Dying Wishes (16 page)

When
I got to that part of my report, Ginny’s eyes, which were dull with fatigue,
flashed in alarm.

“No,”
was all she said. It was all she had to say.

I
nodded reluctantly. “That doesn’t mean either the Grants or the
MacRaes
are engaged in the practice, Gin. There’s a vast
different between writing a check to support an organization dedicated to
raising the public’s consciousness about their end-of-life options and actually
assisting a suicide. I mean, they’re not taking out ads or participating in
demonstrations at the Capitol. They just aren’t hiding their support of the
CCD’s agenda.”

“What
does this mean?” Ginny wailed. “What should I do with this information?”

I
struggled to keep my tone neutral. “I don’t know that you should do anything
with it. That’s entirely your decision, if there’s really any decision to make
here. After all, we aren’t sure that there’s any connection between Margaret’s
death and the CCD, and no one but you seems to be interested in digging into a
possible connection more deeply.
Quite the contrary, as a
matter of fact.”
I reminded her about my strange brunch conversation
with Janet and Bitsy, followed by Bert Rosenthal’s comment to me on Monday
morning.

“Margaret
appeared to be perfectly well, but for the sake of argument let’s say that she
learned a while ago that she had some dreadful progressive disorder that would
lead inevitably to extended suffering and a miserable death. Being the
realistic, prepared person that she apparently was, she would logically want to
investigate her options. She would probably talk with people she knew and
trusted. Her closest friends here, the Grants and the
MacRaes
,
refer her to an organization they know will be receptive to her concerns. What
happened after that, if
anything,
is precisely none of
our business.”

“Assisted
suicide is illegal,” Ginny stated flatly. “It is against the law in this state
to knowingly help a person end her life, and if that’s what happened here, it
happened on my watch.”

I
wasn’t surprised at Ginny’s reaction. Accountability was her middle name. It’s
what made her so good at her job, but in this situation, she was definitely
carrying things too far. I tried to hold on to my temper.

“Let’s
back up. Again, we don’t know that anything like assisted suicide took place
here, and even if it did, were you in the room? Did you mix the barbiturate
cocktail?
 
Did you have any advance
knowledge that this might happen? No, no and no,” I reminded her briskly. “For
another thing, assisted suicide is illegal in Connecticut, but it’s not for
terminally ill patients within six months of death in Oregon or Switzerland or
… other places, I forget. We’re talking about geography here when the real
issue is allowing people to end or prevent their own suffering in a humane
manner.”

Her
face hardened. “It might be a simple matter of geography to you but not to me.
Suicide is wrong, Kate, and assisted suicide is even worse in the eyes of the Church.
That’s not only
illegal,
it’s the same as murder.”

Too
late, I remembered that Ginny was devoutly religious. I recognized the
implacable certainty of right and wrong that was rooted in a lifetime of
indoctrination, and no amount of reason or rhetoric could overcome it. It was a
wall I had tried unsuccessfully to break through many times before.

“Give
it some thought, would you?” was all I said. “Personally, I’m right back to
thinking that whatever happened here was a very private matter, and we should
stay entirely out of it.” As I left her office, she dropped her head into her
hands.

~

Bert
Rosenthal and the
Henstock
sisters arrived at the
entrance to Building One at the same time. I had telephoned
Ada
and
Lavinia
the previous evening to let them know
that a Vista View resident, a gentleman well acquainted with the complex and
its inhabitants, would be joining us for our tour.

Perhaps
as a result of my call, the ladies had once again taken special care with their
appearance.
Ada’s
short hair was freshly
permed
, and she wore a crisp suit of silver gray with
matching, low-heeled pumps. A touch of blusher and lipstick softened her usual
austere presentation.
Lavinia’s
fine hair had been
slicked into a stylish bun out of which rebellious wisps escaped, as usual. She
wore another of her becoming, floral-print shirtdresses with ballet-style
flats, and she, too, sported a touch of makeup. It was hard to tell for certain
if her rosy cheeks were attributable to cosmetics or Bert’s presence, however.
Lavinia
had always been the flirtier of the sisters.

In
no time at all, Bert had both women under his spell. There was something about
his combination of impeccable manners, exquisite grooming and
bordering-on-bawdy sense of humor that captivated the ladies of all ages.
“Let’s take a quick peek at the lunch menu before we head out for our tour.” He
had one sister on each arm. “I’ll introduce you to some of my friends here, if
I can remember their names,” he promised with his trademark cackle.
Lavinia
giggled like a teenager, and even
Ada
cracked a smile.

After
a tempting preview of our choices for lunch, we left Building One to check out
the residential facilities. We cruised slowly through the quiet streets in my
car in deference to the ladies’ advanced years, although Bert wouldn’t have
dreamed of citing that as the reason. “I’ve already had my constitutional this
morning, and those shoes of yours are far too elegant for an extended
promenade,” he joked lightly. He perched sideways in the front passenger seat
as he explained the general layout of the complex and specific points of
interest to
Ada
and
Lavinia
in the back. I was happy to serve as the driver and contributed only a
clarifying fact or figure as necessary.

After
making one complete circuit in the car, we pulled into a parking space in front
of a Phase II building in which a two-bedroom unit was currently vacant. Bert
gallantly assisted first
Lavinia
, then
Ada
, out of the car as I located the necessary keys. While
keeping up a steady, superficial patter about the well-tended grounds and
pet-friendly policies (I had told him about Henry.), he worked in subtle
mentions of the step-in bathtubs, safety bars, emergency call buttons
distributed throughout the unit, and the sturdy railings and nonskid surfaces
of the building’s few stairways.

I
drifted along behind them, grateful to leave most of the heavy lifting to Bert.
Strangely, I felt as if I were the one taking the tour for the first time, and
I found myself seeing Vista View from a different perspective, that of the
still feisty but undeniably frail women gazing with pleasure at the reassuring
features of this bright, airy abode.

“This
unit is just like mine but with a second bedroom and bathroom. Two
loos
, no waiting,” Bert winked, and
Lavinia
giggled again.

In
the kitchen
Ada
admired the efficient appliances and
cupboards with pull-out shelves and organizers for easy access. I regarded them
with some wistfulness myself. Meanwhile,
Lavinia
stood at a large window at the rear of the living room. It looked out on an
expanse of lawn at the back edge of which was a large, rectangular garden.
A man and a woman, both elderly but spry, were pulling out tomato
stakes and piling them carefully to one side of the patch.
A golden
retriever with a graying muzzle ambled about in the sunshine, pausing to savor
each new scent he encountered.

“Oh!”
Lavinia
exclaimed with delight.
“How
wonderful.
Whose garden is that?”

“Community
patch,” Bert supplied promptly. “Fresh veggies all summer, flowers to attract
the butterflies, and marigolds to discourage the bad bugs. If you participate
in the work, you share in the harvest, although there are always so many
zucchini, they can’t give ‘
em
away. There’s a sign-up
sheet on the dining room bulletin board every March.”

“
Ada
, come and look. We could still grow Papa’s heirloom
tomatoes,”
Lavinia
breathed, enchanted.

Ada
came to
stand at the window. “We could indeed,” she agreed, patting her sister’s arm.
Clearly, leaving their garden behind had been cause for concern.

I
smiled my gratitude at Bert behind their backs and glanced at my watch. He got
the message.

“And
so concludes today’s tour. I don’t know about you ladies, but that dilled
salmon on today’s lunch menu is calling to me. Will you join me for a bite?
Kate, too, of course.”

We
agreed with alacrity and were soon on our way back to Building One. As we
passed the Phase III facility, I made mention of the round-the-clock nursing
services, long-term care features, and on-call physicians available day or
night. This morning even this recitation didn’t depress me unduly, although I
did wonder briefly if they had depressed Margaret. Had she considered such
benign incarceration a fate worse than death?
 
If so, why had she moved into Vista View at all? The knowledge that such
services would be available when and if needed was the complex’s primary
selling point.

I
pushed the thought firmly from my mind as I locked the car and joined Bert and
the
Henstocks
in the Building One lobby. I was tired
of Margaret Butler and tired of Ginny’s obsessive curiosity about the
circumstances of her death, and I looked forward to enjoying my salmon and some
pleasant conversation with three cheerful companions for a change.

~

The
temperature dropped sharply as the afternoon wore on, and a brisk wind gusted
from the north, sending piles of carefully raked leaves flying in all
directions to the annoyance of the local homeowners. I anticipated with
pleasure one of our condo’s best features, a real wood-burning fireplace. The
chimney draft was excellent—so good, in fact, that we rarely used the fireplace
during the truly cold months. It sucked too much expensive heat out of the
house. But on a rainy spring evening or a nippy autumn one such as this, we
enjoyed the snap and scent, the elemental comfort, of burning logs on our snug
hearth.

Armando
would be home sometime after nine, depending on the traffic from the airport.
His dinner waited for him in the microwave, as did his favorite tea mug on the
kitchen counter. I poured myself a glass of Shiraz and set it next to me while
I arranged kindling and logs in the grate and set a match to a fire starter
beneath them. As I watched the flames grow and curl through the wood, I was
transported, as I always was by the aroma of wood smoke, to other times and
places: Sunday afternoons in my parents’ living room, napping off a big dinner
… Michael’s and my first Christmas in our very own house, when I came down with
the flu, and he pulled a mattress in front of the fireplace for me … campfires
at Camp
Aya
-Po when I was a girl. They were all good
memories.

Drawn
from her cozy bed in my room by the tantalizing promise of flame heat, Jasmine
plodded stiffly into the room and threw herself down on the rug with a sigh. I
pulled a big cushion off the sofa and relocated her closer to the warmth. The
moment I began to stroke her, she squeezed her eyes shut in bliss and purred
her satisfaction. Life had become very simple for my old girl, and this was an
unexpected bonus. Not to be left out, Gracie skulked downstairs from Armando’s
bedroom and curled herself into his corner of the double recliner. Until he
reappeared, she would make do with his scent.

At
her present age, Jasmine was the equivalent of a centenarian human being and
deaf as the proverbial post. She still seemed to enjoy life, but she was on
medication for early kidney failure. As much as I hated to acknowledge the
fact, there would soon come a day when I would have to make that devastating
final trip with her to the vet’s office. A friend had given me information on a
veterinarian who offered at-home euthanasia service, but that would entail
cold-bloodedly deciding on a date in advance, and I couldn’t bring myself to do
that. We would take it day by day, and when Jasmine needed my help, she would
let me know. I secretly hoped she would just close her eyes and sleep
peacefully away, but I doubted that it would happen that way.

I
thought about how acceptable it was to end a beloved pet’s suffering, yet how
horrified many good, kind people still were at the thought of helping their
fellow human beings in the same way, even when begged to do so. I thought about
advances in hospice care and new legislation such as Oregon’s Death with
Dignity Act and wondered what I would specify in my own end-of-life documents. This
latest investigation, however inadvertently I had stumbled into it, had
certainly opened my eyes. I wasn’t at all sure I was glad of my newfound
knowledge and the choices that appeared to demand my attention. For the first
time in a long while I regretted my atheism. How much simpler it would be to be
told what was right and what was wrong by someone who purported to be in the
know. The problem was that such blind faith required the suspension of reason,
and I was too rational for that.