by L. G. Davis
“Fine. Then we’ll find another place to live.” Brett coughs then laughs. “You still think you control me, don’t you? Guess what, you don’t, Cole. It’s over. I’m done with you and your pathetic hotels. I’m out for good. I no longer want to be a part of anything to do with you.” He pauses. “And you know what, before I leave this world, I’m going to do the right thing. I’ll show the world what you really are. We’ll get out of this house by morning.”
“The hell you will,” Cole booms. “You will stay here, and you will fight this thing. You’ve lived your life trying to prove to me that you’re a man. Now’s the time to show it. I’ll send some doctors to come and see you tomorrow. You will undergo chemo and that’s the end of it.”
I don’t see it, but I imagine Brett shriveling up in his chair, looking like the scared little boy I’d seen in one of his few childhood photos.
I expect him to respond, but instead, the door flies open and Cole storms out. It’s too late for me to make an escape.
His slate-gray eyes are like hot pools of fury when they meet mine, and a muscle is quivering in his jaw. “We need to talk,” he barks, and I step away from him before I’m scorched by his anger. “Follow me to the office.” He has a slight limp when he walks. Brett told me it was from an accident he had as a child.
Talking to Cole in private is something I try my best to avoid. The last time we were alone in a room was the day before I married Brett. But this time it’s a matter of life and death, so, I follow him to the office. However, the moment we reach the room, I decide not to enter.
“What do you want to talk about?” I ask from the doorway.
“Take a seat,” he orders as he rubs his upturned nose.
He doesn’t sit down. He prefers to tower over people, to make them feel small. The fifty-six-year-old man uses his tall and athletic height of at least six feet, three inches to intimidate.
I jam my hands into my armpits to stop them from shaking. “I prefer to stand. You wanted to talk, so talk.”
For a moment I think he will explode, but instead, he eyes me through his hooded gaze, his lips spread into a creepy thin-lipped smile.
I sigh inwardly when he drops into Brett’s desk chair. “You should have told me as soon as he was diagnosed.”
“Brett asked me not to. He’s my husband and I respect his wishes.”
“He’s my son, damn you. You should have told me. I knew from the start that you were bad news.”
I drop my hands to my sides and curl them into fists of rage. I want to shoot him a scathing remark, but the words freeze inside my throat as they often do in a conversation with him. “It’s not… you know–”
He wraps a hand around his left wrist, covering his gold Rolex. “You will force him to undergo chemo. No son of mine will be terrified of treatment. I didn’t raise a coward. You turned him into that.”
I bite into my lip hard, so I don’t lash out at him. This is not about me. It’s about Brett. “I don’t know if I can promise you that. I’ve tried for a month and failed.”
“I’m not asking you, Meghan. I’m telling you. I’ll fly in some of the best doctors in the country. They will be here tomorrow. Make sure Brett is home.” His face is hard as he pushes to his feet and charges toward the door. I move out of the way before he gets too close.
Without another word to me, he strides out, and a few seconds later, he’s gone. I remain inside the office for a few minutes, drawing in calming breaths before I have to face Brett again. He has become such an angry man that being with him drains me of energy.
Once I have collected myself, I go and dismiss Janella for the day. She only nods and leaves quietly. I didn’t fail to notice that when Cole showed up, as usual, she made herself disappear.
After tucking Liam in, I search for Brett. I find him already in bed, trembling under the covers, his face contorted with pain. I’m used to seeing him in pain now since it’s something that’s become more and more a part of our lives, but this time it’s different, more intense.
He’s writhing under the covers, and his face is covered in a sheen of sweat. For a moment his eyes bulge as if they’re about to pop out of his head. He’s gazing in my direction, but he doesn’t seem to be seeing me. His father’s visit must have hurt him more than I thought.
“Baby, I’m sorry you’re in so much pain.” I lie down next to him, putting my arms around his frail body. He tries to push me away, but whenever he’s in pain, I’m the stronger one.
“I’ll get you some meds.” I slide off the bed.
“No,” he grunts. “No painkiller.” His lips seem to have gone blue and his eyes are pleading with me to respect his wish.
“You need help, baby. I’ll take you to the hospital, okay?” I search the room for my handbag, because that’s where my phone is.
“No hospital.” This time his tone is hard, final. Then his face crumples with pain again, his eyes squeezed tight. “Help me. You help me.”
I want to pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about, but in between the grunts of pain, he spells it out for me.
“I want you to...help…die.”
I run back to the bed. “No, Brett.” I cup his sweating face with both hands. My eyes are so blurred that I can barely see his features. “Don’t ask me to do that to you.”
“Please.” He becomes a weeping mess. It kills me inside to see a grown man, my husband, crying like a child, and I cannot give him the kind of help he wants.
He continues to beg, but his voice has sunk to a whisper. His gaze is distant again as if he’s looking right through me, as if he’s already dying.
“I want to die.” I can hear every word as if he were speaking in a loud voice.
“Okay.” I pull away from him as he curls up into a ball. “Okay.” Tears are pouring down my face and I don’t bother to wipe them away. What’s the point when they will only be replaced by more?
“Thank you,” he says as I walk out of the room and head down to the kitchen.
Before I open the medicine cabinet, a sound I can’t place catches my attention. I will my heart to stop pounding so I can make it out, but it refuses.
I glance out the window and decide that it must be the branches outside hitting the wall. Some of the trees are getting too big and need pruning.
I shut the blinds and get back to what I’m planning to do. I back away from the medicine cabinet and grab the counter with my hands, my fingers curling around the slab of marble. Janella has forgotten her cell phone. It lies neglected on the counter, but it’s not important right now.
I reach for a dish towel and press it against my eyes, then I pull in a breath and shut off my emotions. The only thought in my mind is giving Brett relief so I never have to see him in that much pain again.
The night he explained to me how he wanted to die, he also told me about a brown paper package in the medicine cabinet with everything I would need to end his life. I never looked inside it until now.
There’s also a page with instructions. I follow them to perfection.
The filled syringe is light, but it feels heavy in my hand. I don’t even know what kind of medication he wants me to inject into his body because the packaging is plain white.
As I follow the instructions, I’m not thinking anymore, my fingers moving as if they’re detached from my body.
Once the syringe is filled with the milky liquid, I pour him a glass of whiskey as he requested, his last drink on Earth. In a daze, I take everything upstairs.
I let myself into the room and lock the door behind me. In the few minutes I was away, his body seems to have shriveled up. He’s trembling now as if he’s having a seizure. Holding the whiskey in one hand and the syringe in the other, I shuffle to the bed. Tears are still burning their way down my cheeks.
Once he stops trembling so much, I find the courage to approach the bed and sit next to him.
I offer to help him put the whiskey to his lips, but he mouths no. “Do it,” he croaks. “P
lea...please.”
He’s asking me to do the worst thing I have ever done in my life. He told me that the medication he chose will be undetectable in the body if an autopsy is carried out. He said they will never know how he died and would probably think it’s the illness that took him.
He’s too weak to even raise his hand. The moment I wrap my hand around his wrist and feel his pulse, I’m catapulted back to my senses.
What am I doing? What am I about to do right now?
“No.” I drop his hand again. “No,” I repeat.
I have a son. Euthanasia is considered murder. I’m about to commit murder. I can’t do it. It’s wrong.
Brett tries to reach for my hand, but he can barely lift his hand and his body has started to quake again, saliva sliding down his cheek.
The syringe falls from my hand and drops to the floor next to the nightstand. Instead of picking it up, I get to my feet and gaze down from him to it.
“What are you doing?” he whispers. His lips look lifeless even in the warm light of the lamp.
“I love you. I don’t want to kill you. It’s murder. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I love you.” I charge to the door and unlock it. I need to get away from him before I can change my mind and do something stupid. I need to catch my breath.
He’s calling me, but his voice is too weak to make out his words. I don’t stop until I’m safely in the office. I fling open the windows so the June breeze can flood in, then I drop into the desk chair.
3
He’s my husband, the father of my son. It’s killing me to watch cancer eat away at him, but I don’t have the right to play God, and he has no right to ask me to.
I need to stop hiding inside his office. I should go and share my decision with him. But I can’t bring myself to stand.
The leather squeaks as I lean forward to push my head between my knees. Tears slide down the insides of my calves and onto my bare feet. Some fall onto the oak wooden floor to form perfect liquid marbles.
I press my knees against my ears, but I can’t shut out the sounds. I can still hear his tortured groans as he begs me to set him free.
I get to my feet, but I’m swaying as if I’ve had a bit too much to drink. Caring for Brett the past two months has taken a toll on me. The fact that he has been so angry and distant makes it even worse. He needs me and pushes me away at the same time.
He might never forgive me for denying him his last wish, but he’s asking too much. Giving him what he wants could destroy me. By setting him free from the pain, I will possibly be dooming myself to prison. If I end up there, our son will be left without either of his parents to raise him.
Cole would probably step in to raise him. The thought disgusts me. I despise the man and everything he stands for. I won’t let him raise my son the way he raised his son, treating him like his puppet.
Liam needs one of us to protect him from monsters like his grandfather.
Determined, I force myself to move forward. The door feels like it’s miles away, but I make it without fainting.
My feet feel heavy as I climb the stairs.
I no longer hear Brett crying. The large house feels eerily quiet except for everyday sounds that have become familiar to the point that I no longer hear them. The distant sound of the clock ticking and the fridge humming as I walk past the kitchen door.
One. Two. Three.
Thirteen steps take me to the top of the staircase.
I pass Liam’s door. It’s slightly open. In my confused state, I must have forgotten to close it fully when I checked on him earlier.
For a moment, I stand in front of it, my hand on the door handle, then I take a breath and close it softly.
I shuffle to the master bedroom and come to a halt again. I’m afraid to enter, to see my husband writhing in agony.
A trickle of sweat trails its way down my left temple. I don’t bother to wipe it away.
You can do this, I tell myself.
Until now, I have respected Brett’s decision not to seek treatment, but I can’t do it anymore. I’ll have to plead with him to allow me to call 911. The pain is killing him, and he is refusing painkillers.
He needs to be rushed to the hospital.
My palm is slippery against the metal handle, making it harder to turn it. It finally gives in and the door swings open.
The room is the way I left it, but something feels different somehow and I can’t place my finger on it.
Brett is still in bed, but the shaking has stopped.
I’m relieved that the pain has left him and he’s sleeping now, but I also feel guilty for leaving him alone when he needed me most. But I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t give him what he wanted. I needed a moment to pull myself together, to think.
My gaze moves to the carpet and my blood runs cold. The syringe is right next to the bed where I dropped it, but even from where I’m standing, I can see that it’s empty. The thick, off-white liquid is gone.
My throat starts to close up and I stumble back.
He couldn’t have. Did he find the strength to do it himself? But he was so weak and barely able to speak.
My back slams against the closed door and my hand clutches my chest.
I’m afraid to approach the bed, afraid of what I might find.
I haven’t noticed before, but the room is quiet even though my husband snores. The comforter also isn’t moving, which means his chest is not rising and falling. He’s not breathing.
Was he so desperate for death that he decided to take his own life?
If he’s dead, I could still be held responsible. I prepared the deadly cocktail and sucked it into the syringe. I had brought it upstairs intending to do what he wanted me to do because it was too devastating to watch a grown man cry.
Or maybe I’m wrong and he’s fine. I need to see for certain. I place one foot in front of the other until I reach the bed. My hands are clenched so tight that my nails dig into my palm.
“Brett,” I say in a broken whisper. “Brett,” I repeat when he doesn’t respond.
Fear gushing through my veins, I reach out and touch him.
I don’t want to believe what my mind is telling me, but the truth is staring me straight in the face. Brett is not moving.
When I finally find the courage to look at his face, I see that it’s pale and colorless. His eyes are closed.
My hand claps my mouth to stifle a scream, which turns to groans deep inside my throat. Even before feeling his pulse, I know he’s gone.
But what if by some miracle, there’s a pulse and the doctors can revive him?
My heart lodged inside my throat, I run to my side of the bed and grab my phone.
When I try to press the numbers, it slides from my hands and falls at my feet, but I snatch it up and dial 911, something I should have done when Brett was in pain.
The dispatcher promises that the paramedics will be at the house in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I’m instructed to stay on the phone and to perform CPR. I turn on the speaker and try to bring my husband back. I don’t succeed.
Before opening the door to the paramedics, I grab the syringe and push it into a hidden pocket in my handbag. What I’m doing would be considered a crime, but the fear of going to prison is unbearable.
If he’s gone, it won’t matter how the poison entered his body. If I had not mixed it for him, he would not be lying in bed lifeless.
But Brett was the one who got the medication. He was the one who told me how to mix it when the time came. He promised me that the poison would be undetectable, so I had nothing to worry about, but I am worried.
And very heartbroken.
The clock is ticking too slowly, so I try to resuscitate him the way I’ve seen people do on TV. All the while I talk to him as my tears drip onto his face.
He doesn’t answer and still doesn’t move.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink.
He’s not breathing.
It’s too late. He’s not coming bac
k, the small voice inside my head taunts.
I refuse to listen to it.
I press my forehead against his and beg him not to leave.
“Please, Brett, don’t do this to me. I need you. Liam needs you. Baby, please open your eyes.” I lie next to him and hold him tight.
When the paramedics arrive, they confirm my worst fears. I tell them about his cancer and how he was in so much pain.
“I found him dead.” I hope they won’t read the truth from my eyes. “I came upstairs, and he was–” I break down then, and they can’t get me to say anything more. More questions will come later, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stick to my story.
Cole arrives while I watch Brett’s corpse being taken away. I don’t even remember calling him. Maybe I did without even knowing it. Or maybe he was on his way over anyway. When the paramedics tell him what happened, he sinks onto the front steps and says nothing for a long time.
As soon as they leave, I stumble into the house. Before I can close the door, he slams it open and charges in. I don’t want him anywhere near me or my son, but it’s his house and if I lock him out, he has a key to let himself back in.
I try to walk away from him to go and check on Liam, but he grabs my arm hard and spins me around.
I yank my arm from his grip and massage away the discomfort.
“You killed him,” he accuses me with so much conviction that for a moment I’m terrified that he knows what happened.
“No.” I shake my head as tears flood my throat. “He was sick and–”
“You wanted him to die sooner so you can take his money. That’s why you talked him out of getting treatment. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You are wrong, and for you to think I could do such a thing is disgusting. My husband is dead. I’m sure you’ll understand that I want to be alone.”
“You won’t be for long. I can assure you of that. Soon enough the cops will show up with questions. The truth will come to the light and you will pay for this, you piece of trash.”