Melissa Berman | Longreads | August 2019 | 10 minutes (2,413 words)
I saw her through the slit of the partially open bathroom door. She left it slightly ajar because she’d started thinking about these things.
She didn’t tell me so, but the slice of light peeking into the hallway said it all. We were taking that turn, the one I never thought would come, though, how could it not?
She was out of the shower now, drying herself off. I walked into the den to casually pretend I was oblivious to the whole thing.
“Can you come here please?” she called out.
So it is happening, I thought.
I looked over to the chest of drawers, the emergency call receiver with the red button — the HELP in such big white letters. The button was bigger than her hand. And the special alert pendant she was supposed to have around her neck, in case she fell or something, sat next to it. The cord was perfectly coiled, looking pathetic, like an ugly necklace no one would ever wear.
“Hell-lo?” her impatient voice curled around the cracked-open door and floated down the hallway.
I picked up the necklace and put it around my own neck.