“I wouldn’t look at that, if I was you,” the nurse said to me.
But I did look—and shuddered again when I saw the horrendous railroad track of stitches across my abdomen. I managed a word:
“What . . . ?”
The pain kicked in again. I fumbled for the plunger. The nurse put it in my hand. I pressed down on it. Darkness.
Light again. Now I saw a familiar face above me: Dr. Bolduck. He had a stethoscope on my chest. His finger was on my left wrist, checking my pulse.
“Hi there,” he said. His voice was quiet, subdued. I knew immediately what had happened. “How’s the pain?”
“Bad.”
“I bet. But this is the worst you should experience.”
“I lost it, didn’t I?”
“Yes. You did. I am so sorry.”
“What happened?”
“You were suffering from a clinical condition known as an ‘incompetent cervix’; a condition which is virtually impossible to diagnose until it’s too late. Essentially, your cervix couldn’t handle the weight of the baby once it passed the five-month mark. So, when the cervix failed, you hemorrhaged. You’re lucky your friend Jim found you. You would have died.”
“You operated?”
“We had no choice. Your womb was ruptured. Irreparably. If we hadn’t operated . . .”
“I’ve had a hysterectomy?”
Silence. Then, “Yes, Sara. A hysterectomy.”
I fumbled for the plunger. I pushed it down. I went under.
Then it was night. The overhead lights were off. It was raining outside. A major thunderstorm. Howling winds. Rattling glass. Celestial tympani. The occasional flash of lightning. It took a few minutes for the morphine fog to lift. The pain was still there, but it was no longer acute. It had become a dull, persistent ache. I stared out the window. I thought back to five years ago in Greenwich. How I buried my head in Eric’s arms and fell apart. How—at the time—it seemed like the world had ended. Six months ago in New York—staring at the bloodstains in my brother’s apartment—I too thought that life could not go on.
And then Jack. And now this.
I swallowed hard. I resisted the temptations of the morphine plunger. The rain was now splattering across the window, like liquid buckshot. I wanted to cry. I could not. All I could do was look out into the dark, blank night. And think: so this is what happened. Maybe it was the residue of the narcotics. Maybe it was postoperative shock. Or maybe there comes a point when you simply can no longer grieve for everything that life throws at you. It’s not that you suddenly accept your fate. Rather, that you now understand a central truth: there is a thing called tragedy, and it shadows us all. We live in fear of it. We try to keep it at bay. But, like death, it is omnipresent. It permeates everything we do. We spend a lifetime building a fortress against its onslaught. But it still triumphs. Because tragedy is so casual, aimless, indiscriminate. When it does hit us, we look for reasons, justifications, messages from on high. I get pregnant. I lose the baby. I am told I will never have another. I get pregnant again. I lose the baby again. What does this mean? Is somebody trying to tell me something? Or is this just how things are?
Later that day, Jim showed up. He was looking uneasy. He carried a small bouquet of flowers. They were already half-wilted.
“I brought you these,” he said, putting them on the little table by my bed. As soon as he set them down, he immediately backed away to the other side of the room. Either he didn’t want to crowd me, or he was uneasy about being within my close proximity.
“Thank you,” I said.
He positioned himself against the wall near the door. “How are you feeling now?” he asked.
“I really recommend morphine.”
“You must have been in agony.”
“Nothing a hysterectomy can’t cure.”
The color was bleached from his face.
“I didn’t know. I’m so . . .”
“I am the one who should apologize. I should have told you about this from the start. But I was a coward . . .”
He held his hand up. “No need to explain,” he said.
“The doctor said that if you hadn’t found me . . .”
There was an awkward pause.
“I’d better go,” he said.
“Thank you for the visit. Thank you for . . .”
“May I ask you something?” he said, cutting me off.
I nodded.
“The guy who got you pregnant . . . are you in love with him?”
“Was. Very deeply.”
“It’s over?”
“Completely.”
“No,” he said, “it’s not.”
I had no answer to that. Except something lame like: “Let’s talk when I finally get out of here.”
“Uh, sure,” he said.
“I am sorry, Jim. Very sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
But I knew that it wasn’t okay. Just as I also realized that news of my hospitalization would disseminate quickly through Brunswick. Certainly, Duncan. Howell knew that I had been rushed to the Brunswick Hospital—as a big floral arrangement arrived that same afternoon. It was accompanied by a card:
Get well soon . . . From the staff of the Maine Gazette.
I didn’t expect an effusive note. But the generic quality of the message made me wonder whether Mr. Howell had discovered the real reason behind my medical emergency.
Dr. Bolduck informed me that—due to my surgical wounds and the amount of blood I had lost—I could expect to spend ten more days in the care of Brunswick Hospital. I was anxious about missing my forthcoming deadlines for the column—and put a call through to the editor’s office. For the first time since I started writing for the Maine Gazette, Mr. Howell didn’t take my call. Instead his secretary got on the line—and informed me that the editor was “in a meeting,” but that he wanted me to have the next two weeks off, “at full pay.”
“That’s very generous of Mr. Howell,” I said. “Please thank him for me.”
I spent much of the next ten days in a postoperative blur. Even though the worst of the pain had dissipated, I let it be known that I was in serious physical discomfort. I must have sounded convincing to Dr. Bolduck and the nursing staff, as they kept my morphine bag topped up. There are moments in life when certain things shouldn’t be confronted; when you don’t want clarity, forthrightness, the truth. This was one of them. Every time I felt myself veering toward terrible lucidity, I reached for the morphine plunger. I knew that, at the end of ten days, I would have to get out of this bed, and continue my life. Until then, however, I craved chemical denial.
Ruth dropped in every other day. She brought homemade oatmeal cookies, and magazines, and a bottle of Christian Brothers brandy.
“Who needs brandy when you’ve got this?” I said, brandishing the morphine plunger.
“Whatever works,” she said with a worried smile.
She offered to collect my mail for me. “No mail, no newspapers, nothing tangible. I’m on a vacation from everything.”
I could see her eyeing the plunger in my hand. “Is that stuff helping things?” she asked.
“You bet,” I said. “In fact, I might get it installed on tap in my apartment.”
“What a wonderful idea,” she said. Her tone was so pleasant that I knew she was humoring me. “You sure you don’t need anything?”
“I do need something.”
“Tell me.”
“A complete memory loss.”
Two days before I was discharged, one of the nurses rolled away the morphine drip.
“Hey! I need that,” I said.
“Not anymore,” she said.
“Says who?”
“Dr. Bolduck.”
“But what about the pain?”
“We’ll be giving you some pills . . .”
“Pills aren’t the same.”
“They do the job.”
“Not as well as the morphine.”
“You don’t need the morphi
ne.”
“Oh yes I do.”
“Then take it up with the doctor.”
The pills diminished the pain, but they certainly didn’t dispatch me to never-never land like the morphine. I couldn’t sleep. I spent the night watching the hospital ward ceiling. Somewhere near dawn, I decided that I hated this life. It was too agonizing, too appallingly fragile. Everything hurt too much. It was best to make an exit now. Because I knew full well that once the morphine had drained out of my system, I would enter a realm beyond endurance. All reserves of strength, stoicism, resilience had been depleted. I didn’t want to grapple anymore with such ruthless sorrow. I couldn’t face the idea of living in a state of permanent anguish. So the alternative was a simple one: permanent escape.
The nurse had left two painkillers by my bedside if I needed them during the night. I would ask Dr. Bolduck for an extralarge prescription to take with me when I checked out of here. I would go home. I would open a bottle of decent whiskey. I would chase all the pills with copious amounts of J&B. Then I would tie a bag round my head, sealing all potential air leaks with tape. I’d get into bed. The pill-and-Scotch cocktail would knock me out. I’d quietly smother to death in my sleep.
I reached for the two pills. I swallowed them. I continued to stare at the ceiling. I suddenly felt rather wonderful, knowing that I would only have to cope with forty-eight hours more of life. I began to organize to-do lists in my mind. I would have to make certain my will was up to date. No doubt, there would be a local lawyer in town who could offer me express service . . . as long as I didn’t let on that the new will would be in probate only a day after I signed it. I would have to decide on funeral arrangements. No religious send-off. No memorials. Maybe a listing in the New York Times obituary, so a few people back in Manhattan would be informed of my demise. But definitely no organized memorial service. Just a local cremation here in Maine, and the local undertakers could do what the hell they wanted with my ashes. And my money? My so-called estate? Leave it all to . . .
Who?
There was no one. No husband. No family. No child. No loved ones.
Loved ones. What a facile expression to describe the most central need in life. But who were my loved ones? To whom would I bequeath my estate? I was flying solo. My death would mean nothing. It would hurt no one . . . so my suicide would not be a selfish or vengeful act. It would simply be a drastic, but necessary form of pain relief.
The painkillers kicked in. I fell into a deep sleep. I woke sometime during midmorning. I felt curiously calm, almost elated. I had a plan, a future, a destination.
Dr. Bolduck came around that afternoon. He checked my war wounds. He seemed pleased with the healing process. He asked me about the pain. I complained of a constant nasty ache.
“How are those pills working?” he asked.
“I miss the morphine.”
“I bet you do. Which is why there’s no way I’m letting you near it again. I don’t want you leaving here thinking you’re Thomas de Quincey.”
“I think opium was his substance of choice.”
“Hey, I’m a doctor, not a literary critic. But I do know morphine is addictive.”
“You will give me something for the pain.”
“Sure. I’ll give you a week’s supply of those pills. Within three or four days, the pain should finally vanish, so I doubt you’ll need them all.”
“That’s good to know.”
“How are you faring otherwise?”
“Surprisingly all right.”
“Really?”
“It’s a difficult time, but I’m coping.”
“Don’t be surprised if you feel depressed. It’s a common reaction.”
“I’ll be vigilant,” I said.
He then said that I could go home tomorrow. I called Ruth and asked if she could pick me up in the morning. She was there at nine. She helped me into her car. She brought me back to my apartment. It had been cleaned the day before. There were fresh sheets on the bed. Ruth had gone shopping, and the larder was stocked with basic provisions. A small pile of mail was on my kitchen table. I decided it could all remain unopened.
Ruth asked me if there was anything else she could do for me.
“There’s a prescription from Dr. Bolduck . . .”
“No problem,” she said, taking the scrawled form from my hand. “I’ll just pop down to the druggist on Maine Street and get it filled right away. Don’t want you in pain, after all.”
While she was out, I made a phone call to the first attorney-at-law in the Brunswick phone book. His name was Alan Bourgeois. He answered the phone himself. I explained that I had a will on file with my lawyer in New York, but it had left my entire estate to my brother, who was now deceased. How could I change it? He said he’d be happy to draw up a new will—which would supersede the old one. Might I stop down tomorrow? Or if I was free this afternoon, he could make time for me. It was a slow day.
I arranged to see him at two PM. Ruth returned an hour later with the filled prescription. “The druggist said you’re to take no more than two every three hours. There’s a week’s supply.”
Forty-two pills. That should be enough to do the job.
“I can’t thank you enough for everything,” I said to Ruth. “You’ve been a great friend.”
“I’ll check in tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“No need,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
She looked at me with care. “I’ll still stick my head in,” she said.
That afternoon, I called a cab to take me down Maine Street to the office of Alan Bourgeois. His office was a room over a haberdasher’s. He was a small man in his midfifties, dressed in a nondescript gray suit, beneath which was a V-neck sweater. A pen holder adorned his breast pocket. He looked like the perfect country lawyer: quiet, direct, businesslike. He took down all my personal details. He asked for the name of my New York lawyer. He then asked how I wanted to divide up my estate.
“Fifty percent should go to Ruth Reynolds of Bath, Maine,” I said.
“And the remaining half?”
I drew a breath. “The remaining half should be left in trust for Charles Malone until his twenty-first birthday.”
“Is Charles Malone a nephew?”
“The son of a friend.”
Mr. Bourgeois said that the will would be a straightforward document, and he would have it ready tomorrow.
“Is there no chance we could finalize it all today?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose I could take care of it before close of business. But it would mean you having to come back in a few hours.”
“That’s not a problem,” I said. “I have some errands I have to run.”
“Fine by me,” he said, and we arranged to meet again just before five.
I wasn’t able to walk very far—so I called a cab again. I asked the driver to wait while I made a trip to a hardware store, where I bought some bags and a wide roll of packing tape. I moved on to the bank, where I withdrew fifty dollars to cover the cost of Mr. Bourgeois’s legal fees. Then the cabbie drove me up to the Maine State Liquor Store near the college. I was about to buy a fifth of J&B when I saw a bottle of Glenfiddich next to it. The difference in price was six dollars. I decided to splurge.
I was dropped off home. I arranged for the cabbie to collect me again just before five. I had ninety minutes. I used them productively. I gathered up all checkbooks and deposit books, and assembled them on the table. I found my few pieces of jewelry, and placed them alongside the bank stuff. I rolled a piece of paper in my typewriter and punched out a fast letter to Joel Eberts, explaining about the new will. I gave him the name of Alan Bourgeois, and told him I’d arrange for a copy of the document to be mailed to him.
By the time the will reaches you, I will have left this life. I am not going to offer a great defense for my decision to put an end to things. Except this: I simply know I can’t go on.
In the new will, you have been listed as my executor, so I’ll trust you to
sell the apartment, liquidate the stock, and set up a trust for Charles Malone—to whom half of my estate is being left. I’m certain you find it strange that I am making him such a major beneficiary. My rationale is a simple one: Jack Malone was the man I loved most in my life. Yes, he destroyed that love by betraying Eric, but that betrayal doesn’t negate his central role in the final part of my life. I always wanted children, but I didn’t get that wish. Malone has a son. Let him benefit from the love I once had for his father . . . but please make certain that under no circumstances can Malone himself have any access to the trust.
In closing, let me say that you have always been a great friend to me. Do understand: I know this is the right choice. I look upon it as something akin to the breakdown of a protracted negotiation. I’ve fought my corner to the best of my ability—yet I find myself constantly overwhelmed, constantly defeated. It’s time to surrender to the inevitable—and admit that the negotiation should come to an end.
I wish you well. I thank you for everything.
I signed the letter. I folded it and placed it in an envelope. I addressed the envelope, and attached a stamp to it. Then I rolled another sheet of paper into my Remington and typed a short note that I planned to leave in an envelope on my front doormat:
Dear Ruth:
Don’t go inside. Do call the police. Do accept my apologies for landing you with this unpleasant chore. Do contact Alan Bourgeois at his office on Maine Street in Brunswick. Do know that I think you were about the best ally imaginable.
Love,
I scrawled my signature. I placed the note in the envelope. I wrote Ruth on its front. I left it on the dining table, to be placed outside later this evening.
A knock came at the door. It was the taxi. I picked up my coat and the letter to Joel Eberts. I posted it in the mailbox near my front door. Then I climbed into the cab and returned to the office of Alan Bourgeois. He greeted me with a stern nod, and motioned for me to sit in the steel chair which faced his desk. Then he picked up a legal document on his desk, and handed it to me.
“Here it is,” he said. “Read through it carefully—because if there are any amendments or codicils, now’s the time to get them done.”
I studied the document. Everything seemed to be in order. I said so.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 53
