Turn blue

The temptation is to call Heather childish. Perhaps I should call her clever because she got exactly what she wanted. She got to forget me.

It wasn't a dare. When I told her she wouldn't do it, I thought she would threaten, but not follow through just like all the other times.

"Watch me," she said

That's the worst part. She made me watch. I tried to shake my head dismissively and walk away only to have her grab my wrist and pull me back into the fray.

She sputtered and twitched. I reached for her puffed out cheeks to deflate them. A scorpion sting would've hurt less than the slap she landed on my face.

She didn't turn blue like people do in cartoons. Her face was a dark shade of red. A darker shade of red pooled around her head after she hit the floor.

The police and doctors were skeptical about the story at first. The neighbors heard screaming. Her handprint was still on my cheek when they arrived.

It was an accident. That's what everyone keeps telling me. I've heard "it's not your fault" more times than I count.

I contemplated it being my fault. Maybe I called her too much. Or loved her too much. Maybe I smothered her figuratively and caused her to suffocate literally.

Her sister met me in the waiting room. She told me about their slumber party games and how they would hold their breath until they passed out.

"We thought it was hilarious. We'd only be out for like a minute then wake up and have no idea where we were," her sister said.

"But," she began, her voice catching.

"But, we'd always wake up," she sobbed.

The test results confirmed her brain was deprived of oxygen for too long. Her vegetative state would be permanent.

I visit her daily. I talk about us. I've bent our photo album pages from flipping through them so many times. I have hope something will stimulate a response.

Sometimes a tear will trickle down her face. Part of me wants it to be remorse, but I'd settle for remembrance. The doctors dispelled me of that notion. They told me it's just an involuntary reaction likening it to gases moving around in a decedent giving the impression the body is still breathing.

I latched onto that.

"If a body is breathing, it's alive. If it's alive it has thoughts and feelings. And memories," I protested.

"No one would blame you if you walked away. Our family appreciates all you've done for her," her sister said.

I shook my head. I knelt at Heather's bedside.

"If you want me to leave, just say so," I said.

No answer.

"That's what I thought," I said.

I picked up our wedding album. I sat on the bed beside Heather.

My fingertips traced the gilded letters on the cover.

"A day to remember," I said reading the album cover.

I opened it to page one.