Baking through Suicide

by Matt Taylor

  

     “Suicide,” I say, “is the easy way out.”

     “No,” she says, “the front door is the easy way out. This is a lot more difficult.” I hear the wind down the phone I’m speaking to her on and I wonder where she is.

     “Suicide is not the answer,” I continue.

      “Who’s asking questions?!” she retorts, getting angry. I’m cradling the phone on my shoulder as I stir the cake mix. Even my sister’s imminent suicide can’t stop cake.

      “I think you need to talk to someone,” I say, trying to calm her down.

     “Well I’m talking to you right now and all it’s doing is pissing me off,” she shouts, “I don’t think talking is doing a great deal of fucking good right now.”

     Not that I’m an expert in suicide intervention, but I figure you need to strike a good bond with the person. Like hypnotists and conmen.

     I need to build a link, I’m thinking, something she can’t just stop talking about so she can jump off a building. Something more interesting than the departure into what counts as an afterlife these days.

      “What’s the weather like up there?” I ask.

     She snorts down the phone. “What’re you doing, Suicide Intervention 101? A crash course in saving the damned? I bet you’re just making it up, aren’t you?”

     She’s sharp.

     “You’re just fucking bluffing your way,” she says, “into stopping me jumping off this building. I bet you’re watching TV or something.”

     “I’m baking a cake,” I say. Honesty is the best policy.

     “Oh fucking brilliant! Here I am, your only sibling, on the verge of oblivion—“

     “That's a bit dramatic.”

     “Fuck off! This isn't a time for your jokes, what is wrong with you?!”

      I begin greasing the cake tin with lard.

      “There’s nothing wrong with me,” I reply calmly, “I’m not the suicidal one in this conversation.”

      She’s quiet for a moment. “Touché,” she concedes.

      She’s still quiet. I decide to press on.

 

     “So what’s brought this on, anyway? Why are you going to end it all on this lovely Saturday?”

     “Oh,” she sighs, “there’s a few things. Not that you fucking care.”

     I’m tearing the greaseproof paper and lining the cake tin. “I care,” I said, “you still owe me twenty quid’s worth of petrol money.”

     She’s furious. At least I’m driving her away from the edge.

     “Hey fuck you, I paid that money back and you know it.”

     “Did not!”

     “Did!”

     “Did not!”

     “Did did did!”

      And suddenly we’re seven years old again and she’s not on the edge of a building somewhere and I’m not checking the oven temperature while my suicidal sister checks the distance down.

      The moment passes.

      “You know why I’m not dead yet?” she says, bringing the conversation back.

     “Because I’m such an awesome suicide intervener?”

     She ignores me. “It’s because some kids are eating burgers on a bench below me. I don’t know how old they are but I know only kids eat like that.”

     She’s thinking of the children.

     “Maybe you should go get a burger,” I venture.

     “I'm on a diet.”

     I give the cake mixture a final few turns with a wooden spoon and take the bowl to the cake tin.

      I hear her moving and suddenly it seems a lot less windier. She’s gone inside?

     “I’ve not gone inside,” she says, “I’m just having a lie down.”

     I start pouring the cake mix into the tin slowly.

     “This isn’t a cry for help, you know.”

     “It is. I read it on a website. You don’t really want to kill yourself.”

     “Fuck,” she says, adding darkly, “the internet.”

      The cake mix has been poured  and I’m spooning the last of it out of the bowl into the tin.

      “I went on this website earlier,” she says, “in the library. I just typed 'suicide' into Google and this was the first thing that came up. It’s all about stopping me committing suicide. I’m reading this site and then I scroll down and there’s a diagram. A fucking diagram.”

     I smooth the cake mix flat in the tin.

     “It’s some fucking scales and it says 'pain' on one side and 'coping resources' on the other side. And the 'pain' is outweighing the 'coping resources'. It’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

     “Tone down the language, I was once young.”

     “Fuck off. So I’m on this page designed to stop me killing myself and it’s giving me this patronising stupid diagram bullshit. Go to the site. Fucking look at it.”

     “I will,” I assure her, “if you’re not dead, I will.”

     “Shut up, I’m not finished. I go further down the page. There’s a list to some fucking books. They’re selling fucking books on this fucking website.”

     “No,” I say with mock drama.

     “Shut up! Do you know what they’re called? I’ll fucking tell you. The first one is Suicide: The Forever Decision.” 

     She laughs bitterly and I can’t help but smile.

      “The next is called Choosing to Live. That’s not so bad. The third is How I Stayed Alive when My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me. Can you fucking believe that shit? It’s a fucking joke. It really is. I think the idea is to stop suicide by the sheer hilarity of the website.”

      “It’s a novel idea,” I say. Pun intended.

      “That was a shit joke,” she says.

      I once again concede. She might be considering jumping off a building but she doesn't miss a trick.

      I put the tin in the oven and slam the door shut. I look for the timer about the kitchen, tapping the faux-granite idly.

     “Don’t kill yourself,” I say.

     “The direct approach!” she exclaims. I hear the wind pick up again.

      “I’m looking over the edge,” she says, “and those kids are gone. I could jump right now. I could do it.”

      “Don’t,” I say, “they’d probably make me scrape you up.”

     “That’s fucking sick,” she replies, getting angry again, “I’m on the fucking edge here and you’re making sick jokes like that. This is serious, you know. This is fucking serious!”

     “That all depends on your point of view,” I reply calmly, meaning every word.

     “What the fuck? No! My suicide is serious!”

     “Not really. I mean, everyone has to go sometime. Just some go messier than others.”

     “You’re doing it again, you sick fuck!”

     “Okay, I’m sorry,” I say, adding a few hours to my electronic timer, “but my point still stands. Life is short and in the end, nobody cares. You know what my coping resource is? To push the fucking pain off the scales. I just don’t give a fuck.”

     She's quiet for a moment. “That’s a pretty shitty attitude,” she says, sullenly.

     “My attitude’s working pretty well so far. I’m baking a cake and you’re on the edge of a building.”

     She’s quiet. Maybe I got through to her.

     “Look, I know you’re having problems. So am I.”

     “Like fucking what?!” she shouts.

     “Like my sister is going to fucking kill herself!” I shout back.

     She shuts up again and I talk quietly.

     “But the simple fact is that if you just don’t care about problems, they tend to go away. It’s not me being callous, I still help people and I’m still nice to people.”

     She speaks quietly now. I think she’s crying. “Not everyone can think like that.”

     “Then,” I say softly, “I guess evolution will see all the suicidals off and my thought process will survive.”

     “Oh for fucks sake,” she says, “this was getting fucking serious. Now look what you’ve fucking done.”

      “Jesus, take a chill pill,” I say, adding “Just... don’t overdose.”

      I can’t help but laugh at the joke and I’m sure she laughed too.

      “You’re a fucking cunt of a brother,” she says.

      I smile to myself and nod as I sit on the work surface. “Fancy a slice of cake?” I ask. “If you hurry back it’ll still be slightly warm.”

      She’s quiet on her end of the line, and then there’s only that noise of her blowing her nose. The noise I used to hate so much when we were kids because she was always so loud and it always made such a horrible noise.

      Right now, it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard.

      “Sure,” she says, “I’ll be right over.”

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