Matthias is long gone, and the evening snack. I feel terribly nauseated; both it and my conversation with him are not sitting well in my stomach. I carry the feeling and my thoughts to bed. It takes me hours to fall asleep.
I wake up too soon. The nausea is still there, but that is not what woke me; a rainbow of colorful lights is streaming into the Van Gogh room. I look out the window for their source, onto the narrow parking lot, and my heart sinks as I see the whirling lights of an ambulance creeping in.
A stretcher is wheeled out of the house. I recognize the sweatshirt. Valerie.
I cannot tell if her eyes are open, much less if she is conscious. She is deathly still, but then shakes her head softly to a question she is asked. I breathe a sigh of relief.
I want her to look up at the window, see me looking down. I want to wave. I want to shout out:
Valerie! It’s all right!
A promise I have no right to make. Instead, I keep quiet, unable to break the heavy silence of 3:00 A.M.
I watch the team of professionals buckle her in, cowardly behind the window. I am so scared. She must be terrified, and feeling so alone. The ritual unfolds and I hope Valerie can guess that I am attending. The ambulance floods the side of the house, the parking lot, the tree with rainbow light.
Valerie tried to kill herself on CPR training day. The thought gnaws at me like heartburn. A few minutes later the ambulance creeps out of the parking lot and turns the curb.
In the hours that follow 3:17 A.M., I get angry at myself. For having been too scared to let Valerie know I was there. For not having told her it was all right to have soiled her pants and to have cried. For not having comforted her better after dinner. But what would I have said?
That she was not weak for not being perfect? That her father loved her anyway? That she needed him more than she needed to protect him? That she deserved cake on her birthday?
I should have let her know I was there at 3:17, watching from the Van Gogh window. I did not and it is now quarter to five. Almost time for vitals and weights.
Valerie’s notebook and her father’s letter are on her spot on the couch. I pick them up and put them in her cubby for safekeeping till she comes back.
A few hours later, breakfast again. Served with anxious gossip this time. Someone says Valerie got hold of scissors. Someone else says it was a knife. I do not want to know; it feels wrong to speculate about the logistics of suicide. I do not mention her father, her accident, or that I saw the ambulance overnight.
After breakfast and the walk I write two hurried letters. The first I copy out three times:
Dear V.,
I do not know where to send this letter, or if you even want to hear from me, but you need to know that I was watching when the ambulance came.
You do not have to come back, or reply. I will understand if you do not. I will save your spot on the couch anyway.
A.
Three copies in three envelopes; there are three hospitals in this area. I address each letter to one of them; I do not know where she is.
To the Attention of Ms. Valerie …
It hits me like a punch. I also do not know Valerie’s last name.
I feel the bile rise up to my throat as I look around the living room. I need a sign that she was here, that she really existed. Nothing but her notebook and letter in her cubby, and that little space on the couch. She had been so frail that the ungrateful seat had not even kept a mark.
The white blanket had gone with her. Had it been there before she came? Who and where was the girl who had first brought it to 17 Swann Street? How many girls had sat in Valerie’s spot, wrapped themselves in it, and then disappeared? Does it matter?
Yes. It matters. Valerie’s last name matters. I find it on Direct Care’s list. Her full name is Valerie Parker. She has a father and a birthday. We exist because we matter to someone, to anyone. She matters to her father and to me. There once lived a girl at 17 Swann Street whose name was Valerie.
Someone will have to notify her father. That task falls onto Direct Care. Along with cleaning up patients who soil themselves and practicing resuscitation techniques.
I write my next letter to my sister Sophie. I have not spoken to her in months. Almost since Christmas, since Christmas actually. She had given up on phone calls and texts.
I had been ashamed, too ashamed to pick up; her older sister was a failure. Who could not eat, who would not, even when she begged her. Who made promises she did not keep.
I thought I was protecting her. Now all I can think of is Valerie’s dad. His face, the phone call he is going to receive today from Direct Care.
I stare at the page. I have so much to say. I do not know where to begin. I want to start with I am so sorry and I love you and I miss you at the same time. I want to ask her how she is, where she is. I want the past few months, years of our lives back. I want hours of conversation with her, but I just have a sheet of paper.
Chère Sophie,
I miss you. I love you. I am sorry I missed all your calls.
Can you try calling me again? I promise to answer this time.
Bisous,
Anna
The mailman takes Valerie’s three letters from me and, I hope, to Valerie. My fourth letter will have to wait till Matthias gets me the right stamp.
Emm distributes the day’s mail to everyone. No envelope for me from Valerie. The rest of the girls read theirs while Direct Care sets the table for snack.