The Drive Away

By the second night on the couch, my body had reached a decision my mind was still trying to phrase. I did not remember lifting the suitcase or opening the apartment door.

I remembered its wheels striking each stair, loud in the enclosed stairwell, and the shame of hoping no neighbor opened a door. I gripped the railing with my free hand. Somewhere behind me, inside the apartment, Darius called my name once.

I kept moving.

In the car, I locked the doors before starting the engine. My hands were steady on the wheel. I looked at them as though they belonged to someone who had not just watched his body shake.

It was four-forty in the morning. Sprinklers ticked across the apartment lawns, a delivery truck idled at the gate, and a man in a reflective vest hauled a dumpster over the asphalt. Beyond the roofs, the sky had begun to gray. I-4 was nearly empty. The billboards were still selling vacations to nobody.

The emergency call was still on my phone screen. I had given the dispatcher the address, the apartment number, what I had seen. I had stayed long enough to answer the questions. I could not go upstairs again.

Before I reached the parking-lot exit, Miss Evelyn's name filled the screen.

I declined the call.

Her name appeared again.

Then Nadine's. Then a number I did not recognize. The phone vibrated against the console. I knew how quickly his family could find me when he needed something.

I drove without a destination, following the green lights. At one intersection, a couple laughed inside the car beside mine, their faces lit by the dashboard. Farther on, outside an all-night diner, a father lifted a sleeping child from the back seat. The child's arms hung loose over his shoulder.

At every red light, the argument began again.

He was sick. He could die. A loving woman did not leave a sick man. But I had been alone with him, ignorant of the pills, the substances, the history other people knew. He needed help. I had called for it. I had promised to share a life with him, not to discover its terms in an emergency.

I pulled into a gas station, opened the door and vomited onto the concrete beside the car.

When I straightened, my reflection caught in the dark car window: mascara beneath my eyes, hair coming loose at the nape, an expensive blouse creased from hospital chairs. I smoothed the collar before I understood what I was doing.

Nadine's message lit the phone.

He's with the paramedics. Where are you?

I typed safe, then deleted it. Typed gone. Deleted that too.

Finally I wrote, I called for help. The paramedics have the address.

Her reply came before I could set the phone down.

Grandma says you abandoned him. I told her the paramedics were there because you called. Nobody gets to ask you back tonight.

I laughed once, a sharp sound in the closed car. Then I pressed my lips together.

Tell Grandma she knew what I didn't.

I booked a hotel from the gas-station parking lot. At the front desk, beneath lights too bright for the hour, the clerk asked whether I was visiting for business or pleasure. His fingers waited above the keyboard.

"Neither," I said.

In the room, I put the suitcase on a chair and left it closed. The air conditioner rattled beneath the window. No beat looped from a computer. No bottle cap turned in the kitchen. No television played to a sleeping man.

I had expected to feel lighter. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed and began to cry.

I missed the man from the funeral dinner. Then the veteran, the father, the future producer. I missed the wounded boy he had described and the husband I had imagined before he had even proposed. I could still picture each of them. I could not make them into one man.

At three the following morning, Darius called.

I watched the screen until the call went to voicemail.

"Maya," he said, his voice thin against the receiver. "I need you to come home."

He did not say what had happened after I left. He did not ask where I was.

I listened twice, then blocked his number for the rest of the night.

I lay awake until the curtains began to pale. In the corridor, a cart rattled past my door.

When I finally slept, I still had my shoes on.

I woke without knowing where I was. Sunlight slipped through the gap in the hotel curtains. At some point I had opened the suitcase and moved it beside the desk. Three blouses, two pairs of heels, underwear, my passport. Beneath them lay the folder of Darius's medical paperwork.

Even leaving, I had carried his records.

My phone showed thirty-one notifications.

Miss Evelyn. Nadine. Two numbers I did not recognize. Before I had blocked him, Darius had sent messages that moved from pleading to accusation, then to complete sentences with careful punctuation.

I opened one of his earlier voicemails.

"I can't believe you left me when I could've died," Darius said.

I deleted the others without listening.

In the bathroom mirror, mascara shadowed my eyes. The bedspread had pressed a red seam into my cheek. I turned my face toward the light, checking whether makeup would cover it. I was due at work.

I showered, dressed and went.

For nine hours I answered questions, revised plans and kept my voice level. I took notes I could barely read afterward. No one at work knew I had slept in a hotel because I was afraid to go home. At lunch, I asked Nadine whether Darius had been admitted. She told me he was safe, with family.

Safe.

I read the word again. I still did not want to go back.

That frightened me. I had expected his illness to settle every question in his favor. Instead, I put the phone beside my lunch and felt grateful he was alive, grateful someone else was there.

After work, I drove to the apartment. Darius had agreed to be elsewhere, and Miss Evelyn stayed on the phone with him while I went inside. I paused at the door to listen before turning my key.

His cup stood beside the couch. The blanket I had wrapped around him lay on the floor. Beneath an empty glass, a hospital instruction sheet had curled at the corners. I stood in the doorway with my pulse beating in my throat, looking at things I might once have put away.

I packed my documents first, then jewelry, my medication, clothes for work. I fastened the chain with my parents' pictures around my neck. Before moving anything else, I photographed each room. I wanted a record that neither of us could later improve.

In the bedroom, his travel bag lay partly unzipped.

The prescription bottle was visible inside.

I did not count the pills.

I left the zipper where it was.

In the smaller bedroom, I sat on the edge of Lena's bed, careful not to disturb the pillow.

I had known I could not stay with her father. Here, with her sweatshirt within reach, I could not picture what leaving him would look like to her.

I had no legal claim to her. I knew the size of her clothes.

I folded her sweatshirt and wrote a letter, then took the letter out of the box. Nothing I could explain belonged among her things. I packed them carefully, smoothing the sleeves, and printed her name on the lid in black marker.

Before leaving, I stood in the living room. The couch we had chosen. The television. His first invoice in its frame. Flowers from graduation, dried in a vase, their fallen petals gathered at the bottom. I had helped put all of it here.

My phone sounded. Darius.

You really done?

I did not answer.

I slipped the phone into my bag and lifted the box with Lena's name on it.

Darius sent instructions to leave my key beneath the mat.

My name was still on the lease. My furniture stood in the rooms, and the leasing office still held my deposit. He wanted the key back as though those arrangements had ended when I walked out.

"I need to feel safe too," he wrote.

I read it twice, stopping at too.

I asked Andre to come with me and notified the leasing office. Darius was gone when we arrived. Andre held the door while I carried in the empty boxes. In the bowl where we kept our keys, a coin lay caught in one of Lena's hair ties.

I wrapped dishes, boxed books and took down my photographs. I left the television and couch. I could replace them for less than it would cost me to keep discussing them with him.

In the studio corner, the framed first invoice leaned against equipment I had helped buy with my card. I bent back the small metal tabs, slid out the invoice and put it with my papers. I left the empty frame on the desk.

Andre stood beside a half-filled box, a strip of packing tape stretched between his hands.

"Too petty?" I asked.

"Not petty enough to be interesting," Andre said.

I laughed, and this time the sound did not startle me.

At the door, I lifted the mat, laid the key beneath it and took a photograph before covering it.

Later, Darius said I had entered his home and taken things while he was sick.

I saved the leasing office correspondence and the photographs in a folder. Andre had been there. I never had to ask him to give an account.

The last photograph showed the key on the concrete, its teeth pointing toward the door.

At the leasing office, the end of the relationship changed nothing.

Removing my name required signatures, proof that Darius qualified on his own, or a formal termination. He could not meet the income requirement alone. I sat across from the leasing agent while she pointed to the places I had signed.

"You can't make me homeless," he said.

"I am not renewing," I said.

"Same thing."

"No. I'm paying through the end of the lease."

After that, we negotiated by email. He wanted three more months. I offered to pay through the lease end. He asked me to keep covering the difference, citing his health and the work he could not yet take.

"I will pay only what I am legally obligated to pay," I wrote.

I almost added an apology. Then I sent the sentence alone.

Within an hour, Miss Evelyn called.

"He needs time to get on his feet," Miss Evelyn said.

"Then help him."

"I have done everything I can."

She sounded tired. I believed her. But her limit was to be respected; mine was still under discussion.

"So have I," I said.

At the end of the lease, Darius moved. I never learned who paid the next deposit. I filed the final notice from the leasing office and closed the folder.