When he vomits blood, help him into the backseat of your car, and drive him to the hospital. When he rolls down the window,  slow down, don’t worry about the honking or about your white sedan being sprayed red. When doctors say he needs a blood transfusion, roll up a sleeve and offer an arm, as if you’re not afraid of needles, as if donating blood is a daily chore. When they say he needs endoscopic variceal banding, drive to the bank to liquidate your savings bonds, drop in at the carwash on the way back. When he can’t abstain despite promises and pleadings, dilute the alcohol with tap water. When he finds out and hits you, cover your bruises with rouge and eye shadow before leaving for work. When he doesn’t agree to enroll in a resident de-addiction program, give your consent to have him taken against his will. When he returns and complains of having been touched by men, kiss him. When he doesn’t respond, assume he needs time. When doctors ask to register him on the liver transplant list, sell your house, move with him to a rented apartment. When folks nextdoor make love against the cardboard- thin walls, hide under a pillow. When you get the call for an available liver, drive for 90 miles at five above 65 to rush him to the location. When ward boys wheel him to the operation theater, drink copious amounts of coffee in Styrofoam cups, buy one each of Mars, Twix, and other candy bars from the vending machine. When he holds your hand and promises not to taste a drop again, know it might mean nothing, like other times. When doctors prescribe him a list of immunosuppressive drugs for the rest of his life, sell your jewelry, including the heirlooms. When he lands a new job and drinks only soda and ginger ale, take moonlight walks with him, watch his favorite Star Wars movies, cook his favorite garlic chicken rigatoni with whole-grain pasta and low-sodium broth. When he returns in a cab from the New Year party at work and knocks at the apartment nextdoor, kneel down to pray. When his eyes and skin turn yellow, his voice a whisper, drive him to the hospital, slowly, avoiding speed bumps and potholes. When smoke escapes the chimney of the crematorium, remove the wedding ring, the only piece of jewelry you’d saved, and let the skin underneath breathe.

Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar is an Indian American writer. She was born in a middle-class family in India and is indebted to her parents for educating her beyond their means. She is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee; her work has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Cheap Pop Lit, Moon- Park Review, and other journals. Her website is saraspunyfingers.com. She can be reached on twitter @PunyFingers.

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