Press Release

41: Gutter Press

Minnie falls asleep, having cried herself out. Daisy has jumped up onto the bed and is lying cuddled against Minnie's back, her snout resting on Minnie's upper arm. Every once in a while, she lets out a whine.

Patting her head, I whisper, "Me, too, Daisy. Me too. But she's going to be okay." Lifting her head just slightly, she licks my hand before resting again on Minnie.

Helplessly, I've been watching my girl sleep, wondering what on earth could have upset her so badly that she would be nearly catatonic. Her cheeks are stained with tear tracks, and my brain won't stop singing "Tracks of My Tears", complete with Smokey Robinson's voice. It's an annoying earworm, but I can't shake it. Since I've known this incredible woman, I've seen cracks in her armor only twice before. Both times were career related. Wanna bet this one is too?

When my girl finally stirs, she moans, covering her eyes with her forearm. I say nothing, just tracing a soft pattern on her other arm.

"I'm sorry," she croaks, removing her arm from her eyes in order to pet Daisy. "That was rude."

Shifting, I scoot higher on the bed, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Violently, she shakes her head. Thirty seconds later, she nods. "I am a failure," is her pronouncement, and I school my face and body to not reveal any judgment about her statement.

"Why do you say that, baby?" I ask, and yes. I'm aware this is the second time I've called her baby tonight, but she's so fragile that all I can think about is a tiny baby who needs my protection.

Don't mock me. Not in this moment anyway. If I call her "baby" on the red carpet sometime in the future, then you can make fun of me.

"My client? Charles?"

I'm holding my breath because I don't want to say something stupid. He's a ponce. That's my honest opinion of him. But I know that he's been trying, and she's done her best to make him less of a wanker.

"He, uh, slit his wrists today," she forces the words out, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

Oh, God. This is pretty close to the worst thing she could have said. I wait silently because I know there's more.

"The police called me because I was the one he'd called most often recently." Still I continue waiting patiently, not moving. "He might not make it, according to the officer."

My options for response are few. I could reassure her that he will be alright when I have no idea if that's true. Instead, I stroke my hand over her forehead and hair, pressing a kiss there. "I'm sorry, Minnie."

Her eyes well up with tears again, though she still doesn't make eye contact with me. "What if I had pushed the issue? Forced him to go to a hospital? Made him get a psych eval? Could I have saved him then?"

Now my eyes are a bit misty too. Dammit. She's tearing herself up, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

Waiting another minute before speaking, I run through the phrases in my head I could say. They all sound trite, and I realize that sometimes trite phrases are repeated because they are the best option.

"Listen to me," I am firm and gentle, "You did a lot for him. Helped him up when he was down even though he wasn't your client anymore. You gave him encouragement and hope that he was sorely lacking. Maybe you're the reason he held on as long as he did."

As I say the words, I know they aren't enough. Words will never be enough.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" I ask, and she nods.