Then She Was Gone

by Lisa Jewell

May was like the Friday night of summer: all the good times lying ahead of you, bright and shiny and waiting to be lived.

The blame game could be exhausting sometimes. The blame game could make you lose your mind… all the infinitesimal outcomes, each path breaking up into a million other paths every time you heedlessly chose one, taking you on a journey that you’d never find your way back from.

And it occurs to her for the very first time that maybe Hanna isn’t intrinsically unhappy. That maybe she just doesn’t like her.

“I think what Hanna really needs from you is your forgiveness.” “Forgiveness?” she echoes. “Forgiveness for what?” There is a long moment of silence as Paul forms his response. “Forgiveness…” he says finally, “for not being Ellie.”

And I know that these are my last moments. And that is fine. That is absolutely fine. I put my hand into the plastic bag and I take out the gun.

But there are, as at every wedding, people who are not here: ghosts and shadows.

She’d clasped her hand and she’d said, “I knew it, I knew there was a reason why I was still here, I knew you were out there. I just knew you were.” A nurse took a picture that day of the three of them. It should have been four, of course, but three was better than two. Ruby died a week later.