The Show Must Go On

Chapter Twenty-Three: Death with Dignity

Chapter Twenty-Three Soundtrack: Death with Dignity by Sufjan Steven

It's like a sitcom.

Yeah, just like a sitcom, I hear myself saying next week at the pub, with a deprecating laugh, to assure anyone listening that I am in on the joke.

It will be a joke, I repeat like a mantra, as my heartbeat pulses in my ears. This will all be funny tomorrow.

'No, I'm not a bridesmaid,' I say for the third time, and my grip tightens dangerously on my champagne flute. 'Just a weird coincidence.' This woman clearly does not believe me, though who would? Coincidences like this only happen in sitcoms.

Across the room, Laurie's eyes are still locked on me. It's been three hours since the ceremony. I had hoped that the alcohol and, you know, the love would help, but no. Even Mei has noticed, snidely speculating that the groom must be pretty boring if the bride is so obsessed with someone else.

That did not make me laugh, and instead turned like a little knot in my stomach, over and over, until I couldn't stop picturing roast duck twisting down my throat as I ate each bite, and it fizzed in my stomach, and soon I was clutching my knife as though it could fight off my own feelings.

The man sitting opposite me - Peter? Pat? who cares? - leans across the table. A dollop of gravy is stuck in his beard and his eyes are glassy with wine.

'I'm surprised you're not sitting with the family,' he mumbles - he's very drunk, then.

'Why's that?' I ask, just to be polite, but even those few words tangle in my throat, so that I sound drunk too. Or maybe I just sound panicked, because I am starting to suspect I'm having a panic attack.

He doesn't notice. 'Because of Ben. Remember Ben?' He laughs like I do anything else.

'Well, someone has to,' I snap, and stand up sharply. My chair clangs to the floor behind me. My chair, wrapped in white ribbons, like they would have been at my wedding, because I am sitting through my own fucking wedding.

I am sitting through my own fucking wedding, three tables away from my almost-sister-in-law, who is glaring at me for the commotion, which is a nice change from her glaring at me for the dress.

The walls are darker than I remember, which is how I realise I am nearly blacking out.

Fuck's sake, Ellie, just breathe.

In.

Out.

I curtsy. Not in a sassy, empowered way, but like I am literally bowing to my queen to beg permission to leave. Like I am her servant. I leave anyway, my feet awkward beneath me, knowing that I have never been uglier, or stupider, or more unwanted.

It takes me five minutes of deep breathing in the toilet stall to slow my heartbeat. I am leaning back against the wall, my sweat is pooling beneath my dress, and my feet are propped up against the door. Maybe I can die here in peace.

I've always had these moments - these 'episodes', as my mother called them. 'Panic attacks', Sandra calls them in our sessions. Her hope is that, one day, I will be able to spot them before they come, and that I will be able to 'regulate myself' through deep breathing and positive thinking. Obviously, I can't.

Instead, I just shake and cry and feel the huge blackness inside my chest swallow up my thoughts until I want to claw them out with my fingernails.

Mei helps, sometimes, when she sees them. She strokes my back and doesn't look me in the eyes, when I beg her not to, and takes away everything that scares me. But I can't ask her today, during a family wedding.

Ben didn't really try to. It was hard to admit that to Sandra. He just left me to it and laughed, relieved, when I told him I'd handled it. He always liked me best when I was smiling.

It's hard to feel so alone when my mind is telling me I'm unlovable. I know I have to manage my feelings myself: but my feelings want me to be alone. They insist I will never be loved again.

And here I am, in a toilet stall, making today all about me. Quietly regurgitating every shame and doubt I've ever had instead of moving on, because I'm incapable of it. I'm incapable of anything.

I need to distract myself.

There is only one place I can always be needed, one cause that has always demanded my attention, one value I can always add: my job. My job will distract me. My job won't care what dress I'm wearing, or whose wedding I attended, or how every cousin of Ben's has his nose and it's like walking through the ghosts of the lives I should have had. My job doesn't care that here, surrounded by his family, it's like I'm the only person who even misses him; my job doesn't care that I'm not sure if I still miss him or if I just miss the security of being loved by him.

And my inbox is full, I discover, as I rest my feet against the cubicle doors and start ignoring my problems.

Nas is in a bad mood. He's signing his emails 'Best', not 'Best regards' or 'Many thanks', and this 'Best' always means 'Best hope I don't kill you myself'. I wonder what's grinding his teeth today.

I'm about to text him and ask when I remember: my job doesn't care, but Nas doesn't either. We don't text. We don't talk at all, really, and I put my phone away and I breathe very slowly.

Nas doesn't care at all.

And I sit in the bathroom stall, faintly hearing the DJ starting the first dance, and I cry.

*

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