Season of Waiting Read online

  Emerson squeezed her hand tight. “I fixed your light too, Mama.”

  Blair swallowed. Her throat felt cool, hydrated. Her jaw muscles were slack. She opened and closed her hands a few times, checking for injury. Even her palms were fresh and pink, without a mark from her fingernails.

  Blair’s attention shot over to the kennels, captured by Terry’s voice. “Jesus Christ, Blair!” he hollered across the yard. He had found a stained white T-shirt to cover his beer belly. “I’m sorry, but also-too-is, you should’ve known better than to let that dog run up to Lucifer like—”

  Terry’s mouth and feet stopped moving when he saw the dog. Barfly pranced up to him and sniffed his crotch. He pulled her head up, going over her face and neck. Not finding a wound, he checked over the rest of the dog’s body. Terry stood erect, mouth hung open in dismay, and he pulled his clinging shirt away from his sweaty gut. He murmured, “Where the hell did all this blood come from, then?”

  He looked up at Blair and Emerson. “You two all right? You ain’t hurt?”

  Blair shook her head—they were fine. She felt fine. In fact, she felt wonderful. Hell, when was the last time she’d been hurt? Or sick? She couldn’t remember so much as a runny nose since the time Emerson could walk. She shifted onto her knees in front of her son, lowering her face to his.

  “Emerson? You ever … um … fix Mama’s light before?” she asked.

  He blushed, but didn’t look away. He nodded once, his lip curling around a worry. “Sometimes, when you’re asleep. Are you mad?” he asked.

  Blair shook her head, holding his gaze as her lips tightened into a thin smile. “Of course not, sweetness.”

  Blair nuzzled him into her bosom, squeezing him close. She rocked him for a moment before gently asking, “Can you do that … to anybody you want?”

  Her heart leaped as she felt Emerson nod against her breast. She pivoted back onto her hip and clutched him tighter. They held each other for a few seconds in the merciless sun. Barfly trotted over to them. Blair turned her face away to avoid the dog’s disgusting fur as Barfly tried to pry the mother and son apart with her nose. Blair nudged the dog away with her elbow.

  “Mama?”

  “What is it, Em?”

  Emerson said nothing for a few moments. Blair felt his breath expand and release in her arms. She relaxed and looked at his face. He finally whispered, “Can we please keep Barfly?”

  The goddamned dog. The perky, bloody beast parked herself a dozen feet away. Barfly lifted a hind leg, and started licking herself in a slow, sloppy cadence as she tipped over onto her side.

  Blair laughed and kissed the top of her son’s head, inhaling the bouquet that radiated from him. “Yeah, honey,” she whispered, “I think I can work with this.”

  TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

  Chapter 3

  Caleb

  The box in Caleb Allard’s hand would kill him. At least, that was Caleb’s hope. It wasn’t heavy. The metal felt thin. Almost cheap. Caleb had enough experience with medical devices to know that despite its feel, a set of rigorous standards had governed its construction. Whoever built it designed it to do one thing. It would do that one thing.

  Dr. Pavle Miloje used his fingers to trace the pair of wires leaving the box, finding the plastic plug at the end. In his pointed Eastern European accent, he explained, “This we connect to the controller module.” The doctor mimed attaching the cable as he gestured to an oblong device gripping the IV stand. “That unit governs the flow of tranquilizers and narcotics.”

  The sterile chrome of the stand was out of place in the doctor’s comfortable office. The bourbon leather armchair in which Caleb sat was twisted and stretched in the reflection on the pole, the mild sea-green walls framing his elongated face as it stared back at him. Caleb followed the metal pole with his eyes, up to two circular hooks that were empty. Eventually the drug cocktail would hang there, and even then the contraption would weigh less than ten pounds.

  “When everything is connected and enabled, the button there will glow. You’ll be ready to go,” the doctor added, gesturing toward the box.

  Caleb swallowed and returned his gaze to the black box in his hand. The surface was slick and flat, with a single transparent plastic cover protecting a square red button.

  “So, once he activates it, how long?” asked Irene. Caleb was thankful his daughter was here to ask the questions he wasn’t thinking about. He had assumed it would be over in an instant. Irene was adept at rooting out assumptions.

  “Configurable,” the doctor offered. “At a minimum, Mr. Allard will experience about four seconds of consciousness. We can dial it out longer,” Dr. Pav explained. “Although I must admit that none of my patients have opted for that.”

  Irene took her father’s hand. Her flesh was warm against his, her color vibrant and smooth against his petechiae. She continued, “And after that, how long until …”

  “Seconds.” The doctor looked from Irene to Caleb and explained, “You push the button, you feel good, you go to sleep, and you die. All of it happens in less than ten seconds.”

  Ten seconds. Not instantaneous. Caleb hadn’t considered there might be a period where he would be aware he had committed suicide. Could he keep his composure? Would those ten seconds be an endless train of regret? Would those last moments of awareness be serene, or terrifying?

  Irene squeezed his hand. “You still want to do this, Dad?” She must have sensed his ambivalence.

  “Want?” Caleb croaked. The idea was obscene—that anyone would want this. “I want to see you finish school. Watch you build your life and career.” Her fingers tightened around his. “I want to see your brother sober and happy.” The rest remained unsaid: Caleb would see none of those things.

  Pancreatic cancer. The same disease that had killed Irene’s mother, Ivy. They caught Caleb’s cancer earlier, at stage three. That had given him some hope. His fight would be easier, his outcome different.

  But even as the first few rounds of chemotherapy worked, Caleb received a stage four diagnosis in a matter of weeks. His lungs, his brain, and the deathblow: the cancer made roots in his liver.

  At first, the oncologist talked about Caleb’s life in terms of probabilities. Fifteen percent chance of survival. Then three percent. Then it changed to time. Months. Then weeks. After the last consult, they inverted the scale. With the size of the tumors in his brain and liver, Caleb was lucky to be walking around at all. The conversations were hard. The emotions were turbulent. And all of it was too familiar. The only things left in his control were his own pain and how tidy his end would be for his family.

  “I know, Dad,” Irene offered. Her eyes rose, glistening. “And you know if you want to try to beat this, I’ll support you. Either way.”

  Caleb returned his daughter’s squeeze. “I guess ‘want’ is the wrong word,” he said, unable to keep the sadness out of his voice. After a few moments, he continued, “But we’ve seen this opera. We lived it with your mother. Once is enough for any family, Starlight.” Irene let go of his hand to wipe a tear from her cheek.

  A dull thud in his right ear brought a grimace to Caleb’s face. He dropped the metal box into his lap and pulled down on his earlobe, the percussive whomps turning into an itch. He apologized as he crammed his index finger into the ear and wiggled it around.

  “Everything okay?” Dr. Pav asked.

  Caleb nodded. “Yeah, my ear’s been itchy. I think a muscle is spasming in there or something.” Given his body’s condition, a tickle in his ear was nothing.

  “I can look?” the doctor offered.

  “Nah, Doc, thanks. That ear’s never worked, anyway.”

  Dr. Pav looked confused until Irene clarified, “He’s deaf in that ear. Since birth.” She looked at her dad with a wistful grin. “It’s why he makes me drive everywhere, so he can hear the conversation.”

  Caleb smiled. She was right. He preferred the passenger seat when there was someone el
se in the car, for that very reason. Irene had never mentioned she had picked up on that.

  Resting on the edge of his heavy wood desk, Dr. Pav returned to the matter at hand with a small nod. “Okay then, hospice will be by your home tomorrow to deliver the system. Call them to tie the IVs into your existing chemo port when you’re ready. They’ll make you a priority, but if you can, give them about two hours’ notice. Do either of you have questions for me?”

  A rush of anxiety filled him as Caleb realized the doctor was wrapping up their visit. Their final appointment before his death. He would never see Dr. Pav again. The words he shared with the doctor would be the last. It was unexpected. Not quite regret, something closer to dread. He hoped these good-byes wouldn’t all carry this angst.

  “Oh wait,” the doctor added with a snap of his fingers. “There is one thing you need to do.” Caleb’s chest unknotted at the delay. The doctor reached behind him and retrieved a small coil of wire. He gestured to Caleb’s lap as he hooked up the wires to the terminals on the device. Caleb traced the wires back to the doctor’s desk, where they ended at a tiny speaker. “I know this may be uncomfortable, Mr. Allard, but I would ask that you give the button a push while you’re here. I want patients to appreciate the slight pressure it takes to activate.”

  Caleb looked down at the metal box and swallowed. The flat red button emitted a steady glow now that it had a power source. Holding the box in one hand, he lifted open the clear plastic cover.

  With his thumb, he traced a flange along the edge of the button as it rose a few millimeters above the surface of the metal box. A tactile mark, he realized. Something a person could find using only a finger. As the pad of Caleb’s thumb glided over the center of the red plastic, the speaker on Dr. Pav’s desk buzzed.

  Caleb’s eyes widened. “That’s all it takes?”

  Dr. Pav nodded as he disconnected the leads. “It is very sensitive. When the time comes, you may not have a lot of strength. So the trigger responds to minimal pressure. Legally, the patient has to instigate their own Final Release. If anyone else pushes that button while you’re wired into it, the state can charge them with manslaughter.” The doctor leaned in closer and captured Caleb’s gaze. “To work in the legal boundaries of the Final Release, the choice and effort to push the button must be yours, Mr. Allard. Your will must activate the machine. No one else can do it for you. Do you understand?”

  Caleb nodded. He knew this already, but he didn’t mind hearing it again. End-of-life situations were never easy, but they could always become more complicated. After a few moments of silence, Dr. Pav turned to Irene. “Keep the button covered until the device is in your father’s possession, and he’s ready to use it.”

  Caleb released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in.

  Chapter 4

  Irene

  “Thank you again, Starlight,” Dad said. Irene smiled. He hadn’t called her that since she had left for college. It surprised her she still found it endearing. The name “Starlight” stuck after her presentation at the seventh-grade science fair. She’d discussed how the stars are a forge for all atoms in the universe, even those that make up our bodies and brains. When stars go nova, the violent explosion spreads those atoms across the cosmos.

  They walked down the hallway, away from Dr. Pav’s office, until they reached the elevators. Dad poked the down button as he spoke. “And I know I keep saying this, but I’m sorry to pull you from school mid-semester. I don’t think I could do this without you.”

  “It’s not like there’s ever a perfect time for this stuff to happen. Grad school will be there.” Irene knew there was no way he could do this on his own. He’d tried, though, pulling plans together after his terminal diagnosis. But the legal and medical requirements for a Final Release were complex. The time he needed for the forms, appointments, and hearings? His pain consumed it, along with its treatment and the aftereffects. So Irene stepped up, like she always did. She took a leave of absence from the university and came back to New Mexico. Dad signed power of attorney over to her. Designated her his medical point of decision. Irene used these bureaucratic superpowers to bring his Final Release across the finish line made of red tape.

  She stroked her hand on his back as they waited for the elevator. His spine rippled against her fingers. The fragility of his slight frame still shocked her. Dad wore a flannel shirt she’d given him for his birthday a few years ago. At the time it had been unflattering, accenting the various lumps and bulges that come with age and a sedentary life. Now the shirt swallowed him. Every day, there was less of her father.

  Dad shook his head, replying, “I know, I know. But it feels unfair, you jetting back here to help when Wes lives here.”

  Irene sighed, “Yeah, but my brother isn’t here, is he?”

  Dad turned to face her. “No, he’s not. He’s where he needs to be, though. He’s sick too, Irene. His addiction isn’t his fault any more than the cancer is mine.” She clenched her jaw against a flurry of sharp words. Wes had made choices to get where he ended up. Dad didn’t. Wes had every opportunity to turn himself around. Dad couldn’t help but enable his destructive behavior. Irene wanted nothing more than her father to stop giving Wes a lifeline. Maybe then, her brother might realize how simple life is when you don’t make it hard.

  Dad reached up to pull on his earlobe again, his face pulling into a half grimace. “Is your ear still bothering you?” she asked, thankful for the change in subject.

  He nodded, using a knuckle to massage the soft tissue behind his earlobe. “Oh, so that reminds me. There’s another finance thing,” he said. “I got an email from Del Rio.”

  Irene released an exasperated breath. “Del Rio” was short for “the Del Rio Rehabilitation and Assisted Living Center,” the vacation resort where Wes was being treated for his opioid addiction. This would be his third attempt through the program. Irene had little faith that this time would be any different, but Dad hoped otherwise. And he paid through the nose to make it happen. “And?” she replied, expecting the worst.

  He swallowed. “Well, it looks like we’ll need to use more of the liquidity from my estate to cover the cost of rehab. There was supposed to be enough left to cover some of your school expenses. But then, your brother …” Dad trailed off, pulling on his earlobe again.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Irene replied. “I’ll figure it out. Just forward me the email, okay?” She turned back to the elevators as the doors opened. She helped him shuffle inside and then pushed the button for the lobby.

  Rehab was expensive. Without health insurance, Wes once again turned to their father for financial help. And once again, Irene had to bend. Figure out how to make it work. This time it was putting a pause on her bioinformatics degree so she could help Dad through the end of his life. Meanwhile, Wes did whatever the hell he wanted.

  Dad’s chest rattled as he spoke. “I wanted to do so much more, Starlight. I just … never got around to it. When your mom died, I fell down. And I never managed to get my feet back under me, you know?” He pulled a tissue from his front pocket and wiped his nose. “I had all that time. Christ, if I could have it back, I would …” His voice broke as he trailed off. “I wish I was leaving a legacy besides some well-organized books for my clients, I guess.”

  Irene leaned into him, hugging his frail waist from the side. “What would you want that to be?” she asked. “Your legacy?”

  Dad snorted. “I don’t know,” he said with lethargy. “I’m not sure I’m up for thinking about it today.” After a few moments, he added, “This sucks.”

  This sucked, he was right. Irene refused to let it be any worse than it needed to. Memories of her mother’s ordeal asserted themselves. People Irene loved, waiting for the mercy of her mother’s death, then coping with the guilt of going back to living their lives. She’d experienced it once, and it would be anguish for everyone all over again.

  Her father’s ever-present fanny pack pressed into he
r side. The firm bulge of a tumor brushed against her hand as her arms reached around his torso. Her head found his bony shoulder and she gave him a gentle squeeze.

  Dad flinched in pain.

  Irene let go of him. “Oh shit! I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

  He shook his head, holding his breath.

  “Breakthrough?” Irene asked. She took his arm, helping him stay balanced.

  He nodded.

  Irene asked, “Where is it on the scale?”

  “Seven,” he replied through clenched teeth. Irene knew more about pain classification and management than she’d ever wanted to know. Whenever there was pain, she would ask Dad where it was on a ten-point scale. In the last two weeks, he hadn’t responded with anything below a six. Irene had tracked his responses, using a simple data-collection app on her phone. She had eighteen data points—nineteen once she recorded this one—but the trends were already obvious. The numbers were getting higher, and the time between them shorter.

  She checked the time on her cell phone. “Shit. We missed an ATC dose.” ATC was one acronym she’d picked up recently. It was short for “around the clock,” and referred to medication taken at regular intervals to deal with persistent pain. That was in contrast to PRN medication, which was something in Latin that Irene guessed meant “right fucking now.”

  “Do you have your PRN on you?” she asked.

  He shook his head, his breath coming out of him in semi-controlled rasps.

  “Dammit, Dad. We talked about this,” she scolded. He had put up a fight about taking the liquid morphine. Dad didn’t like the inconsistency of a dosage that came with using an eyedropper to place the drug under his tongue. That was her father, the consummate accountant, wanting to make sure the numbers added up.

  The wince eased off his face, leaving him pale. His breathing steadied, a sign that his wave of pain was ebbing. “I’ll take the ATC, but I’ll need to eat something first.” Dad had been throwing up after his ATC medication for the last two days. Ingesting small bits of food with tea or water before taking the pills seemed to help. “I’m not hungry, though,” he said as the elevator doors opened to the lobby of the medical office building.