Terminal House

by Sean Costello

  To hell with it anyway, he thought, tugging on the handle of the metal door, locked now from the opposite side. If he had a point, he’d forgotten what it was. He was hungry now, and it was a long walk to the buffet from back here.

  * * *

  She approached him in the lobby, a slender girl of no more than eighteen, her support-staff uniform a half-size too big for her. She wore her sandy hair long, a stylish frame for an oval face that transformed when their eyes met, a smile of such unreserved brightness blooming on it Ben felt his heart stumble in his chest.

  “Doctor Hunter?” the girl said, sinking to one knee next to the wingchair he was seated in. She was long-limbed and olive-skinned, green eyes flecked with gold, teeth a startling white against the pink of her gums. She exuded cleanliness and youthful vitality and Ben felt shaken by her attention.

  He said, “Yes, I’m Ben Hunter. Pardon me for staring, but you reminded me of someone just now.”

  “Really?” the girl said. “Who?”

  Ben was intensely uncomfortable now, long-repressed memories coming in a deluge, muddied by time and regret and the distortions of dementia. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “It was a long time ago.” It was hard to look into those shining eyes. Hard to stay grounded. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  The girl’s expression darkened, a worry line creasing her brow. She said, “I heard your speech in there, and I was hoping we could talk.”

  Ben chuckled, regaining a measure of composure. “Not much of a speech, I’m afraid. More of a rant, really.” He indicated the chair next to his. “Why don’t you join me? I’d love the company.”

  Moving with quiet grace, the girl sat primly with her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap. She said, “I’m Roxanne Austen,” and that smile blossomed again. “Call me anything but Roxie.”

  “Hi, Roxanne, I’m Ben. Call me anything but Doctor.”

  That got a giggle out of her.

  He said, “So what is it you’d like to discuss?”

  She hesitated now, glancing at the exit, and Ben got to his feet, instinct telling him privacy was in order. The lobby was noisy and congested, the amplified voice of whoever was speaking in the auditorium adding an echoey backbeat to the confusion.

  He said, “Feel like some fresh air?”

  Roxanne stood, saying, “You read my mind. It’s a bit chilly out, though. Should you grab a jacket?”

  “No need. We’ll wander down to the solar array. Nice and cozy down there.” He offered his arm and Roxanne took it.

  And as they made their way out into spring sunshine, Ben felt an almost forgotten excitement, one he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

  * * *

  They followed the footpath along the Rideau River in sun-dappled shadow, a double row of scotch pines screening them from the worst of the wind. Past the sewage treatment dome, a hi-tech marsh where specialized plants and microbes purified the waste-water, channeling it into a reservoir for eventual reuse. Past the open agricultural plots, already tilled, rich black soil ready for the spring planting, only days away now. To the solar field, a two-acre grid of copper-colored panels embedded in concrete, silently tracking the sun. The warmth down here could be felt from fifty yards away.

  They chatted comfortably as they walked, Ben telling her he’d retired from full-time practice at the age of sixty-eight, then moved in here, a ninth-floor apartment with a view of the falls. Roxanne said she’d finished high school the previous spring, then taken a year off to work at the Center and bank some tuition money. She said she’d been accepted into the environmental studies program at Dalhousie University, and would be starting classes in the fall.

  Ben said, “Halifax, huh? Why so far away?”

  “They’ve got the best program in the country.”

  “Make’s sense. Ever been there?”

  “Not yet. But I hear it’s beautiful.”

  “It certainly is. I did some subspecialty training there in the eighties. Loved the place.”

  They came to a shaded bench and Roxanne sat down, that worry line etched in her brow again. Ben sat next to her, thinking this was as good a place as any.

  She was clutching the armrest now, bracing herself for what she had to say. Ben had an idea what was coming, but when she looked at him, the sun minting gold in her eyes, he experienced another of those vexing dislocations, the river flowing deep and steely in the near distance, the sun warm on his face, no sense of his aged self, and this lovely young woman holding his gaze with such openness and trust…

  “It’s about my grandfather,” she said, the words barely out before her eyes filled with tears and she hid her face in her hair.

  Ben said, “Aw, sweetie, come here,” and held his arms out to her.

  Roxanne leaned into his embrace, saying, “I’m sorry,” and Ben patted her on the back, hushing her, telling her it was okay.

  She let it come then, the force of her upset rooting Ben firmly in the here and now, his back beginning to ache from the weight of her against him, a headache creeping up the back of his neck to clutch his skull.

  She collected herself slowly, apologizing again as she pulled away. Sniffling, she dug a wad of tissue out of her uniform pocket and used it to dry her eyes.

  Ben was in no hurry, feeling a welcome contentment in spite of the girl’s upset. All his adult life he’d felt pulled by outside forces, so unable to just be that he’d eventually stopped noticing, coming to think of that driven feeling as normal. But now, as at certain times in the distant past, nothing tugged at him. Here he was, and here he was glad to be.

  There was something so familiar about this girl…

  She said, “I should start by telling you I was raised by my grandparents. My parents separated before I was born, and my mother died when I was two.” She gave a blubbery little laugh. “Sounds like the plot of a really bad soap opera.” Ben said it sounded like a bum deal. Nodding, Roxanne said, “I’ve never met my father, and I have no clear memory of my mother, so I’ve always thought of my grandparents as my mom and dad.

  “Gramps had a stroke about a year ago. A massive one. Gram cared for him at home for a while, but it was too much.” She regarded him with the wounded eyes of a child. “He was so full of fun, and active. Nobody believed he was almost eighty. We used to take long walks together, and he’d tell me about all kinds of things. It was so hard to see his mind just…shut down like that, as if someone had pulled the plug.”

  Ben knew exactly what she was talking about, had seen it hundreds of times in his geriatric practice. But she needed an ear right now, not an old physician’s platitudes.

  She said, “It’s hopeless now. He just lies there. Fading. Losing weight. He barely even looks like himself anymore. They sponge bathe him and feed him through that tube in his belly. But he’s not there. My grandmother’s at the end of her rope.”

  Roxanne brushed away a final tear, and Ben could see her tapping into a vein of steel in her character, a sudden set in her jaw that was again eerily familiar.

  “She wants it to end,” Roxanne said. “But it won’t. So she wants to end it.”

  “But she wants your consent.”

  “Yes. She wants my consent.”

  This was no child’s gaze Ben felt on him now. This was the probing scrutiny of a young adult faced with the toughest decision of her life, and it galvanized him, appealing for his most considered judgment before the plea was even shaped into words.

  She said, “In your speech you said you saw euthanasia as an answer to the kind of suffering that has no other answer. And even though I have no idea why, I got the feeling you could help me make the right decision.”

  Ben looked away from her now, feeling his age like never before. He already knew what he was going to say. He merely wanted a moment to assure himself the situation was real and he was fully engaged in it.

  Then he said, “Please don’t think I’m being glib when I say this, Roxanne, but in my experience, here’s
what it always boils down to: What would your grandfather want? You described him as an active, loving, intelligent man. If he could see himself now, even for an instant, and could then convey his wishes to you, what do you think he would say?”

  And even as he said it, Ben could see the decision framing itself behind the girl’s eyes. There was no science to a situation like this. No prevailing medical stance. Life was a finite thing. It had a beginning and it had an end, both of which were most fittingly determined by Nature. It was only now, in this age of power of attorney and informed consent, that such a burden of decision could be placed so squarely on the shoulders of someone so young.

  In the woeful silence that now spun out, it was all Ben could do to hold his tongue, the temptation to make the decision for her almost overpowering. A part of him felt he was cheating her by not having a better answer—for, in fact, answering her question with another question. But he’d been in this position many times in his professional life, and knew the final word had to come from family. All he could do was set the stage, and he’d already done that here.

  So he waited.

  A gray squirrel darted across the grounds in front of them and Roxanne raised her eyes to watch it go. It stopped at the edge of the footpath twenty yards away and rose up on its haunches, bushy tail twitching. Roxanne said, “My grandfather says they do that when they’re alarmed,” and a guy decked out like a Tour de France competitor whizzed past on a racing bike, sending the squirrel scampering back the way it had come.

  Roxanne watched the rodent leap onto the trunk of a sprawling oak and clamber out of sight. Then she stood, putting her hand out to help Ben to his feet. “I should be heading back now,” she said, maintaining her grip on Ben’s hand when propriety and mild embarrassment bade him let go. They returned to the Center that way, hands linked in comfortable silence.

  * * *

  By the time they got back, the morning’s festivities had come to an end, the press vans and limos already gone. Only the cleaning staff remained, picking up after the revelers.

  In the lobby, Roxanne hugged Ben and thanked him for his help. She said her grandmother had an appointment with a counselor in the morning, and told him she planned to attend.

  As she turned to leave, Ben said if she wanted to discuss it more before the meeting to give him a call…but he could see she’d already made up her mind. She nodded, thanked him again, and left.

  Watching her go, Ben felt suddenly drained. It was as if a fresh, sunny day had been eclipsed by despair, and he only stood there, no idea what he should do next. Being in the girl’s presence had awakened a long-forgotten sense of purpose, and an even longer-lost feeling of connection, sensations he became aware of only in her absence. And in this moment, with all of that obliterated, a dark part of him felt this might be as good a time as any to curl up and die.

  But in spite of having made a career out of death and dying, Ben was terrified of facing his own certain end. Since the Alzheimer’s diagnosis eight months ago, he’d been hosting an almost nonstop dialogue in his head, an obsessive turning-over of what he saw as his only options: euthanasia, or the inexpressible horror of dementia. The object of this debate was always the same: Which of these options frightened him most? It was a close race.

  Pride—the first deadly sin—had him leaning toward euthanasia. He’d seen enough vibrant, fiercely-intelligent human beings take that slow slide into oblivion to last a lifetime. And the prospect of being randomly disassembled like that, neuron by neuron until there was nothing left but a shitting, gawking, drooling husk resembling a man—that was the stuff of nightmares. Viewed in this light, euthanasia seemed the best solution.

  But that meant lying on a padded table in one of the euthanasia suites and baring his arm to an expressionless technician, feeling that bright stab of pain as the needle pierced the plump vein at his elbow.

  That meant Death by clear-headed decision.

  There was a third option, and he was prepared for it. In case the disease claimed him before he made up his mind, he’d given Power of Attorney to a trusted colleague, along with a detailed living will. He would’ve preferred a family member, but his childless brother had died of a heart attack in his forties, and Ben had never married. Either way, the upshot was the same: if the disease got the better of him before he decided, the plan was immediate euthanasia.

  Sometimes this third option seemed the most feasible. Once the true decline began, he could hope for a rapid course into insensibility, followed by a painless death by injection.

  But he’d seen many Alzheimer’s victims regress at the end into a twisted version of childhood, heard them weeping in the night and calling for their mommies.

  What if that withered child was somehow aware? Unable to express itself, yet subject to the same paralyzing breed of terror only a child can experience?

  What if he became that child and they put him on the table and he was aware but unable to let them know?

  And round and round…

  Ben thought, Jesus.

  Snapping him out of this dark reverie, his pal Vince Wilder strode up to him now, his expression, as always, full of mischief and cunning.

  “Hey, Doc,” the old hippie said. “Why so glum?”

  “Hey, Wilder. Just tired.”

  “Tired, huh?” He took Ben’s arm and hustled him back outside. “I’ve got just the thing.”

  At the end of the walkway Wilder turned right, heading for the greenhouses. Too worn out to object, Ben followed.

  * * *

  During his teens and early twenties, Ben Hunter had been part of a tight circle of friends that included Ed Quinn, Ray Gale, and Vince Wilder. A few other guys had drifted in and out at different times, but had never fit as comfortably as the original four.

  In those days, Quinn had been a reckless dirt bike jockey and perpetual class clown, always in trouble of one kind or another and always keen to take on a dare. It got so the others had to be careful what they said around the guy, because there were many times some casual comment led to situations in which Quinn risked incarceration, serious injury or worse just to impress his buddies. Sweet guy, Quinn, but more than a little crazy. In his mid-twenties, he’d moved north to Moose Factory, where he’d eventually married, fathered three strong boys and become mayor of the town. He’d been a resident at the Center for the past five years, since his wife’s protracted death from ovarian cancer.

  Ray Gale had been Ben’s best friend since the third grade, and was the only member of the gang who hadn’t yet become a resident of the Center. As sometimes happened with old friends, time, distance, and the demands of daily living had eroded their connection, and, regrettably, Ben had lost touch with Ray more than a decade ago. The last time they’d spoken, Ray had said his forty-year marriage had ended, and had hinted that his thoughts had turned to suicide. At the time, Ben had been laboring under monumental pressures of his own, and when he thought about it now, he wondered if he’d simply been unwilling to get involved in his friend’s dilemma. Like so many other things of late, though, the details of those days had grown fuzzy. He kept thinking he should give the man a call, see if he could put things right. Maybe it was a guilty conscience that prevented him from reaching out.

  Vince Wilder, the final member of the merry quartet, was an imp of a man who’d lived a nomadic life as a hard-rock miner. Vince’s capacity for substance abuse was legendary, but as far as anyone could tell, its long-term effects on him were negligible. At seventy-seven, the man still looked as trim and as hale as he had as a teenager. Just a bit of snow on the roof now, dusting those popcorn curls. His ready smile had separated many a woman from her panties, and his love of mischief hadn’t diminished an ounce in all the years Ben had known him. Which was why he was more than a little apprehensive about what Wilder had in store for him today.

  Now, hustling along the same footpath he’d shared with Roxanne, Ben said, “Slow down, you spry old bastard,” and Wilder paused to let him catch up, matchi
ng his stride as they resumed their approach to the greenhouses. There were twenty of them in the near distance, ranked like battlefield coffins beyond the solar array, each a hundred feet long and constructed of glass. Using his abundant charm, Wilder had talked his way into the paid position of Greenhouse Supervisor, and only a select few—Ben among them—knew the real reason why. It was all about access.

  Ben was just about to ask Wilder what he had in mind when Ed Quinn plodded up behind them, chuffing like a steam engine. Frantically gesturing, he spent the next several seconds trying to suck enough air into his lungs to speak. Then he said, “I’ve been all over hell’s half acre looking for you two.” Stung and annoyed, scrambling to keep up as the men started walking again. “All these years we’ve been friends, you sons of bitches just sneak off on me like that? You both saw me in the auditorium—Hunter, who was that little cutie you were chatting with in the lobby? Kinda put me in mind of Melanie Anderson, remember her?—why wouldn’t you dipshits let me know where you were going?”

  Stopping in his tracks, Ben thought, Melanie, of course, the familiarity he’d felt in Roxanne’s presence clicking in his mind with an almost palpable force. It was so clear now, it amazed him he hadn’t made the connection right away.

  Something in those shining eyes…

  He could still hear Quinn bitching, could see the men advancing along the path…but the scene appeared gauzy now, almost transparent, more dreamlike than real.

  What seemed real now was the teenage girl opening her locker in the hallway in front of him, autumn sunshine from the tall windows at Hillcrest High smoldering in her straight blond hair, and it took his breath away, as it had all those years ago, this girl appearing out of nowhere, the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen in her flower-print dress and sensible shoes, stooping in front of her locker to retrieve her knitted bag.

  He’d stopped dead in his tracks that day too, the end-of-class rush parting around him like a tide around a pylon. As if sensing his attention, the girl had risen to her full height and glanced his way. And when their eyes met, she’d smiled as warmly and as unabashedly as if they’d known each other forever. Ben had no idea what he had done, other than stand there with his mouth hanging open, whatever urgent after-school plans he’d had forgotten in the face of whatever this was. Instead of looking away, the girl had held his gaze and he wanted to say something. But the power of speech had abandoned him, and he only stood there, unblinking.