Dying Wishes

by Judith K Ivie

  “Where did you get it, then?” Strutter asked eagerly.

  “From the creators of many interesting websites on the internet. Did you know that just by Google-ing a person’s name, you can get a comprehensive listing of every place that name appears on line? Then you can go from citation to citation to see what he’s been up to for, oh, the last twenty years or so. You know, where he went to school, if he’s ever published anything or given a speech, been involved in a public protest, run for office, been convicted of a crime, all sorts of things. I can tell you what MacRae’s golf handicap is, thanks to information thoughtfully posted on the Mattabessett Country Club’s website.”

  “Fascinatin’, Sugar, but forgive me if I don’t quite see where this is goin’.”

  “Give me a minute, will you? I spent more than four hours staring at the computer screen last night, but it was worth it. Where was I? Oh, yes. In the case of a name like Gerald MacRae, it’s more complicated.”

  Strutter looked a little lost. “You mean because he’s Irish?”

  “Scottish, actually, but no, because it’s such a common name. I found several writers, an architect, two politicians and several other lawyers, all named Gerald R. MacRae. I thought having his middle initial and current address would narrow down the search, but it didn’t help much, so I filtered the listings by adding other things I knew about him. The first thing that occurred to me was his tennis playing, so that’s where I started. He and Janet did very well in the community doubles tournament last summer, by the way.”

  Margo didn’t even crack a smile, and Strutter pointedly checked her watch.

  “Then I remembered the pamphlets and the list of organizations MacRae had given me, and I began accessing those websites to see if he cropped up on any of them. Fortunately, I didn’t have to go past the C’s to get a hit.”

  Strutter chuckled. “Not too surprising, considering he lives in Connecticut, and the names of about half the organizations in the world begin with C. So what was it, the Connecticut Opera Society? Citizens for a Cleaner Community?”

  “Much more interesting,” I said coyly.

  “Captivatin’ Counselors?Cuddly Candidates?” Margo suggested. “I believe Bitsy told me he ran for state representative a while back.”

  Well, at least I had regained their attention. “Citizens for Compassionate Decisions,” I announced with a flourish, but it didn’t elicit the desired response from my partners, who looked blank.

  “Okay, I’ll bite, if it will move this along,” Strutter volunteered. What’s a CCD?”

  “The CCD is a nonprofit organization whose mission is to educate terminally ill people about end-of-life options if their suffering becomes unbearable or if they don’t want it to become unbearable.”

  “You mean how to commit suicide with the sleeping pills and the plastic bag a la the Hemlock Society?” Strutter wrinkled her nose. “Suffocating doesn’t sound like my idea of a compassionate decision.”

  “The Hemlock Society was one of the first organizations to address those issues realistically, but it doesn’t exist anymore. It’s morphed into a group with a broader-based mission. There are also a bunch of newer, more enlightened organizations that promote a variety of options, such as the voluntary refusal of food and fluid. Turns out those Eskimos we were talking about the other day were ahead of their time,” I told Margo, “except the truth is they only resorted to that when there were famines, and there wasn’t enough food to go around. Anyway, the CCD also lobbies legislators to enact laws similar to Oregon’s Death with Dignity Act.”

  “That’s about legalized, physician-assisted suicide, right?” Margo asked.

  “It is, which brings me to the point of this dissertation. Did you know that organizations that solicit contributions and have a tax-exempt status are required to file annual reports, which they often make accessible as .pdfs on their websites?”

  “I did know that,” Margo said, “from my brief tenure as a political candidate. So what did the CCD’s report have to say that’s got you all het up?”

  “A complete listing of officers and primary contributors that included Elizabeth and Douglas Grant and,” I paused for effect, “Janet and Gerald R. MacRae.”

  Twelve

  When I updated Ginny on Wednesday morning, I was careful to lay out our findings as informative but inconclusive. It seems that the rumors about Tommy Garcia being some sort of male escort are erroneous. It appears that Gerald MacRae is on the up-and-up. She might need to think about a new on-call physician since Lars Petersen seems to be easing into retirement. And judging from the checks the MacRaes and the Grants have written to the Citizens for Compassionate Decisions, they seem to have at least a philosophical interest in supporting legalized assisted suicide for the terminally ill. Like that.

  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 t
imes 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 da
te 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.

  “I should talk with Sister Marguerite about all this,” I told myself sleepily, and that was my last coherent thought before tumbling into slumber on the couch.

  When I awoke, it was to find that the fire had all but died, and Jasmine had taken herself back to her bed. Armando sat in the double recliner with Gracie, eating his belated dinner. If she stared at his plate long enough, he obliged her with a bite of chicken.

  “Have a good nap?” he grinned, and I dislodged Gracie to snuggle in next to him. It still amazed me, every time he returned from a business trip, how glad I was to have him home again. After years of living on my own following my divorce from Michael, I had settled so far into enjoyable solitude that I didn’t think I could adjust to having a man around the house again. Armando, having been on his own for many years as well, felt much the same, but to our amazement, we had settled down together very well. I still enjoyed time to myself, but I was always glad to have him back.