Tattooed

by Pamela Callow

  “How long would it take?” Frances asked.

  “We would have to start with the provincial courts and work our way up,” Kate said. “We could ask the courts to expedite the process, given your condition. Even so, you are looking at six to twelve months for the first hearing.”

  Frances gazed at her hands. They rested on the armrest, flaccid.

  The few times Kate had seen Frances in the past, she had always gripped a pencil, ready to jot down an idea or make a rough sketch of the buildings she had made a career of designing.

  “I’ll be dead by the time the courts are done,” Frances said.

  There wasn’t much point in denying it. With ALS, the afflicted never lived long enough to be effective activists. “The question, in my mind, is whether you want to spend the final days of your life in court?”

  Frances gave a mirthless laugh. “Of course not. I was hoping you would tell me that there was a loophole. There usually is. At least for criminals.”

  Kate shook her head. “I wish there was.”

  Frances was quiet. Finally, she said, “If I can’t ask someone to help me kill myself without getting them into trouble, can I tell my doctor to top off my painkillers when the time comes?”

  “Frances, that is between you and your doctor. I think most doctors are very compassionate… .” Read between the lines, Frances.

  Her client’s gaze was pensive. “But Dr. Clarkson got into trouble for it a few years ago. That’s why I called Randall to advise me. But he told me he is in New York on a leave of absence… .”

  “Yes,” Kate said, keeping her tone neutral. “He is working on a corporate merger in New York. But he has briefed me on the Clarkson case.”

  The Clarkson case was legendary in Halifax. A prominent heart surgeon had been accused of injecting a fatal cocktail of drugs into a patient in extreme distress—who had no chance of surviving—to prematurely end her suffering. Detective Ethan Drake, Kate’s ex-fiancé, had been the primary homicide investigator on the case. The case hinged on the testimony of the victim’s son, who told the police—and the court—that Dr. Clarkson had assured him that his mother would not suffer any longer.

  Dr. Clarkson bankrupted himself to pursue his defense, but he was convicted. It was the desire to help out his old friend that triggered Randall Barrett’s return to Halifax years before, that had yanked the raveling thread of his marriage and had led him to leave his Bay Street career and relocate to Halifax. He had masterminded (and funded) Clarkson’s appeal—Old Soccer Teammate Launches Appeal was the newspaper headline—calling into question the victim’s son’s testimony, specifically by alleging that Detective Ethan Drake had improperly influenced the teen.

  “As you might remember from the news, Frances, Dr. Clarkson was convicted on charges of murder. He was unsuccessful on appeal. The court of appeal upheld the conviction 2-1.”

  Neither Randall nor Ethan had forgiven one another.

  “How can I prevent the same thing happening to my doctor?” Frances asked.

  “Legally, the only thing you can do is to provide specific directions to your physician that you are not to be given any life-extending treatments.” Kate closed the folder. “I’m sorry, Frances. I wish I could be of more assistance.”

  Frances laughed. Loudly.

  Kate stared at her. Did she think I was joking?

  “Sorry,” Frances said, sputtering. “ALS makes me laugh when I’m upset.” She swallowed. “It’s frustrating,” she added, as if reading Kate’s thoughts. “The way I talk—people think I’m drunk or crazy.” Her hand twitched.

  After that outburst, Kate could understand why people might question whether Frances was mentally competent. And yet she knew it was rare for ALS to affect cognitive function. That was what made the disease so terrible. And terrifying for the afflicted. To know that one’s body would slowly lose its ability to function, until even breathing had to be provided by a machine, while the mind remained alert and excruciatingly aware of everything that had been lost.

  Unlike the Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease that could be lurking in her own cells. That disease robbed its victim of all cognitive function.

  Stop it, Kate.

  She hadn’t thought about it in months, had not allowed herself to dwell on it. Although it was hard not to be confronted with your own mortality when facing a client who clearly was losing that battle. And whose very reason for seeking legal counsel was to hasten her own death.

  “You probably are wondering why I just didn’t kill myself while I could.” Frances gazed at Kate, dwarfed by the heavily padded frame of her wheelchair. Her eyes, still watery from her laughing episode, held a defiance that made Kate’s heart squeeze. Why should someone have to defend their decision to live? Or their decision to die?

  “I wanted to live.” Frances’ words were soft.

  Her client gazed down at her hands. Frances’ eyelids were translucent. Embryonic. The cycle of life nearing its end and returning to where it began.

  “I so very badly want to live.”

  Her gaze met Kate’s again. She did not try to hide her despair. Or her determination. “But not like this.”

  “I’m sorry.” A sense of failure weighed Kate’s words. She wished, in a moment of cowardice, that she had not agreed to take Frances as a client. Then she wouldn’t have to face her own inability to help her.

  You can’t overturn the Supreme Court of Canada’s decision, Kate.

  She could only put up a challenge to it, if her client was willing.

  And Frances Sloane was not.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t anything more I can offer you,” Kate said, rising to her feet. How did doctors do this all the time?

  Frances took a shaky breath. “I understand. Could you get Phyllis for me?”

  Kate nodded. “Of course.”

  She hurried to the foyer. The cool air of the corridor refreshed her. She hadn’t realized how thick the atmosphere had become in her office.

  Kate hovered in the hallway while Phyllis guided Frances’ wheelchair down the corridor.

  She raised her hand in farewell. “Take care, Frances.” That sounded horribly inadequate to her ears. But what else could she say? “Hope you have a peaceful death,” or “I’ll come to your funeral”?

  Frances slurred, “Goodbye.”

  Oh, no. Those were tears in Frances’ eyes.

  Kate watched Phyllis guide her client’s wheelchair to the elevators.

  This is probably going to be the last time you’ll see her.

  Her stomach clenched. She spun on her heel, closing the door to her office with more force than necessary. You couldn’t have done more, Kate. The law is the law. She didn’t want to take on a court challenge.

  She threw herself into her chair, closed her eyes and leaned her head back.

  An image of Frances Sloane, crumpled in her wheelchair, her eyes burning into Kate’s, jumped into her head.

  “Damn!”

  She leapt to her feet, trying to rid her brain of the image, and rushed out of her office. Frances and her caregiver waited at the elevator.

  “Frances!” Kate planted herself between her client’s wheelchair and the elevator doors. “I just thought of something—”

  “There is a loophole?”

  “No. But there is one other way to change the law,” Kate said. “You could lobby your M.P. to amend the Criminal Code. Or get the government to strike down the provision.”

  Frances’ gaze sharpened.

  Kate lowered her voice. “If you can convince them of the merits of the issue, then they will fight for it in Parliament. You won’t have to engage in a lengthy battle in the courts.”

  The elevator bell chimed. Frances’ caregiver began to push the wheelchair toward the doors but Frances reached for Kate’s sleeve. Her fingers were unable to grip the fabric. Her hand sank back to her armrest.

  The elevator began its descent without Kate’s client.

  “Can you help me?” Frances asked, r
eaching out her hand again. Kate didn’t remember Frances Sloane ever being so touchy-feely. Perhaps it was because she was losing the ability to do so that compelled her to attempt it while she could. “Can you write a legal argument for my M.P.?”

  Kate shook her head, regret twisting her mouth. “I’m not a lobbyist, Frances.”

  “But you know the issues. You could do this for me.”

  Kate shook her head. “Frances…I’m sorry,” she said, her tone gentle. “You need to find a professional lobbyist. I’m sure there are ones with legal training who could help you.”

  “I’ve chosen you.” Frances’ gaze became pleading.

  A weight formed in Kate’s chest. “Why?”

  “You fought the Body Butcher so you wouldn’t die a horrible death.”

  The foyer had become very quiet. The back of Kate’s neck prickled. She was certain that the receptionist listened intently. She was also certain that Melissa would be looking anywhere but at them.

  You’ve got this all mixed up, Frances. It was pure survival instinct, not a well-thought-out plan about my means of departing this earth. Kate rubbed her arms. “I fought him because I wanted to live, Frances.”

  “But you didn’t want to die like that, did you?”

  Kate saw exactly where Frances was heading with her question. Yet she couldn’t lie to her. “No.” The desire to live had fuelled her fight to the death with Halifax’s first serial killer. But Frances was right. Fear underlay her desperate fight with the Body Butcher. Fear of dying in the manner that had earned the killer his moniker.

  “And your fame could help my cause, Kate.”

  God. She gave a shaky laugh. “I’m not that famous, Frances.”

  “You are a hero. You saved other girls from being killed. This disease is my killer, Kate. There is nothing—” Frances swallowed. “Nothing that will help me fight it. No pills, no surgery. It is incurable and omnipotent. So I will choose to die the way I want. Not the way it chooses for me.” She paused. “You still can choose. I can’t.”

  And you can choose to help me. Frances didn’t need to say it—they both knew it.

  Kate could not face the plea in those weary sky-blue eyes. She would be doing this woman a disservice by agreeing to her request.

  And, she was afraid, she would be doing herself one, as well. After being plagued by post-traumatic stress disorder from her encounter with the Body Butcher, she didn’t want to revisit her experience in any way, shape or form.

  “Frances, I am not qualified to be a lobbyist.” Kate eased around the wheelchair. “I will find someone who can help you. Someone who can be successful. I’ll call you as soon as I find someone.”

  The disappointment in her client’s gaze sliced into Kate. Finally, Frances said, “If that is your decision.”

  Kate forced a reassuring smile. “I’ll call you.”

  Even to her ears, that promise sounded inadequate.

  The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Her client drove into the lift. “Goodbye,” she said. Her voice had a finality to it.

  Every goodbye was probably uttered with that intention. She had no idea when death would claim her.

  Kate returned to her office, her footprints smoothing the track left by Frances’ wheelchair in the plush nap of the carpet.

  You can’t be everyone’s savior, Kate.

  But it wasn’t everyone who was asking.

  It was just one woman.

  One very sick and helpless woman.

  Kate sank into her chair and closed her eyes.

  3

  Flushed with triumph at finding sarracenia purpurea—

  also known as the purple pitcher plant—Rebecca Chen crouched above the surprisingly clear and shallow water of the peat bog. Bag this last plant and then I’m outta here.

  It was a pretty plant and yet, according to her notes from biology class, it was a predator, capturing its food in its petals. She plunged her hand into the muck, her fingers scrabbling down the plant’s stem, searching for the root ball. But the stem curved sideways under the dense thicket of hummock. She exhaled, her forehead prickling with sweat.

  Farther up the slope and beyond the cliffs, lay the outer mouth of Halifax Harbour. Fog hung over the horizon, a ghostly waterfall hovering over the deep blue of the ocean, but the cooling breeze carrying its afterdamp did not reach her.

  With a grunt, she pushed her hand deep into the underside of the hummock. Her fingers hit a rock. The stem appeared to be wrapped around it.

  Frig. She sat back on her heels. The peat bogs stretched around her, serene blue pools dotting scrubby hummocks of low-lying shrubs. She had never even been out to Chebucto Head until her biology teacher assigned this lab, and she cursed him when she had missed the class trip and had to find her own way to the peat bogs. After a twenty-five-minute drive, she found the road to the headland. It was flanked by a protected nature reserve, but it eventually opened to a cove dotted with houses. They huddled, higgledy-piggledy, on the granite bedrock cliffs, as if holding their collective breath.

  The peat bogs were a twenty-minute hike across the headlands. “Just find the old bunkers,” her teacher had told her. “There are two. The bogs are down the slope. You can’t miss them.”

  True enough, after twenty minutes of following a scraggly, muddy path, she spotted the bunkers on a crest of the cliff. There were two: one facing the water, the other offset behind it. The bunkers had been built eighty years ago as the outer battery to defend Halifax Harbour. The lower bunker perched on a slope, its flat, sharp roof appearing crooked against the sky. Tall shrubs and a handful of stunted evergreens grew around the squat concrete boxes. Rather than softening the forbidding exterior of the wartime posts, the tangled thicket of shrubs and the dense branches of the evergreens served to emphasize their brutal purpose.

  Even in the May sunshine, they were creepy. She veered around them, and headed downhill to the peat bogs. They gleamed in the sun, the area a large, open marsh with a pleasant piney scent. It hadn’t taken much time to find the samples for her biology lab.

  Until now.

  Last lab of the school year, last lab of high school, Rebecca. That knowledge lent extra urgency to her scrabbling. She wrapped her fingers around the rock anchoring what she now viewed as “her” plant. She yanked the rock-and-plant specimen from under the hummock, falling back on her heels. She staggered to her feet, the prize clutched in her hand.

  Her butt was soaked from her efforts. Figures.

  She unraveled the roots clinging to the rock.

  Her fingers froze.

  Beneath the plant debris and muck, the rock appeared calcified. And smooth.

  God. It felt suspiciously like a bone.

  It’s not a bone, Rebecca.

  It was a bone. Her heart pounding, Rebecca tore away the roots of the plant.

  The smooth curve and calcified exterior were obvious now.