I opened the door and stepped in, but I didn't turn off the stereo, and I didn't call her name. I don't know why. I just turned and walked down the hall.
The bathroom door was standing half open. That was wrong too. With her, it was either shut tight or wide open. There was no in between.
I stood outside the doorway for a moment or two, feeling strangely apprehensive. Then I pushed the door open and looked inside.
She was in the tub. I guess I should have called for help, or looked for a pulse, but the water was red and she was so white ... I knew that she was already dead. It was as flat and as undeniable as a police photo of a murder scene, where the corpse is sprawled out like a crumpled rag doll, so real you can barely see it.
I turned away from her and vomited into the sink. I could smell my whiskey, and that made me throw up again. Then I stood there and leaned on the counter, shaking. Suddenly it was very important that everything should be clean before I turned around again, so I ran the water, cold, and rinsed out the sink, rinsed my mouth, my hands ...
When I could look at her again, I saw her left arm was dangling out of the tub. The blood had run from her wrist onto the floor and spread across the white tile like an obscene question mark. It was already thickening, half dry.
A wine bottle and a glass, both empty, stood side by side on the floor. Next to them there was a pill bottle, lying on its side as if it had fallen from her hand; it probably had. The last few pills were scattered across the tiles alongside the blood, as if in a race to some unknown destination. I wondered which had won, the pills or the blood. I wondered if she felt it when the blade cut her veins.
There was a piece of paper, folded, under the wine glass. I could see my name written on the outside, magnified by the base of the glass, and I picked up the paper and held it for a moment. I didn't want to read it, not at all.
But I unfolded it, and the note was very simple, just two sentences:
I sat in the corner for a while after that; I don't know how long. It was one of those moments that swallows you whole; you are in it and of it, and until it spits you out there is no such thing as time.
When I eventually came back, the note was still crumpled in my hand, and I threw it away from me without looking at it again. I was staring at the ring on her hand; it was a beautiful thing, a cat's eye opal, given to her by her grandmother, or somebody's grandmother. I couldn't remember, but somehow it seemed that I should remember; that if I could bring back that one thing, then I would never forget anything about her, and she would always be with me ... always be real.
But I couldn't find the memory. So finally, I moved over and knelt by the tub. I was very careful not to touch the blood. I wanted it gone, I wanted it washed away, but I didn't want to touch it.
Her eyes were still wide open. I looked into them, and I guess I was hoping to see something, some trace of reason or memory, caught like the after-image from a flash photograph. But there was nothing, nothing at all; just a blank dullness that might have held a hint of accusation, but maybe even that was just me.
Outside I could still hear "Charlie Constanza on the bongos, Charlie Constanza on the bongos ...", tolling over and over, like a mantra ... or like a death knell. I leaned close over her, still careful not to touch the blood, and closed her eyes. It seemed the right thing to do. Then I told her, very softly, that I loved her, and went outside to turn off the record player.
