Angel of Mercy

by Andrew Neiderman

  “No, no. I guess I just can’t get it through my head that someone could be as nice as you are, Susie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  She smiled instantly and then relaxed her upper body as if he had said the funniest thing.

  “You can’t hurt my feelings, Mr. Livingston. I know you’re the one who’s suffering and whatever you do or say, you do or say under great strain. I just want to help ease that strain for you a little, that’s all. It’s not a big-deal thing for me to do. I’m available; I can do it, so I do,” she said shrugging.

  “Right. So you’re prescribing a warm bath, huh?”

  “The best thing for you right now. Then we’ll have a cup of tea and something. Faye told me to give you a sedative and wait until you drift off to a peaceful repose.”

  He nodded. He had to admit she was right—the prospect of a warm bath, something warm in his stomach, and quiet conversation all looked very desirable at this moment.

  She turned off the stove.

  “Later, while we have our tea, we can talk a bit about Sylvia.” Her eyes grew small again. “I know everyone avoids talking about her when you’re around, right?”

  “I don’t think her name was mentioned twice tonight,” he admitted. She smiled.

  “See. I know just how people act at a time like this and just how to deal with it.”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, I guess you do,” he said, and then he became thoughtful. “Where did you get all this wisdom, Susie?”

  “I’m just blessed, I guess,” she said, so innocently he had to smile. “I’m not as intelligent as Faye. She always got the A’s and I always got the C’s, but even she admits I have more patience and understanding when it comes to people who are suffering.

  “Now let me draw your bath,” she said, and she left him.

  In Tommy Livingston’s bathroom, Susie knelt beside the tub and let the water run through her fingers as if she were sifting through a stream for gold dust. The feel of the water, the sound of it pouring out of the faucet, had put her into a daze for a moment. When she felt it grow warmer and warmer, she adjusted the hot and cold until she was satisfied it was tepid enough. Then she stepped back and watched it rush into the tub. The sound began to mesmerize her again.

  Suddenly she saw Daddy sitting in the tub, the water rushing in around him. He had his hands over his face and his body shook with his sobs. She knelt down beside him and began to stroke his head softly.

  “There, there, Daddy. Don’t. You’re only tearing your heart apart. Take a deep breath and close your eyes. Lie back, Daddy. I’ll wash your shoulders and your arms. Go on. Relax, Daddy. That’s it. Relax.”

  “I’m so ashamed,” he kept saying, “so ashamed.”

  “Of what, Daddy? Of being sad?”

  He looked at her as if she were a stranger. The tears were streaming down his face. She sucked in her breath and sighed.

  “I’ll just get you something to help you sleep tonight,” she told him.

  Right after the bath, she went into Faye’s room and got one of her sedatives. She had him drink it with water in which more of the sedative had been dissolved. Into that restful sleep he went, down, down into the dark, his body sinking through the bed, until he saw the light directly ahead of him. She had such vision that she could see it with him. There was Mommy waiting at the gate, her arms out. Susie saw them join hands and embrace and then they turned and waved back to her, both smiling, both happy again.

  “Thank you, dear,” her mother called. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you, honey,” Daddy cried. “We love you.”

  “We love you.”

  “And I love you. Yes,” she whispered. “Yes …”

  Her reverie ended when she heard Tommy Livingston outside the bathroom door. She opened it quickly.

  “It’s ready, Mr. Livingston,” she said. “I threw in some of Sylvia’s bath oil. It’s a good relaxant.”

  “Tell you a secret,” he said leaning toward her. He was naked under his robe. “I used to use it.”

  “I knew that,” Susie said, smiling. “All you big, strong men like something soft and sweet and if it happens to be feminine, you keep it a secret. My daddy was just like that, too.”

  She walked out and he closed the door. She stood there for a moment until she heard him groan and then settle in the warm liquid and sigh.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her face up to the door.

  “What? Fine,” he said. “Just fine. I’ll be in and out,” he responded.

  “Take your time. I’m not in any rush,” she told him.

  Tommy Livingston was different from her last few bereaved loved ones. He was stronger, more independent, more able to deal with his loss. She hated his conviction that there was nothing to look forward to after death. This resignation and acceptance toughened him in places where he should be soft and vulnerable, and in many ways made her unnecessary and him far less dependent upon her. Disappointed, she felt some anger building and went out to the living room to look at the albums again. She wanted to gaze at Sylvia’s photograph and assure her that no matter what Tommy believed, it wouldn’t be much longer.

  “He’s coming, Sylvia,” she murmured when she had one in hand. In it, Sylvia looked thoughtful, sad.

  Susie believed the dead contacted special people like herself through their photographs. To others, Sylvia might very well be smiling, but to Susie, she was despondent in each and every picture. Afterward, when Tommy joined Sylvia, the smiles would return to all the photographs, just like they had in the other homes, just like her own father’s had.

  She touched Sylvia’s cheek in the picture and closed her eyes.

  “He’s coming, dear. Don’t be despondent. You’ll meet at the gate just like my mother and father met, and you’ll be together,” she promised.

  She hobbled out to the kitchen. There, she set out the tea cups on the counter. While Tommy Livingston was getting into something comfortable, she took the gelatin capsules of chloral hydrate from her pocket. She had taken them from Faye’s dresser drawer. She snapped a capsule as if she were breaking an egg over a frying pan. The clear liquid rained down into the cup. She broke another and then another until she was satisfied she would give him enough to make him groggy and tired. The teapot began to whistle.

  “Good timing,” Tommy said.

  “Go to the dining room and I’ll bring it in to you,” she told him.

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  She brought in the tea and some biscuits and jelly and served him. She smeared some jelly on a biscuit and offered it to him.

  “I bet you’re a little hungry now,” she said, winking.

  “A little,” he admitted, taking the biscuit.

  She smeared some jelly on a biscuit for herself and bit into it, closing her eyes and moaning as if it were the most delicious thing she had ever eaten.

  “My son Perry’s wife invited me to dinner at their house tomorrow night,” he told her. “But I think I’ll just hang out here. I’m not the best company and won’t be for a while.”

  “They should understand,” Susie said.

  “Yep. I got to get used to being alone. Puttin’ it off ain’t gonna do anyone any good. Me, the least.”

  “I can stop in tomorrow and fix you something light,” Susie said. “It’s best to eat, but to keep your diet simple. My sister will tell me what to make. She says grief interferes with so many of our bodily functions, digestion being a primary one,” she added.

  “She’s right about that,” Tommy said. He sipped his tea and chewed vigorously on the biscuit. He stopped chewing and stared ahead for a moment. “Time, I guess. That’s the only cure for what I feel right now. And maybe keeping busy. I might take on this job I’ve been avoiding.”

  “You really think you can do that?” Susie asked.

  “Got no choice. It’s either push on or … or cash in my chips,” he said and smiled at her. Susie simply stared at him. He
finished his tea. “My boys think that’s best, too. And I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.

  “Sylvia and I once swore that no matter what happened to us, we wouldn’t be a burden to our children,” he explained. He drank some more tea and thought. “I remember how Sylvia’s father was, how he was such a heavy responsibility for her. What that woman went through,” he said shaking his head. “Maybe that was a big contributor to the heart problem that developed.”

  “Faye says stress, especially emotional stress, is the biggest cause of heart attacks.”

  “I think she’s right.” He yawned. “Jeez. All of a sudden, I feel dead tired. My eyelids feel like they’re made of lead.”

  “It comes from the inside out, this sort of fatigue,” Susie said. “Snowballs.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. I guess I should just turn in.”

  “Yes, you should,” she said. “I’ll clean up.” She started to put the cups back on the tray. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll let myself out after I’m sure you’re okay.”

  He smiled and shook his head.

  “Thank you,” he said rising and headed for the bathroom.

  The moment she put down the tray in the kitchen, Susie pounded her small fists against her thighs and began to pace. From time to time, she gazed at a kitchen chair as if there was someone sitting there and listening.

  “Children,” she muttered. “They can be so insensitive to anyone else’s needs but their own. The only reason his daughter-in-law invited him to dinner tomorrow night was to make herself feel less guilty. Sons and daughters don’t consider their parents’ feelings. They just want them to hang around like some artifact; they just want them to be there for when they have time for them.

  “They don’t think about the fact that their surviving father or surviving mother has to spend most of his or her day alone in some apartment or condo or house with the walls echoing, with pictures of his or her loved one calling, with memories tearing at him or her. Oh no, just as long as they’re there when the kids want them.”

  She paused and looked at the doorway as if Perry or Todd had been standing there the whole time.

  “Well, how about your poor mother waiting at the gate? Did you or your brother ever consider her for one moment? Or did the two of you consider your father’s real needs? His needs aren’t to be found on any dinner plate or some fill-in work. His needs are out there, lingering,” she said stabbing the air. “His poor soul is visiting Sylvia’s grave, even now as his body sleeps. I’m sure of it.”

  She looked toward the bedroom. She had to work fast. Poor Sylvia was waiting. She had promised her. She had sat there in the living room and gazed at her photograph and promised her. Well, she couldn’t let her down no matter what, she decided, and she dug her hands into her uniform pocket to pull out her sister’s plastic surgical gloves. She wasn’t going to be careless this time. She put on the gloves and broke more capsules over a glass until she had deposited the contents of at least thirty, and then she took the glass of clear liquid and a glass of water and went to Tommy’s bedroom.

  He had his arms around the pillow and his body curled as if he were embracing Sylvia. Susie thought he looked so precious, so loving. She hated to wake him, but she had to send him off. She paused at his bedside and then shook his shoulder vigorously. Nothing happened, so she shook again. This time his eyes fluttered open.

  “Mr. Livingston,” she called.

  Groggy and confused, he turned slowly in the bed. She looked out of focus, hazy, moving in and out of his vision.

  “Take this,” she ordered.

  “Wha … what?”

  “You’ve been tossing and turning and screaming out. You’re having a bad time,” she said. “I called my sister and she told me to give you this.”

  Her words were so confusing. Where was he? What did she say? Bad time?

  “This will help you sleep better. Just swallow this. Go on,” she insisted. She knelt down and put her arm behind his head, lifting him off the pillow. He felt light, as if he were floating.

  “I … screamed?”

  “Yes. Over and over,” she said. “Just take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just a sleeping medication. My sister says it will relax you. Here,” she said, bringing the lethal dosage of chloral hydrate to his lips. He hesitated, wondering for a moment why he was doing this, and then, out of fatigue and confusion, he opened his lips and took in the clear liquid. She had him chase it down with the glass of cool water and then she pulled her arm out from behind his head and his head fell back to the pillow as if it were made of stone. He closed his eyes.

  “Just think about Sylvia now,” she told him. “Sylvia … poor Sylvia.”

  “Sylvia,” he said.

  “Yes, Sylvia,” Susie said. She sighed. How she wished she could be there when they were joined together once again. But she was permitted that only with her own parents. After all, the love other people shared was private. They didn’t need an audience.

  She turned and left the bedroom. Then she went around the house, straightening it up, fluffing pillows in the living room, making sure everything was cleaned and put away in the kitchen. She couldn’t help the cleaning neurosis. It was her way of dealing with the tension and the excitement whenever she sent someone to join his deceased loved one.

  When she was finished, she returned to the bedroom and took Tommy Livingston’s hands, pressing the fingers around the glass of water. She went into the bathroom to the medicine cabinet and found Sylvia’s bottle of chloral hydrate. She shook out all but two and wiped the bottle clean. Then she pressed his fingers around that, too. Faye would be proud of her, she thought.

  Satisfied she had done everything right, she put his left arm across his diaphragm and drew his right arm over it so the hands rested gently. She watched him for a moment.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Livingston,” she said. “I know you’ll give my love to Sylvia.”

  She turned and left the bedroom and paused only to go into the living room on her way out, just so she could check the expression on Sylvia’s face in some of the photographs. All the smiles had returned. There was thank you written on the lips in every picture, too.

  “Don’t thank me,” she murmured. “It’s why I’m here; what I am to do.”

  She slipped out of the house and into the night softly, but when she had driven away, she accelerated so she could feel the warm breeze lift her hair and fill her with a sense of excitement and life.

  In Faye’s black BMW convertible with her hair in the wind and her white uniform picking up any light she passed or that passed her, Susie truly looked like Death Itself, fleeing gleefully from Its latest triumph.

  Corpsy had sat attentively and watched that house, catching every shadowy movement in the windows. He had thought about sneaking up to it and peeking in. After all, he had to know what his beloved was doing. He was afraid to get out and go up to the house because he thought she might emerge from it at any moment. When some time had passed and she hadn’t, he got out and scurried across the road. He climbed over the small brick wall and scampered over the lawn to the side of the house. He gazed into the first lit window and saw an older man sleeping. Moments later, he saw Susie come in and help the man drink something.

  She was only taking care of him, he thought, and he breathed in relief. This wasn’t any kind of love affair. But he wondered why she was wearing surgical gloves. When she reappeared a few moments later, he saw her do a strange thing. She put the glass and then a pill bottle into his hands. Why? To get his fingerprints on them, he concluded. He was sure it was something her sister had told her to do.

  He darted back to his own vehicle and waited until she emerged from the house and drove off. He followed her back to the apartment complex and pulled into his dark space just as she started up the steps to her front door. She heard him drive up, for when she reached the door, she paused and turned to look.

  She was looking his way, but surely she couldn�
��t see him in these shadows, he thought. Still, his heart pounded because she was gazing in his direction. She lingered a moment and then she went into her apartment. He took some deep breaths and sat there. He reviewed what he had accomplished this first day. He hadn’t spoken a word to Susie, but he had learned where she and Faye lived and he had learned she liked soft rock. That was a good start. Tomorrow he would find a way to approach her or Faye. Satisfied, he started the engine and drove off.

  He had no way of knowing that Susie had not closed her apartment door completely. She had kept it open a crack and stood there peering out in his direction. She waited.

  “What is it?” Faye asked from behind.

  “Someone’s out there, just sitting in a car in the dark.”

  “Let me see.”

  Faye pulled her aside and looked out herself just as Corpsy started his vehicle and backed up. For a moment he and his car were under one of the parking lot lamps. Faye squinted.

  “There’s something familiar about that car and that man,” she muttered.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “How could you have thought that? You didn’t see it clearly.”

  “I just thought so, that’s all. Who was it?”

  “I don’t know … I’m not sure.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “Never mind that. Why did you rush out of here when I was in the bathroom? Where have you been?”

  “I went to see Mr. Livingston,” Susie said proudly.

  “But he was at his son’s for dinner.”

  “I was there when he returned and he was happy to see me. I helped him relax.”

  “What else did you do, Susie?”

  “I made him some tea and had him eat a biscuit.”

  “Susie?”

  “It was time,” Susie said.

  Faye stared. Then she crossed the living room quickly and went into her bedroom. She pulled open a drawer and sifted through her pill bottles. Susie was standing in the doorway.

  “You used chloral hydrate.”

  “It was his wife’s sleeping pills. Just like Mr. Murray used his wife’s insulin,” Susie said proudly. “And I wiped everything clean. See, I even wore your surgical gloves.” She pulled the pair from her uniform pocket.