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She came into my life the same way she left it – fast, and with little warning. The first time I saw her was on the drive to my little apartment in New Zealand, during the filming of Lord of the Rings, one rainy afternoon.

She was walking slowly, hands and face turned towards the falling rain, a soft, sweet smile on her face. Water cascaded down her cheeks and her long dark hair, which was plastered down close to her head. She was in a navy blue sports bra and white wife beater, with faded blue jeans. I doubt that she ever owned a raincoat in her life. She was just the type of person who would rather dance through the rain than huddle under cover in attempt to stay dry. Responsible parents would have said that she would catch her death like that.

She didn’t care.

I pulled over and asked if she would like a ride, figuring that it would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Plus, what kind of guy would I be if I passed a girl in a wet white tank top and didn’t stop?

I don’t know what made her accept my invitation. Perhaps she’d always heard that she shouldn’t accept rides from strangers and decided to do it. Perhaps she just had a feeling that I would make, in the very least, a good traveling companion. All I’m certain of is that it wasn’t because she didn’t want to walk in the rain.

From the beginning, there was never that awkward silence that you have around many people. She treated every stranger as if they’d been her best friend for years. Me included.

She was the type of person who everyone loved. You never had to watch your back around her – she had it. And she’d never betray you. She was a rare kind, one that made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. She loved everyone and everything natural.

Maybe that’s what made her so loveable. It’s easy to love someone who already loves you. While most people could talk about themselves endlessly, she was the one person that I ever knew who could listen forever, and actually care.

She never talked much about herself. Most things she wanted you to know didn’t need words, and the ones that did she took care of in her own short, easy way. She loved finding songs that fit what she wanted to say, and she delighted in singing them as loudly as possible to the person who needed to hear it, and anyone who happened to be nearby.

Her little apartment said whatever she didn’t. Her bedroom was black and white, because, she told me, she wished sometimes that life could be like that. She tired of all the gray areas, where no clear lines could be drawn. So her bedroom was filled with clearly defined shapes; a square bed, the triangular nightstand, and an interesting round cushion that she told me she used to hold her often sizeable clothes piles or to sit and read on.

Her bathroom was painted with a mural which she’d done herself of a soothing garden scene. Ivy curled up the walls and around the ceiling, while grass edged the bottom of the walls. Flowers sprung up around chest-level, while butterflies and dragonflies and bees floated randomly above. White, green, and pastel yellow candles were scattered over most flat surfaces. The bathroom, she’d confided, was her relaxing room. I’d thought it strange that she’d chosen a bathroom, of all places. Granted, her apartment had only three rooms, but why not the living room or the bedroom? I would have posed the question to her, but I got to see firsthand.

One night that I was over she invited me to a bubble bath. While I’d never known this to be a group activity, I was game. She lit every candle and tea light, then turned off the lights and poured the bubble solution under the running water of the tub. The shower curtain and sheer cloth she pulled to the side and hung over a green, leaf-shaped hook. Shedding her clothes in the shadows of the bathroom, she slipped into the tub and beckoned me. I followed close behind, unashamed of our nakedness, and we had a wonderful hour-long relaxation, finally fleeing our secret garden refuge to lounge on the sofa when the water turned cold.

Many nights were spent on the couch, watching the television, talking, or just sitting and enjoying each other’s company. The living room was the place where she expressed herself the most. It was also the room that was most like my style. The couch was bright red, the chair beside it orange, and the ottoman yellow. It was her Sunset Room, named for the breathtaking sunset mural she’d painted over the sofa. The scene encompassed the colors displayed by the furniture, and many, many more. The spray of colors, an array between yellow and purple, also flowed across the bar that separated the living area from the kitchen. The kitchen was the only room that placed function above artistic style. It had no real theme, it just did what it needed to do.

It always amazed me how she got by with the bare essentials. Her artistic flair seemed to be the only thing she ever splurged on. That and her animals.

She always had loved animals – anything with four legs and a pulse. Every time I ever visited, she’d always had two cats, saved from euthanization at the local animal shelter. The cats themselves typically changed from visit to visit, as she would find one a new home just as another would be adopted. Every once in a while I’d discover that she’d taken in some other animal, like a sick rabbit, or pregnant mouse, or homeless boa constrictor. I think the only complaint I’d ever heard her make was that her apartment complex didn’t allow dogs.

People flocked to her just as animals did. She seemed to be the first source of help or guidance for anyone who needed an open ear, or a shoulder to cry on. She’d pick you up when you were down or anchor you when you were flying high.

She always seemed too good to be true, though not in an intentionally deceptive way.

I discovered too late that she was.

She had her ups and downs, she’d said once. That was only far too true.

One day I walked into her apartment – she always encouraged people to come on in, her place was open to everyone – to find two hungry cats mewing loudly at the door. Puzzled, I called for her. No answer.

I quickly checked the living room, kitchen, and bedroom. No sign of her. I peered into the bathroom. I’ll never forget the sight that awaited me. I know every detail as well as I know my mother’s face.

Her eyes were closed, blue-tinged lips drawn back in a tight line. One hand rested on the edge of the tub, the other was out of sight under the water. She was immersed above her chest in her what was left of a bubble bath. It was obvious that her candles had burned out quite a while ago.

It was the color of the water and bubbles that was so disconcerting. It wasn’t the bright, brilliant red that I would have pictured if someone had said “blood red,” but I knew immediately what the rust color meant.

A strangled cry escaped my throat and I bounded to the edge of the tub in one leap.

Before I touched her I knew what I would feel. Her cheeks were icy, all color drained from her face. Large cuts ran lengthwise down her arms, and a small metal razor was the obvious culprit.

“No,” I whispered. My throat closed of its own accord on the end of the word, and the plea came out choked and mangled. Fittingly, as that’s how my heart felt at the moment.

“No,” I cried. “Oh God, no.” Tears welled up in my eyes and cascaded down my cheeks, but I paid them no heed. “You can’t do this to me,” I hissed at her, swinging from denial to anger in one swift moment, then back again. “Please baby, wake up,” I begged. I cupped her face in my hand, stroking the top of her arm with the other. She was gone. I knew it, but I couldn’t bear to admit it to myself.

I spent hours just kneeling in the bathroom beside her still form. When I finally came around, every muscle in my body was in pain. Standing slowly, I stretched and dazedly worked the kinks out.

A note on the counter caught my eye. I picked it up with a shaking hand and unfolded it gently, as if it were glass and might break. My tears blotched the ink as I read:

My dear Orli,

If you’re reading this, it means that I’m no longer with you. Hopefully I’ll be in a better place, where everything is perfect. When you join me, look for me over that Rainbow Bridge, I’ll be with the animals.



I sniffled and smiled through more tears.



I would like to say that I am deeply, truly sorry for doing this to you and to everyone else who loves me. I know you’re probably thinking, “well if you’re sorry then why did you do it?”

I told you before that I had my ups and my downs. I didn’t quite tell you the whole story. I guess I thought that if I ignored it, it would go away. It didn’t.

I’m bipolar, Orli. I have manic depressive disorder. And this down was further down than I could stand, else you wouldn’t be reading this letter.

I don’t want you to think that just because I couldn’t stand living any longer that I loved you any less. I don’t. I still love you, and everyone else, with all my heart and soul. All of you have given me the best time of my life.

You asked me once why I live my life like this. No responsibilities, nothing to tie me down, and barely making a living. I told you that you would understand someday. Well today is that someday. I knew that it was going to end like this, Orli. I wanted to enjoy what little life I had left, and teach others how to enjoy life as well, until the time came that I would leave. But the fact that I’m not there with you doesn’t mean that you have to stop enjoying your life.

I think that committing suicide will be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. And for that I apologize, but, once again, if you are reading this letter, I obviously thought it necessary. It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived their life with the feeling that the world is caving in around them, who hasn’t felt that ever-present feeling of hopelessness weighing on their shoulders. I hate to put you in this position, but I don’t know what else to do. All I can say is that I am really, extremely sorry.

Just remember that I love you. And if you would, please tell everyone else that I love them as well and, once again, that I’m sorry.

I wish you luck in life, and if things get tough, remember how I taught you to enjoy life. Never ever do anything that would make you give up your love for life. Remember that I’ll always be watching over you, and remember to live. I love you always.



I wiped tears from my eyes, then gave up and let them roll down my cheeks unchecked.

Live, she’d told me. She was right. She always was.

I vowed that I would live enough for us both.