Frankie Wilford: I need help.

(Frankie Wilford is a writer in East Texas.) Mariel came to see me last night in a dream, her long red hair brushing my cheek as we hugged. I do not often see her, and it is always bittersweet, as I was in my twenties and she was 16 when we met decades ago. I helped her navigate the early days of living without alcohol and drugs and she weathered my enthusiasm and tolerated my hopeful outlook. Mariel’s family history was tangled and traumatic; she swung that weight with one finger looped through the plastic ring of what had been a six-pack. A few years before we met, her father, in a drunken rage and again threatening to kill himself, stormed out of the house, put the gas pedal to the floorboard and slammed his car into a tree, ending his life. Mariel’s next older sister was in that car pleading with him to stop. She died also. Her oldest sister left home soon after; I may have helped fill that void. Certainly I saw myself in her defiance and in the simmering anger that covered up the depth of her fear. I could not help but love her.

With both individual and family therapists in her life, Mariel said I was the someone who took her calls without being paid to do so. Mostly I saw her as she wanted to be seen, a gifted artist and free spirit. On the outside it looked as if her life was perfect, but occasionally I got a glimpse of the dark underbelly of despair that coursed through her bloodstream as potent as the alcohol with which she tried to drown it. Some months into our friendship, Mariel’s younger brother, having timed the event when no one would be home, rigged up a rifle and used it to kill himself. It is impossible to grasp the desperation and determination this kid must have felt as he went to such great lengths to die. Shocked when I learned of his death, I shadowed Mariel through the days of investigation, visitation and service. Afterward, we went into the woods where she wailed, ranted and conjured a spirit so dark it frightened me. Eventually, with therapy and medication, the beast was banished once more to its cave, and life moved us forward on our individual paths, but still connected. I married and had two babies in two years while Mariel finished high school and started classes at the local college. I did not see her as often as before, but we talked on a regular basis and I was encouraged as she seemed to take each day in stride. I helped her write a paper, and when she called from school to tell me she had received a B+, I was happy to hear it. But she was angry at what she saw as unfair grading, and bitterly disappointed. It was just after lunch and both my kids were crying and cranky; it was naptime. I tried to affirm and encourage Mariel, asking her to give me 15 minutes and then call me back so we could talk without interruption. She promised to do so. I hastily comforted my babies and put them to bed while Mariel, in the hallway of the college, pulled a pistol from her backpack and took her life.