Eight Words

“Don’t pretend to understand what I’m going through.”

Those were the first eight words that set me off in my last conversation with Trinity.

I made it my business to check in on her while I was at work. She typically worked from home—when work was available—and I was the only human being that she allowed herself to have regular contact with.

Our phone conversations have become bright spots for both of us in these crazy, uncertain times. I tried to be that for her as much as she was that for me, but can I be honest for a minute?

Trinity is a lot to deal with, and those eight words made me want to reach through the phone and shake her by the throat. But I’m the calm one, the Poker Face, the one who keeps her emotions in check.

“You’re right, Trin,” I conceded. “I have no idea what it’s like to be you. I’ve always had a steady job, always had money in the bank, and I’ve always been able to bounce back from a bad patch. Am I supposed to apologize for doing well, for having a life plan that worked? Because if it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t have a house to live in right now.”

The line went silent. For a second, I thought she’d hung up on me, and if she had, I wouldn’t have cared.

Not in that moment.

“Felt good to get that out, didn’t it?”

Yes, it did, but I held back on admitting it. As angry as Trinity often made me, I never wanted to hurt her feelings—even when I knew that I could.

“I’m just trying to get you to see things clearly,” I ended up saying. “You’re right: we didn’t grow up the same. I have no idea what it’s like to deal with the things that you’ve had to deal with. I just don’t want you to stay there, in that victim mentality.”

“I am not a victim!” Trinity insisted, and I could hear that her teeth were clenched. “I’m not wallowing in what I’ve gone through. I’m not making excuses. I’m not wearing my misery like a badge. I’m doing everything I can think of to do better! The problem is that I can’t control other people’s reactions to me. I can’t make them want me, and I can’t make them stop hating me!”

Pardon my eyeroll, but I have heard this before. Trinity has always been great at speechifying, and that speech was one of her best. She’s a very passionate artist. Her creativity is boundless, and I have often told her so. But when her funds are low, and her morale gets lower, her railing drains me of the energy that it takes for me to encourage her. I’m almost at the bottom of the barrel of answers when she goes off like this.

But if I don’t do it, no one else will.

“Trin,” I said, “the world does not hate you. Every person in the world does not hate you. Yes, there have been people who have responded badly to you, because they don’t try to understand you. But that’s not everybody. There are people who love you and want to help you make it.”

“Name five, and don’t include yourself.”

It was my turn to go silent, partially because nobody’s name sprang to mind but my own. How do you tell your best friend that her misanthropic personality does not attract many people to her, even if they are drawn to the art that she creates?

How do I tell her that she’s the problem, not them?

“Does it feel good to you, being mad at the world?” I ended up saying. “Does holding on to all of that make you feel good about yourself in any way?”

“Not really,” Trinity admitted. “Never has. Only feels good in the moment to dump out my frustration, but I never feel good about where I am.”

“I think you should. There are people in your situation who don’t have nearly the number of blessings that you have. A roof over your head. A bed to sleep in. A room of your own to create in.”

“You sound like Dr. Do-Nothing.”

“Be fair, Trin. He was a very good therapist. He got you through losing your mom.”

Trinity shifted to a more comfortable position on her bed.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I didn’t realize how much damage she did to me until I talked it out with him. I felt like I turned a corner, that things were going to get better, because the worst parts of me didn’t come from me.”

“I’d call that a breakthrough.”

“It was…until a year later, the only thing Dr. Nothing kept telling me was that I ‘should be grateful’. Insinuating that I’m not. Like you’re doing right now.”

Father, in the name of Jesus…

“For the record,” Trinity blathered on, “I’ve always counted my blessings. I’m very grateful that I’m not on the street, but that doesn’t mean that I’m supposed to be okay with being too old, too poor, too disabled, and too Black to take care of myself in this society! That part’s not in my head, so how do I fix the parts of my life that I have no control over?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose while thanking God that this was not a FaceTime conversation.

“I think your biggest problem is that you don’t like being around people, yet you won’t get very far as an artist without a bunch of people on your side. You create such beautiful pieces. You just need to get more people to see what you do.”

“I tried that.”

“Once.”

“Not once!” Trinity insisted. “You remember…the one-woman show that I did, and nobody came? The Community Art Fair, where I was one table in a room full of people, and I only sold four of my smallest pieces? The Charity Auction, where my work was lowballed and sold off as a lot? Yeah, people love what I do…they just don’t want to pay me for it! My gifts are supposed to make room for me, and it’s just not happening!”

“Then stop being a hermit! Get off your ‘blessed assurance’, and put yourself out there more, so that they can get to know you! Show them who you are!”

“I did!”

“Keep doing it! Be consistent!”

“What else should I do?” Trinity’s voice got desperate and shaky. “Where else should I go, that I haven’t already gone and failed? What do you suggest my next move should be?”

Once again, my brain had locked.

“I don’t know, Trin…”

“Then how do you expect me to know?”

In my mind’s eye, I saw the angry tears streaming down her face, and my stomach twinged as if I were in the room with her. Trinity turned away from the phone to blow her nose, but she was silent.

Probably as upset about my silence as I was.

I hated hearing her despair, and I hated more that there was nothing that I could think to say that would make her feel better. I have dedicated thirty years to counseling women, encouraging them to stay strong, keep the faith, and free their minds. Yet in that moment, I could not give the most important woman in my life what she had asked me for.

“I believe in you, Trinity.” It was the only thing that I could squeeze out of my brain, and I meant it. “I would give you the world if I could, gift-wrapped with a sparkly bow.”

“I know…” she replied, sniffling, “but you shouldn’t have to. I thank God for you, Carla. I’m just tired. People our age are looking forward to retirement, and I’m still out here, swimming too slow to keep up with these young fishies. The harder I try, the further I fall. I can’t afford to try anymore, let alone fail. But thanks for talking to me. I’ve brought you down enough today, and at work...”

“You are not keeping me from anything, and you are going to be just fine. What are you going to do till I get home? Paint? Draw?”

Another pause, this one with no noise in the background to clue me in to what she was doing.

“I…won’t be here when you get home.”

She clicked off without say goodbye. She only did that when she was trying to refocus, to get herself together. I hoped that she might venture outside to clear her head with a walk around the block.

Getting out for a walk always helps me.

I stopped at the bakery before going home. I bought two slices of our favorite cheesecakes—coconut cream for me, red velvet for her. Cheesecake always made us feel better, and it was sure to put a smile on Trinity’s face.

I never saw Trinity’s face again.

I was trained to recognize the clues, but they’d swum right past me. Trinity had found where I’d hidden my father’s revolver. She had placed a pillowcase over her head, the revolver to her temple, and the pillow on top to muffle the sound when she pulled the trigger.

I found her splayed face-down on her bed. I have no idea what happened to the cheesecake. I don’t even remember how the police got into the house.

All I can remember is that I could not stop screaming that day…and Trinity’s last eight words:

“I won’t be here when you get home.”

She was home, but she was no longer here.