sit down on the steps next to her before I take a hit.
When I hand it back to her, I ask, "Connor okay?"
"Yeah," she mutters softly. "He was fucking whipped after today. Fell right asleep."
I would imagine so. He jumped off a mountain and rode a raft down a foaming and frothing Snake River, his cries of joy echoing out as the raft dipped and plunged through the rapids. Jillian came on that adventure with us, and while it wasn't as thrilling as jumping off a mountain, it was better because she was sitting next to me.
We smoke the rest of her joint in silence, but I light one of mine up next and we continue to share. The air is crisp and as the drug swims through my system, I start to mellow out and forget about my dream.
"Did you think Connor looked okay today?" I ask, knowing he is the safest subject to talk about. I'd learned today that she has a soft spot for the kid.
"You noticed it too?" she counters.
"He looks paler, right?"
"I noticed," she agrees. "And he was sweating a lot on the ride back here this evening. I asked him if he was feeling okay and he said he was, but I don't know. I noticed he took some Tylenol when he got out of the shower tonight."
"Today was exhausting," I theorize. "Maybe it was just a little too much for him."
"Maybe," is all she says, and we once again lapse into silence.
When we finish the joint, I expect Barb to go back inside, because she's not a social creature. I'm not normally either, but I'm finding myself with a lot of patience for my newfound friends as well as curiosities, particularly about Barb since she's the most reserved of us. But she just sits there, staring out into the dark beside me.
Since I'm floating on a good buzz, I tell her, "I'm going to ask you something really personal."
"Go for it," she says, challenge in her tone. "Doesn't mean I'll answer."
"You've tried to kill yourself since that first time in your parents' kitchen," I surmise. It's not really a question, but more of a statement. I've seen the additional scars on her wrists.
Her head turns slowly to me, but there's enough glow from a nearly full moon that I see the surprise on her face. I'm equally surprised when she chooses to answer me. "Three more times. Two more attempts on my wrist. The third time I tried to OD."
"How come you didn't succeed?" I ask curiously. I mean … I know why I didn't succeed when I'd held a gun to my temple. Ultimately, I didn't have the fucking balls to do it. But I'm curious if all suicidal thoughts are the same.
She shrugs and turns her face away from me. "I guess I'm not really dedicated to the mission."
"You want to live more than you want to die?"
"I don't know if that's it," she says carefully. "I actually think more about dying than I do about living."
"Why?" I press her.
She turns back to me, crossing her arms and resting them on her thighs as she huddles against the cool air. "Let me ask you something … what did you see when we were paragliding today?"
"What do you mean?" I ask in confusion.
"What did you see?" she repeats. "Describe the scenery."
My mind filters back through those few minutes of soaring among the mountains and the clouds. "Green valley with darker green trees dotting it. Mountains that looked silvery-green with white peaks. The sky had a cloudy haze to it, but there were pockets of clear blue."
She nods and says, "Green, silver, white, blue."
"Huh?"
"You used colors to describe what you saw," she says quietly. "Want to know what I saw?"
"What?"
"Gray," she says. "Dark gray, light gray, medium gray. Nothing but gray."
Fuck, that's depressing, but I guess maybe that's what depression looks like if described in colors. I've personally never seen the world like that. I know I've been depressed, but I've also come to learn that our problems are all apples and oranges. Our issues are varied and the ways our minds process them are unique.
"Do you ever see color?" I ask her, needing to hear her say something hopeful. Because Jillian taught me the value of hope, and I don't really want Barb reminding me that it's possible to live a life without good possibilities.
Barb pushes up from the steps and turns to face me. She shoves her hands down into her jeans pockets. "Yes, I see color sometimes. Not often, but it seems to come at odd moments, like when I'm at my lowest. At the times when I feel so utterly hopeless that I know death is the only cure for my problems. It's tempting, Christopher. When it's gray and dark, it's oh-so-fucking tempting to end it."
"Maybe you need to find ways to get more color in your life," I suggest, which is my way of saying she needs counseling or medication or both to help her heal. I know this trip alone won't do anything for her … urine-soaked gravesites notwithstanding.
Barb gives a sharp laugh and leans toward me. In a soft voice, she says, "I actually envy you sometimes."
This takes me aback. How could someone look at me and be jealous?
"I envy your ability to come on this trip, look past all the darkness, and learn how to laugh. I watch you laugh with Jillian and Connor, and I'm envious of all three of you. What you three have is genuine. It's real."
"I've seen you laugh," I point out, desperate for her to realize she's got some normality going. Needing her to see that she has friends now. I need her to see it; otherwise, I might not believe it's real.
But she doesn't answer me, just moves past me up the steps with a curt, "I'm tired. See you in the morning."