The Dead and the Dying (25 page)

Joanna Mason

"So..." Dawson pauses on the other end of the phone, sounding a little nervous. "Are you okay, Jo? It's not like you to just call up with there's no reason. You're not a chatty person. This is... weird."

"Why's it weird?" I ask, sitting in a hospital gown outside Dr. Gibbs' office. It's almost 9am, and today's the day of my big operation. So far, I've been denied breakfast and told to drink plenty of fluids, and I've been given so many goddamn pills, I feel like I've gone all the way over the rainbow. Any time now, I'm going to lose my mind, and I'd rather get this call out of the way first. "Anyway," I add, "I'm calling to see how things are going with the case. Any news?"

"Schumacher's accepted your self-defense claim regarding Dr. Huston's death," he replies, "although he had a little trouble explaining to the board why you were even there in the first place. Cases like this are usually solved by the investigating detective and his team, not by someone who's technically supposed to have been suspended."

"Burn," I reply with a smile.

"It's fine," he mutters. "I'm used to it."

"You'd better be," I continue. "Once I'm back on duty, it's gonna happen a whole lot more."

"Is that a promise?"

"What about Paula Clarke?" I ask.

"She's been moved to a high-security psychiatric facility. It's touch and go, but apparently she's well gone. She's still chatting away to some imaginary friend, as if she's completely divorced from reality. The first hearing into her mental competency has been postponed. Apparently they did some tests and she was off the charts. They're not sure if she'll ever come around."

"She will," I say, watching as some nurses wander past. "She's tougher than people think."

"And what about you?" Dawson asks. "You gonna tell me what you're up to? What's with all the secrecy?"

"What secrecy?"

"You're up to something," he continues. "Don't bullshit me, Jo. I know you too well."

"I'm by a lake," I say, looking down at the shiny white floor of the hospital corridor. "I thought about what you said, and I decided to get a hobby, so I'm fishing. I'm wearing rubber boots and I'm just casting off right now. Hoping to catch myself a nice fat trout for dinner, and then I'm gonna roast it on a campfire."

"You?" he replies incredulously. "Fishing?"

"Yep," I say, "and it sucks, so thanks for that." At that moment, a voice over the PA system calls out for a doctor to head to the ward station. "That was a boat," I add. "Some kind of pleasure cruiser going past." I pause for a moment. "Hey!" I shout, startling an orderly along the corridor. "You're scaring the fish!"

"As long as you're okay," Dawson replies, clearly not buying my story but knowing better than to push me.

"I'm fine," I say, as Dr. Gibbs opens the door to his office and waves for me to go inside. "I've got to hang up, though," I add. "I think there's something on my line, so I should probably haul it in. Sorry, I'm not quite up on fishing terminology yet, but something's definitely tweaking my rod. My fishing senses are tingling like mad."

"Good luck," he says, almost as if he knows what's really happening. "Call me if you need me."

"I don't need luck," I reply, cutting the call dead and putting the phone in my gown pocket. Getting to my feet, I limp through into Dr. Gibbs' office and find him arranging a plastic sheet on the bed in the corner. "You afraid I'm gonna wet myself?" I ask, suddenly feeling my chest start to tighten. Until this moment, I wasn't nervous, but now the enormity of today's operation is starting to hit me. After a moment, I realized that I've subconsciously started scratching the side of my chest, just below my armpit.

"You want to sit on here for me?" Dr. Gibbs asks, tapping the bed.

Taking a seat, I watch as he grabs a set of notes from his desk. He seems more subdued than usual, which immediately gets me worrying. Dr. Gibbs is usually annoying chirpy and depressingly resistant to bad news, but there's something different about him this time.

"I guess it'll be goodbye soon," I say, looking down at my chest. I reach up and give my breasts a squeeze. "You've been good friends, boobies, but we all knew this'd have to happen some time. I'll try to have fun without you, and you... Well, see what you can do." I lean closer. "I think your odds are limited," I add with a whisper, forcing myself to smile before I realize I'm on the verge of tears. Sitting up, I take a deep breath as Dr. Gibbs comes back over to me. There's no fucking way I'm going to cry. Not today.

He stands in silence for a moment.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

As soon as he looks at me, I can tell that my worst fears are coming true. Something's wrong. I mean, something's been wrong for a while, but it looks as if something's
more
wrong this time.

"Just tell me," I continue, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

"We're still going to go ahead with the surgery," he says after a moment, his eyes filled with sadness, "but your latest test results..." He pauses. "The cancer has metastasized to your liver."

"Wow," I say, suddenly feeling very aware of my heart pounding in my chest. "It must
really
hate me, huh?"

"We'll deal with the original tumor first," he continues. "That's the priority, and that's what we'll resolve today, because we need to reduce the potential for more damage to occur. After that, we'll have to decide on the best course of action regarding your liver, which will either be chemotherapy or radiotherapy. We've still got options to fight this thing, Jo, and science is advancing at great rates every year."

I wait for him to finish.

"But?" I say eventually.

"I have to be honest with you," he continues, "and admit that this is very much the worst-case scenario for your particular cancer. I was hoping we'd catch it early enough to prevent it from spreading, but clearly that hasn't been the case."

"So how long have I got left?" I ask.

"It's impossible to say."

"Best case scenario," I say firmly, even though I'm terrified of the answer. "If everything goes really fucking well, what's the best case? How long?"

He pauses. "You're looking at anywhere between one to five years," he says finally.

"Hell, that's fine," I reply, my voice starting to crack a little. "I thought you were gonna say one to five minutes."

"It's not a joke," he says firmly.

I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. I swear, if I was alone right now, I'd be a sobbing mess. Looking down, I start playing with the hem of my gown, twiddling the fabric between my fingers. For a moment, I'm able to clear my mind completely, leaving nothing behind but a faint nagging feeling that something's terribly wrong. Damn it, I wish I could just stop thinking. Why do humans have to be so goddamn aware of their own mortality?

"Do you have anyone you'd like me to call?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"Your parents?"

"Dead."

"You have to keep your spirits up," he continues with a sigh. "With a little luck, we can give you a good shot. I've known you for a long time, Jo, and you're one of the strongest people I've ever met."

I force a smile, still looking down at my hands as they play with the hem. I don't feel strong right now.

"Isn't there any chance I could beat it?" I ask finally, choking back the tears.

"There's always a chance," he replies, "but I can't give you false hope. The best I can do is tell you that we're going to fight to prolong your life for as long as possible, and we have some very exciting new therapies that are showing real promise. Once I've examined your test results more closely, I might be able to apply for you to get onto some new studies, but I don't want you to be under the impression that..." He pauses again. "We have to focus on giving you the best possible window and ensuring that your quality of life remains high until the end."

I nod, unable to say a word. After a moment, I close my eyes, hoping to stop the tears; it doesn't work however, and I feel my bottom lip start to tremble.

"I'm going to give you a moment to gather your thoughts," he says, conspicuously placing a box of tissues next to me, "and then I'm going to come back and talk you through today's surgery." Placing a hand on my shoulder, he pauses. "You can fight this. I know you're strong enough, Jo. If anyone can stay firm, it's you. We're gonna keep pushing to make sure you hit the upper-end of the timescale, okay? Five years, maybe even more." With that, he turns and heads to the door. I hear him pause for a moment, as if he's about to say something, but finally he steps outside and pulls the door shut.

Once I'm alone, I suddenly become very aware of the silence all around me. I can hear the distant sounds of people walking along the corridor, but somehow it's as if they're on another world. All I can think about is the fact that, suddenly, my life has a very definite time limit; it's as if there's a countdown clock running in my head, constantly reminding me that I don't have long left. This thing is inside me, eating away at me, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I've faced seemingly impossible odds before, and I've always managed to find a way out. Nothing has ever been able to keep me down forever, but I've finally come up against something that doesn't seem to offer any hope at all.

Still fiddling nervously with the hem of my hospital gown, I feel tears trickling down my face. I lower my head, but I can barely even see as I try and fail to hold back the flood of tears. Soon I'm sobbing, gulping back air as I desperately try to pull myself together. I haven't cried like this since I was... much younger. I just hope I can stop before Dr. Gibbs comes back. The last thing I want is for someone to ever see me like this, breaking down completely.

Epilogue

Two weeks later

"You'll be in the observation room, with the family members," says the guard as he leads me along the dull gray corridor. "The warden has specifically ordered that you're not to be allowed into the execution chamber itself." He glances at me. "For obvious reasons."

I grin back at him.

He checks his watch. "Just a few minutes to go," he continues as we reach the door to the observation room. Inside, there are already some people gathered nervously, while a curtain has been drawn across a glass window at the far end. These are the family members, gathered to get their pound of flesh. I recognize some of them from the last time Gazade was up for the chop, and they all look so serious, as if none of them can see the lunacy of this whole ritual.

"Once the process is complete," the guard continues, someone will come and take you to a waiting room. We'll make arrangements for everyone to leave through a back door, to avoid the crowds out front.

"Ms. Mason," says a voice nearby, and I turn to see Governor Hazel Lockley striding toward me. "I'm so glad you were able to join us again."

"And
I'm
so glad that, as a victim of Sam Gazade's, I couldn't be denied access," I say with a smile. "Even if someone
had
made multiple attempts to get me barred, including making several phone calls to local judges and also delivering a personal appeal directly to the state prison board."

She smiles. "I believe you have something for me, Ms. Mason."

"I do?" After a moment, I realize what she means. "Right. Sure." Taking a deep breath, which sends a shiver of pain through my chest, I decide that it's now or never. "Without irony or sarcasm, I'd like to offer my sincere apologies for everything that happened the last time I was here. I hope you'll accept this apology in the spirit in which it's intended, which is one of respect and friendliness." I pause for a moment. "Along with other genuine emotions, too numerous to mention."

"Very convincing," she says with a grin. "I almost believe you."

"Almost is close enough, right?" I reply with a shrug.

"You'd better get in position," she says, clearly accepting that she's not going to get anything better out of me. "We're ready to start, and I think we've already had enough disruption to last a lifetime."

"And you've done your job this time, yeah?" I say. "I mean, you've actually got enough drugs to kill the bastard, haven't you? Even if some crazy psycho bitch causes a scene and makes you drop a vial?"

Without replying, Lockley turns and heads through to the main chamber, leaving me to make my way into the observation room. I'm immediately struck by the solemn faces of the other people in here. They all lost loved ones to Sam Gazade, and they've waited twelve years to witness his execution. I guess this is some kind of cathartic experience for them, although they all look pretty pained as they wait for the curtain to be drawn back.

Taking my place at the side, I reach a hand under my shirt and check that my bandages are in place. It's been a couple of weeks since I had the mastectomy, and I'm still sore as a motherfucker, but there was no way I was going to let massive, throbbing pain keep me from coming here tonight. There were some people who told me I should come and witness justice being delivered as Gazade met his end, and others who said I should stay away to avoid upsetting myself. The truth, however, is that I'm not here because of justice or because of a desire to see Gazade suffer. I'm here for a completely different reason. I'm here to see what it's like when someone dies.

Feeling a brief pain in my chest, I instinctively reach up and touch the spot just below my collarbone. I'm heavily bandaged after the operation, and Dr. Gibbs ordered me to stay in bed and avoid stress while I recovered from the mastectomy. I couldn't miss Gazade's execution, though. Reaching into my pocket, I almost take out the bottle of pain medication before forcing myself to remember that I can't afford to let my mind get hazy again. If I really only have a few years' life left, I'm damn well not going to spend it in some kind of drug-induced stupor. Pain, I can deal with; that's something Sam Gazade taught me, long ago.

Suddenly the curtain is pulled open and I see Gazade strapped to the table. It's a horrific, edifying moment, and somehow it seems much more unreal now that I'm on this side of the glass. It's like I'm watching the whole thing on a screen.

"He looks so calm," says one of the men standing nearby.

"It's an act," says a woman.

"I want him to scream," the man replies. "I don't care if that makes me a bad person, but I want that bastard to beg for his life, the way..." His voice trails off, and the room falls silent.

I step closer to the glass, watching with fascination as the final needles are inserted into Gazade's bare arms. He's staring straight up at the ceiling, as if he's barely even aware of everything that's happening. Last time he was on the table, he kept talking to me, as if he was trying to distract himself; this time, without that benefit, he seems to be in some other kind of mental zone. I always wondered what Sam Gazade would do when he faced his final moments, and now it's clear that despite all his bravado, his impending death has brought him to a standstill.

"Do you have any final words?" asks Governor Lockley, standing next to Gazade's bed. "If so, now is the time to make a statement."

There's the faintest twitch in his eyes, as if he's considering a response, but he finally he just continues to stare at the ceiling.

"Coward," one of my fellow observers says.

"What did you expect?" asks another. "He's never going to apologize for what he did."

The technicians are getting busy now, working on the machines that are going to pump drugs into Gazade's body. Finally, after a brief moment of calm that ends with Governor Lockley nodding at one of the other men in the room, a switch is pressed and a line of almost-clear fluid begins to run through the plastic tubes. I watch as the fluid enters Gazade's body, and he opens his mouth for a moment, as if he's going to say something.

"This is still too good for him," says a woman standing next to me. There are tears in her voice, and she turns to sob on the shoulder of one of the men. "Why should he get to die without pain, after everything he did?"

I take another step forward, trying to get the best possible view of Gazade's face. His eyes seem to have narrowed a little, and I'm not certain, but I think his lips are trembling, almost as if he's quietly saying something to himself. My heart is pounding as I watch a flicker of recognition cross his eyes, and then - without any warning - he lets out a loud gasp as his eyes widen. His hands grip the side of the table and his whole body seems to be come tense, before finally he lets out a deep breath and falls completely still. I watch as his glassy eyes continue to stare up at the ceiling, but although I'm trying to catch the exact moment of his death, I finally realize that he slipped away sometime during that gasp. There was no great moment of epiphany, no hint of anything greater; just a human body, convulsing in its moment of death as its mind died.

And yet his face looks different. It's as if, now that the life has left his body, his skin has begun to sink into his skull, and his features seem drawn and somehow older. Reaching up, I brush my hand against my left cheek, trying to imagine how I'll look when death has hollowed out my features in the same way. I keep telling myself that it's all in my mind, but I swear, he looks different. Older. Waxy. Smaller, even. Death has changed his features, and he barely even looks like himself. It's a sudden, startling transformation.

I take a deep breath. So that's what it's like. That's what happens. Ignoring the people crying and talking in the observation room with me, I continue to stare as a sheet is drawn over Gazade's dead body, covering his dead face. I don't really know what I was expecting, but I didn't think there'd be such a strong and obvious change in his physical appearance.

I don't need to see any more. Pushing past the gathered group of onlookers, I hurry out of the room and make my way along the corridor. Death isn't magic. It's just an end, and it was dumb of me to expect anything else. We all get there in the end, but some get there a lot sooner. The dividing line between the dead and the dying is so thin, it's almost impossible to spot; it's like a shadow, passing across the face and brushing away the dust of life. As I reach the main door and wait to be buzzed out, I glance at a nearby mirror. Maybe I'm imagining things, but I swear to God, it's as if that shadow has already started to cross my face.