what doesn't kill you anna belle patterson Cowboy Junkies drifted from the living room stereo onto the porch, where Jack and Kristine nestled on the swing. It was 12 o'clock and the sky was a black sheet of glass sprinkled with stars. A sliver of moon was a luminous wink of soft light too weak to interfere with the meteor shower that was to start at any moment. Jack swilled his wine and reflected on Kristine's plan-the reason she had arranged this trip to the cabin for them. They had arrived that morning and taken their Dalmatian, Wabi, on a walk around the lake before unloading the car. They'd napped and made love, showered together, and puttered around the kitchen in their robes. Making love was a different experience. They were each trapped behind a wall a grief, walls that met at some unlikely angle, but which nevertheless closed them off from each other. They cried when they made love now, both aware of the utter fruitlessness of it, and yet driven to try for some kind of connection they could never reach. Jack remembered how Kristine was once a lively and vibrant woman. She met life step for step, like a perfectly executed tango, and he'd marveled at how she instinctually knew exactly when to fall back and step forward. She was small then, just 110 pounds hanging on her 5'2 frame, with a straight shot of red hair down to the middle of her back. An opinionated but intelligent woman, she was social to a fault, quick to anger when her principles were involved, but genuinely kind and good-natured. Jack had not liked her very much at first-he had preferred his women a little more complacent in those days. She hadn't liked him much at first either, thought him stuffy and boorish. They'd met at a concert, which gave them the illusion that they had something in common, but over coffee the next night they had argued over politics, religion, economics, and after a while, everything. They found themselves being disagreeable based entirely on opposition to the other's point of view. He'd thought he would drop her off and happily never see her again, but as they pulled up in front of her apartment, she'd grabbed him, tugged at his collar and plunged the loveliest tongue halfway down his throat. Her calf-length wrap-around skirt that he'd thought so dowdy before had parted and ridden up, exposing her thigh. That night had been the first of many nights, moments that ticked away into years-ten had passed since then. He'd loved her the best he could and when that wasn't enough, he'd married her. Their wedding, what a mess. They could never agree on the little things, so three months into the process they'd agreed to give the thing over to her mother, who was only too willing. They were to focus only on their respective wedding parties. Whatever they wanted in their assigned tasks was a go and nothing could be vetoed by the other. As a result, Kristine and her bridesmaids had shown up barefoot and dressed more like faeries than members of a bridal party. They wore pearl-embroidered strapless bodices with yards of flowing green and white chiffon arranged in layers for their skirts. Kristine looked much the same with the addition of some lavender chiffon to her veil and skirt and a bouquet of tiny purple irises and white roses. Jack and his bridegrooms wore standard wedding tuxedos, their crisp, white shirts choking their freshly shaven necks. As the first star fell from the sky, Jack gently nudged Kristine awake. She looked up at him with her green eyes, redlined and exhausted, as he pointed at the sky. "Did I miss it?" she asked. "Not yet." he replied. "Good," she said. Stretched her arms, she narrowly missed spilling her wine on the porch ledge. Grabbing the glass as her arm returned, she clutched it, held it to her chest, and positioned herself under Jack's arm, nuzzling Wabi with her foot. The Dalmatian repositioned his head against her toes. "Are you still sure?" he asked. "Yes." Looking at the sky, her eyes glazed over and he knew she was gone wherever it was she went when she looked like that. She was thinking back to that morning, two months ago-she was doing dishes, looking out the window at the finches and cardinals flitting around the birdfeeder, so lost in thought that she hadn't even noticed the silence building in the house. But in the shower, she was brought to her knees by a pain in her abdomen. She turned off the faucet and the silence became a flash flood, rising quickly past her ears, filling them, an alarming absence swirling through her senses. Savannah should have been awake by then. She had replayed these events over and over. Her daughter, their beautiful five-month-old baby girl, had lain dead in her crib while Kristine had selfishly taken advantage of the extra quiet. Even though the medical examiner said Savannah had died sometime in the night, she could never forgive herself for not checking on her right away, for sleeping and cleaning while her daughter grew cold. She didn't blame Jack, though he'd fed her at midnight, and was the last to hold her, the last to soothe her and feel her sleepy heat. They all insisted crib death was no one's fault, but she blamed herself for a lack of maternal instinct. Mothers should know. The meteor onslaught was picking up pace as they watched. She wanted to reassure him, to ease his suffering in some way. She had finally reached a place of peace in her exhaustion and resignation, but she knew he still wrestled with his grief. She was adding to his load, but she couldn't stop herself. It was killing him to be here with her, to have this plan in place. He had flat-out refused at first, wanted no part of it, threatened to have her committed if she kept it up. She had finally convinced him by getting into the already packed car and leaving for twenty minutes. He was worried, as she knew he would be, that she'd do it alone. He wouldn't let her do it alone. His mother had been alone and that had been the driving force behind his commitment to their marriage. When it got really bad between them and he wanted to leave because there was no reasoning with her, he would think of his mother's frail, tiny frame in that hospital bed and his father's empty promise not to leave. Jack was twelve when she died, and another fifteen had passed since. He no longer wondered when he would get over the experience. He knew he never would. But he would not be his father-he would stay to the bitter end. Kristine gave him no time to think. The cabin was already rented when she brought it up. He'd argued with her for two hours and tried everything-reason, desperation, pleading, threatening-he'd even picked up the phone to report the whole thing, but she'd left as soon as the receiver was off the hook. Just got in the car and left. He had worried, pacing back and forth on the porch, cordless phone clutched to his chest, eyes darting frantically up and down the street, hoping she would come back. And she did come back-she couldn't do that to him. She was committed to her plan, but she was not cruel-couldn't be cruel-to him. They'd been through so much already-the baby was their first and last, an amazing stroke of luck after two miscarriages and a stillborn preemie. They'd thought they were in the clear with Savannah. Kristine had read about the meteor shower in the paper on the drive down and declared it an omen. She told him all the details on the way and had drilled him over and over again on his part. He knew exactly what was expected of him, what would happen when, and what to do next. She had meticulously planned every detail. Her briefcase was on her desk at home, with all the pertinent information included, handwritten to ensure authenticity. The supplies she needed were on the table, right there in plain sight. There was no phone at the cabin, or anywhere nearby. Jack was instructed on what to do. The stars were falling. It was time. Jack sighed and shifted, signaling Kristine that he wanted to get up. She moved from his arm and leaned down to pet Wabi. Jack grabbed the two empty glasses, noted the rings they left on the wooden porch ledge and headed inside to refill them. He'd promised he wouldn't tell her. The small, brown bottle was sitting next to the wine on the table. He poured both glasses half full with Merlot and wondered if he could live without her. He picked up the brown bottle and looked at it, held it to his chest as he twisted it open. His heart was pounding, the blood thumping audibly in his temples. His cheeks rolled with tears and he sniffed every other breath to keep his nose from running. Margo Timmins' voice was crooning White Sail from the stereo. He was still reluctant. He thought back to that morning and the days that followed. They'd had the baby cremated, but the hospital suggested they spend some time with her beforehand. Kristine sat there with the tiny girl in her arms, the body swallowed by the yellow dress Kristine had chosen. She kept toying with the plush pale yellow duck that was sewn to the front, and stroking Savannah's bald, slick head, singing something softly to her. Kristine had never recovered from that, and in his most honest moments, he did not think she ever would. This trip was the first time she'd been out of the house since then. He poured the poison, replaced the cap, and took a deep breath. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he checked himself in the hall mirror. The screen door banged shut behind him as he emerged, a glass in each hand. Kristine was lying on her stomach on the swing, her hand hanging to the floor, scraping it softly with each pass. "You know what to say, right?" "Yeah," he said, setting the glasses down on the ledge. "Tell me one more time." Ring on the Sill came on the stereo and Jack asked if they could dance for a moment. Taking his hand, she looked up uncertainly, but consented. It was the least she could do. And this was their song. He waltzed her down the steps and out to the yard. They were both looking up at the falling stars, waltzing on the little square patch of grass between the porch and the dirt driveway. He whispered in her ear, "I'll tell them I took Wabi for a walk around the lake, that I came back and found you. I didn't know you had the cyanide, but I found it after I found you." He turned his head to face her and asked, "Isn't that what you want?" "Yes." "And you're sure?" He paused. "I keep thinking, if Savannah had lived, you wouldn't…" He couldn't say it, couldn't say the words kill yourself. She looked into his eyes. "Jack, there's no sense in thinking like that. What I'm trying to say is, it isn't complicated. For me. I'm sorry." Leading her back to the swing, he handed her the glass and snuggled down with her again. She took a sip, frowned, and gulped down the whole glass. Resting her head on his shoulder, he could hear her softly singing along with the song. Her voice trailed near the end and her head rolled off his shoulder onto his chest. He put his arm around her, stroking her hair and feeling the warmth that would soon be gone. He looked at the sky and took a sip of his own glass of wine.