1 I was three months into my battle with Stage IV gastric cancer when my wife, Jade, brought her “brother” into our home. Her reasoning was a textbook exercise in guilt-tripping: Weston Miller, her childhood best friend, had lost everything—his marriage, his savings to medical bills, and his home. He was an orphan with nowhere else to go. Because he had once saved both our lives in a freak accident years ago, I felt I couldn’t say no. I agreed to let him stay in our guest room. On his first day, he looked at my gaunt face and the mountain of prescription bottles on my nightstand, his eyes welling with tears. Jade pulled me into the bedroom, her voice a sharp, frantic whisper. “Stop talking about your treatment in front of him, Liam.” “What?” I asked, my hand trembling as I tried to button my shirt. “He lost his wife because he couldn’t afford his own medical bills. Do you have any idea how much it hurts him to see your ‘privilege’ of being able to fight this? Just have some empathy.” I froze, the fabric of my shirt cold against my skin. I simply nodded. A few days later, he spilled liquid soap all over the bathroom floor right as I was stepping out of the shower. I nearly cracked my skull open on the tile. When I asked Jade if she thought he’d done it on purpose, she just sighed, that weary, disappointed sound that had become the soundtrack of our marriage. “He’s clumsy, Liam. He’s been through a trauma. Don’t turn him into a villain just because you’re frustrated with being sick.” But then came the afternoon at the pool. He pushed me. He waited until I turned my head, and then his hand was firm against my shoulder blades, shoving me into the deep end. Then, he jumped in after me. I heard the splash, felt the cold water hit my lungs. Jade came running out of the house, screaming. I clawed at the surface, my eyes searching for hers, begging for a hand. But she moved past me. She swam right past my reaching fingers to grab him first. “He can’t swim!” she screamed at me as she hauled his coughing weight toward the ladder. “I have to get him up first! Liam, you’re a swimmer—I’ve already called 911!” I was a swimmer. But my calf had seized into a violent, agonizing knot. My body was failing me. I tried to shout, but the water rushed into my throat, heavy and metallic. My stomach flared with a white-hot pain, like a stone was dragging me down to the bottom. I heard the sirens in the distance, a faint, rhythmic wailing. But I wouldn’t need them. “He’s swallowed so much water! Quick, take him first!” Jade’s voice sounded like it was coming through a thick pane of glass. I wanted to tell her that I’d swallowed water, too. That my leg was a useless lead weight. That my stomach felt like it was exploding. But I couldn’t open my mouth. My consciousness was hovering in a strange, liminal space—neither in the water nor truly on the land. I looked down and saw myself lying on the pool tiles. My lips were a bruised purple, my skin the color of old parchment. I wasn’t moving. Jade was hunched over Weston, helping him toward the ambulance at the end of the driveway. He was draped over her shoulder, coughing violently, his fingers digging into her skin. She looked back at my body. Just once. Then she climbed into the back of the ambulance with him. I stood beside my own corpse, trying to reach down and touch my chest, but my hand passed straight through the bone. There was no sensation. No warmth. I listened for my heartbeat, but it grew slower, more distant, until it finally stopped altogether. The second ambulance arrived much later. The paramedics performed CPR for a long time. I watched, detached, as a voice crackled over the radio: “Male, drowning victim, cardiac arrest. Pupils fixed and dilated.” I stood there as they lifted me onto the gurney. When they pulled the white sheet over my face, I finally realized the truth. I was dead. I, a man dying of cancer, had finished the job in a suburban swimming pool. The hospital corridors were sterile and bright, smelling of industrial bleach. I drifted through the walls of the ER. Weston was already in a cubicle, tucked under a heated blanket. Jade was sitting by his side, holding his hand. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in a practiced expression of pain. A nurse brought a fresh blanket, and Jade took it, tucking it around his shoulders with a meticulous, tender focus. I recognized that movement. During my first month of chemo, when I’d spend half the night shivering and the other half vomiting, she used to tuck me in exactly like that. It was the same gesture. Weston stirred. He opened his eyes and rasped, “Jade?” She leaned in, her voice low and soothing. “I’m here. You’re okay. The doctor said you’re going to be fine.” “I was so scared…” Weston gripped her sleeve, his knuckles white. “I thought I was dying.” “You weren’t,” she whispered, reaching out to wipe a stray drop of water from his temple. “I got to you. You’re safe.” I stood at the foot of the bed, watching her fingers trail across his cheek. Just three days ago, those same fingers had touched my face, promising me that after my next round of treatment, we’d go to the coast to watch the sunset. “Jade, where’s Liam?” Weston asked suddenly. His voice held a note of hesitation, like he was testing the air. Jade paused. “I brought you in first. He… he’s a strong swimmer. He should be fine. He’s probably in another wing being checked out.” She glanced toward the door, a flicker of something—worry? guilt?—crossing her face. “I should go ask the desk.” Weston’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. “Don’t go.” He sat up, his breathing becoming shallow and panicked. “Jade, please don’t leave me. I’ve always been alone. You know that. My wife walked out on me when I got sick… are you going to throw me away, too?” Jade looked torn, her gaze darting toward the hallway and back to the man crying in the bed. Finally, she sat back down. “I’m not going anywhere. Lie down.” I watched her settle into the chair, and I wanted to laugh. Look at her, Liam, I thought. She stayed. Not for you. For him. Weston pressed his face into her palm, his breathing leveling out. Jade continued to wipe his face with a paper towel, stroke by stroke, infinitely patient. “You’re safe now,” she said. “Stop overthinking.” “Okay,” he whispered. “Will you stay? For good?” “I’m here.” I took a step back. Then another. I backed through the wall and into the hallway. At the other end of the emergency department, two orderlies were pushing a gurney covered in a white sheet. I heard a nurse murmur to a colleague, “The guy from the pool. Cancer patient. D.O.A.” The silhouette under the sheet was me. I followed the gurney. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, a rhythmic, blinding pulse. I tried to reach out and pull back the sheet, just to see my own face one last time. My hand passed through it. I couldn’t touch a thing. At the end of the hall, there was a small window. Outside, the sun was setting, the sky a bruised purple. I stood by the glass, but there was no reflection. No gaunt face, no hollow eyes. Nothing. Behind me, Jade’s voice drifted out from Weston’s room. “Don’t worry,” she was saying. “I’ve got you.” 2 Once Weston had drifted into a light sleep, Jade pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen was smudged with water. She wiped it on her damp jeans and opened our text thread. She typed: Liam, which hospital are they taking you to? Let me know when you’re admitted. I was standing two feet behind her. I watched the message bubble pop up: Sent. No one is going to answer you, Jade, I thought. I knelt down, trying to touch the screen, but my fingers went through the glass, through her hand, through the very air. Weston shifted in bed, catching her eye. “Messaging Liam?” Jade nodded. Weston was silent for a few seconds. Then, in a low, fragile voice, he said, “Jade, I’ve been wanting to tell you something… but I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.” “What is it?” He bit his lip, looking down at the hospital blanket. “About the pool today… Liam didn’t fall. And I didn’t push him.” I snapped my head up, staring at him. Jade’s thumb hovered over the phone. “What do you mean?” Weston sat up, clutching the blanket to his chest, his eyes reddening. “He jumped.” The words felt like an explosion in my chest. No. That is a lie. “His mood has been so dark lately,” Weston continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He thinks I’m trying to take his place. He told me several times that I should just leave. He said I was using my history with you to leech off your kindness. He said you cared more about me than him.” He paused, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you guys to fight because of me.” I screamed. I roared at the top of my lungs that he was a liar, that I had never said those things. But the sound died in my ghostly throat, swallowed by a silence that felt like lead. Jade’s expression shifted. It wasn’t anger. It was a weary, familiar kind of disappointment. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “He has been different lately,” she admitted. “That whole thing with the soap in the bathroom… he insisted I did it on purpose. I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen.” Weston wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I know he’s sick. I know the meds mess with his head. But today… he just jumped into the deep end and started thrashing. He was looking right at you when he screamed for help.” His voice broke. “Jade, I think I should move out. If I’m making him this miserable, if I’m the reason he’s doing this to himself… I’d rather be on the street. I’d rather just disappear than come between you two.” He punctuates the sentence by burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Jade reached out and gripped his arm. “Don’t you dare say that.” Her voice was firm, heavier than it had been all night. “You saved our lives once, Weston. We wouldn’t even be here without you. How can you say you’re the problem?” Weston shook his head. “But Liam hates me. He hates me being in his house.” “I’ll apologize for him,” Jade said. I froze. Those four words felt like a physical blow. “He’s lost his perspective because of the illness,” she continued, her voice softening as she patted his arm. “He’s become paranoid. Don’t take it to heart. He doesn’t mean it.” Yes, I do, I whispered, standing right beside her. I mean everything I never got to say. Jade checked her phone again. Another message: Liam, where are you? Answer me. Five minutes passed. No reply. Weston glanced at the screen. “Is he still giving you the silent treatment?” “He won’t even check in to say he’s okay,” Jade muttered, her jaw tightening. “If he’s really doing this just to spite me, after everything…” She didn’t finish the thought, but she flipped the phone face-down on the nightstand. She wasn’t going to call again. Weston closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillow. For a split second, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth. Jade didn’t see it. But I did. Outside, the world turned to pitch black. I sank to the floor, leaning against the cold hospital wall, trying to pull my knees to my chest. My arms passed through my legs. I couldn’t even hold myself. 3 The next morning, the autumn sun cut through the hospital blinds in sharp, cruel slats of light. I was sitting outside Weston’s room when I saw Jade walking down the hall, carrying a plastic container of soup. I could smell it even as a spirit—chicken and wild rice. Since my diagnosis, my appetite had vanished. I couldn’t keep anything down, but that specific soup, made with extra ginger the way Jade learned to do it, was the only thing I could tolerate. She’d spent weeks perfecting the recipe so it didn’t taste “metallic” to me. She pushed open the door and set the container down in front of Weston. “Eat it while it’s hot. You didn’t have dinner.” Weston took a spoonful, then looked up at her. “Jade… this tastes exactly like the stuff you used to make for us back in the apartment.” The apartment. I remembered. Three years ago, before Weston got married, the three of us had shared a cramped two-bedroom in the city. Jade was just learning to cook, and Weston, always the “big brother,” would insist she make an extra pot for him. “Remember that?” Weston asked, setting the spoon down. “You’d be up at 6:00 AM making breakfast for me and Liam before we headed to work.” Jade offered a small, sad smile. “Liam used to tell me to sleep in. He didn’t want me to overwork myself. But I wanted to do it.” Weston paused. “He was so different back then. He was… a good guy.” Was. Past tense. I watched his face. He looked nostalgic, gentle—like he was mourning a friend who had been gone for years. I only died yesterday. He didn’t know I was dead, but he was already rewriting my history to make my absence more convenient. Jade’s expression clouded. She stirred the soup absentmindedly. “He changed. The cancer made him suspicious. He looked at everyone like they were the enemy.” “I let you move in because I thought it would make him happy. I thought having his best friend around would remind him of who he used to be. I never expected…” Weston reached out and squeezed her hand. “Don’t blame yourself. You’ve been a saint, Jade.” I stared at his fingers laced with hers. Three years ago, when Weston was picking out a suit for his wedding to Paige, I was the one who went with him. He’d turned around in the dressing room, asking if he looked okay. I’d told him he looked like a million bucks. He’d clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Liam, you’re the best brother a guy could ask for.” The “best brother” was currently dead in a refrigerated drawer down the hall, and his “best friend” was stroking his wife’s hand. Jade’s phone buzzed. It was my sister, Sloane. Jade put it on speaker. “Where is he?” Sloane’s voice was sharp with anxiety. “I’ve called him three times and he hasn’t picked up.” “I don’t know,” Jade said, flipping through her phone. “My phone got water-damaged last night. I’ve got a dozen missed calls.” “Where is he, Jade?” Jade sighed. “He hasn’t contacted me since he got out of the pool yesterday. I’ve sent messages. He’s ignoring me.” Sloane’s voice went up an octave. “What do you mean ‘got out of the pool’? He has Stage IV cancer, Jade! Why the hell was he in the pool?” “I didn’t ask him to get in,” Jade snapped, her own temper flaring. “He jumped in on his own.” I stood there, shaking my head. No. No, Sloane, he’s lying. Weston pushed me. I remembered the moment clearly. Weston had grabbed my arm, pointing toward the fence. “Liam, look, is that a hawk?” The moment I turned my head, his hand was a violent force against my back. But I couldn’t speak. “Liam would never just jump into a pool,” Sloane said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. “Did you even check on him?” Weston suddenly spoke up, his voice trembling and innocent. “Sloane? It’s Weston. It’s all my fault.” He leaned toward the phone. “I think Liam is just upset because I’m staying here. He’s been telling me to move out for days. I know he doesn’t want me around, but I have nowhere else… I think he jumped in to make a point. I’m so sorry. If I’m causing this much trouble between you two, I’ll leave. I’ll go.” He choked back a sob. The line went silent for a long beat. Sloane had known Weston as long as we had. She’d always treated him like a younger brother. “Weston, don’t say that,” Sloane said finally, her voice weary. “Liam can be… difficult. Especially lately.” “I’ll go look for him.” The call ended. I stood in the center of the room, listening to my own sister call me “difficult.” Difficult. I was a man with a hole in his stomach who had been murdered by his best friend, while my wife saved the killer and left me to drown. That was “difficult.” Jade rubbed her temples. “She’s right. I need to find him.” Weston’s hand tightened on her wrist. “Jade… before you go, can you stay until they finish my lung scan? The doctor said there might be fluid. I’m terrified to be here alone.” He looked fragile, his eyes wide and red. Jade hesitated for two seconds, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll stay until the results are back.” Weston’s “tests” took the entire morning. In the afternoon, he claimed he was dizzy. By evening, he said he was having nightmares. Jade never left his side. I sat on the plastic chair in the hallway—or rather, I hovered just above it. Occasionally, the sound of a gurney being wheeled toward the morgue would echo through the empty corridor. I’m in there, I thought. And my wife was in the next room, feeding soup to another man. 4 Day three. Weston was discharged. Jade drove him home. There was a bouquet of flowers in the backseat—not for him, but because Weston had pointed them out at the hospital gift shop, saying how much he liked white daisies. Jade bought them instantly. She used to buy me flowers after every oncology appointment. If my blood work was stable, we’d stop by the florist and she’d let me pick. I always chose daisies. She remembered the habit. She just forgot who it belonged to. When they pulled into our driveway, Weston didn’t move. “Jade… what if Liam is inside? I’m afraid he’ll be angry if he sees me.” Jade turned off the engine and tried my number. Power off. It had been off since the pool because my phone was currently sitting in a puddle on the patio. “No answer,” she said. “He’s probably not even here.” “Maybe he went to Sloane’s?” Weston suggested. Jade texted Sloane. Two minutes later, the reply came: He hasn’t been here. I thought he was with you. Jade stared at the screen, a line of worry finally appearing between her brows. “It’s been three days.” She whispered it to herself, then dialed my number again. Nothing. Weston leaned in, his voice soft. “Maybe he just went away to clear his head? People with terminal illnesses… they get impulsive. Maybe he’s punishing you with the silence.” He didn’t say it outright, but the implication was clear: Liam is being manipulative. Liam is the one hurting you. Jade gripped her phone, her knuckles white. “I’ll try one more time.” Seven times. No answer. Weston reached over and covered her hand with his. “Stop. If he wanted to talk to you, he would have. He’s a grown man, Jade. You can’t force him to be reasonable. Maybe he just needs space. If you keep hounding him, he’ll just retreat further.” Jade looked at the call logs, then finally put the phone away. They went inside. I followed them, drifting into my own home. In the entryway, my slippers were still there—the navy blue ones with the little embroidered whales. Weston looked down at them as he took off his shoes. He reached down and touched the fabric. “Liam always liked stuff like this. Kind of childish, wasn’t he?” He put the slippers back and walked into the living room. My book was still on the coffee table, a bookmark halfway through, next to a stray bottle of painkillers. Weston picked up the book, flipping through the pages. “He didn’t even finish it.” Jade stood in the center of the room, her eyes scanning the remnants of my life. The slippers, the book, the chemo schedule taped to the fridge, the sticky note on the door reminding me of my next CT scan. My fingerprints were everywhere. And yet, I was standing three feet away from her, and she was blind to me. Weston sat on the sofa. “Jade, do you think… do you think something really happened?” “His phone is off. He’s not with his sister…” Jade’s face finally went pale. “I’m calling the police.” She reached for her phone. Weston stood up abruptly. “Wait.” He bit his lip, his eyes shimmering with tears. “If you call the cops, they’re going to ask about the pool, aren’t they? Are they going to think I did something? Jade, I didn’t push him. You believe me, right?” Jade looked at him, her expression unreadable for a moment. “I know it wasn’t you. But he’s been missing for three days. I have to call.” She dialed. I watched her give the dispatcher the details. Liam Mercer. 32 years old. Last seen three days ago at our home. He has Stage IV cancer. The dispatcher told her they would check the local hospitals and get back to her. Twenty minutes of suffocating silence followed. Jade sat on the sofa with her head in her hands. Weston sat beside her, silent for once. Then, her phone rang. It wasn’t the police. It was the county hospital. “Hello? Is this the family of Liam Mercer?” “I’m his wife.” There was a long, heavy pause on the other end. “Mrs. Mercer, your husband was brought into our ER by paramedics three days ago. He was a drowning victim. He went into cardiac arrest and… we were unable to revive him.” “Mr. Mercer was pronounced dead at 5:48 PM on Tuesday. We’ve been trying to reach his emergency contact, but your phone seemed to be out of service. We need you to come in and sign the release forms.”
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