She unlocked the car door and helped Finch in. He was stiff, the pill overdue. She put the walker in the trunk. Then she got into the driver’s side of the car, reaching into her purse for the water and the box of pills labeled with the times of day. She pulled out his three-o’clock dose, undid the water bottle, and passed it to him. He swallowed the pill dutifully. Then she reached across and buckled his seat belt, which she had forgotten to do. As she pulled her hand back, she lingered on Finch’s arm. “I love you,” she said. He smiled weakly.
As she pulled the Volvo out of the parking lot, Finch finally spoke, his voice so weak from needing the meds that it was barely audible. “So what he was saying is that I’m going to die soon.”
She pulled the car over on Mass Avenue.
“That doctor is a son of a bitch,” she said. She was about to tell him they would never go back, that neurologists were a dime a dozen in Boston, and that she’d have a new one for him by morning. But Finch spoke before she could form the words.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I want to die.”
37
ZEE CALLED MELVILLE AND left a message. Then she called Mattei.
“I’m really worried,” she said. “He’s clearly depressed.”
“You want me to prescribe something?”
“I know he needs something, but I don’t want to interfere with the meds he’s already on,” Zee said.
“I can come out there if you like,” Mattei offered.
It wasn’t something Zee would have asked of Mattei, but she felt relief at the prospect of seeing her and getting her opinion. “I’d really appreciate it.”
“I can’t come tomorrow, but I can be there on Saturday,” Mattei said.
“Thanks,” Zee said.
She doled out Finch’s meds to Jessina, then took the pill bottles upstairs, locking the door when she came back down. She could tell that Jessina was curious, but she didn’t offer any explanation.
SHE FINALLY FOUND MELVILLE AT the Athenaeum. He seemed happily surprised to see her there, but the expression on her face told him this wasn’t a social visit.
“What’s going on?”
“Is there someplace we can talk for a minute?”
He led her into the stacks of the membership library and down a flight of metal stairs to the basement. It was close quarters, but it was quiet. The stacks extended three floors deep. Today there were no visiting scholars, no one asking to see the voyage and travel collections or the books that Hawthorne read in the days he had spent at the Athenaeum. For the moment they could be alone here to talk. Someone entering on any of the three skeletal floors would be clearly visible.
Melville led her to a small table where he’d been cataloging some old maps and travelogues.
Zee handed him the survey she’d gotten from the doctor. “I know what’s been going on in the last month,” Zee said. “But I couldn’t fill in the progression of his disease.”
Melville looked at the paper. There were sixteen questions, all having to do with Finch’s memory and how it had changed in the last ten years. The answers ranged from “much improved” to “much worse.” It was an easy questionnaire to fill in, though he knew that there would be nothing encouraging in his answers. He went through the questions carefully, aware that Zee was watching him. When he was finished, he slid the paper back across the table to her.
Zee read it over, looking at the answers Melville had circled. Most were labeled “much worse” or “a bit worse.” Nothing indicated any improvement.
“I don’t understand how you were keeping this from me,” Zee said.
“We’ve had this conversation before,” Melville said. “It’s what he wanted.”
“The doctor basically told Finch he was going to die,” she said, shaking her head.
Melville looked at her.
“And Finch said that’s what he wants.”
Melville reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“But not surprised,” she said.
He thought about lying, but there was no point now. “No.”
“God,” she said. “This is terrible.”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
“I’m afraid he might be suicidal,” she said.
He understood. He knew that Finch didn’t want to live with the progression of the disease. But in all their conversations about the future, they had both been keenly aware of the effect any such disclosure might have on Zee.
Melville’s lack of surprise shocked her. “You’re not okay with it?”
“Of course I’m not okay with it. But we’ve talked about the eventuality. He doesn’t want to live with end-stage Parkinson’s,” Melville said to her. “He doesn’t want to wind up in a nursing home in the fetal position for the next ten years.”
Zee sat silently for a few minutes. “Well, he’s not going to kill himself,” she said finally. “Not on my watch.”
38
ZEE HAD CALLED EARLIER and told Hawk she couldn’t see him today. It was his day off, and they had planned to take his boat out to Baker’s Island.
“There’s something going on with Finch,” she said. “I have to stick around.”
“You still want me to come by tonight?” he asked.
“Maybe not this time,” she said.
He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said.
HAWK WASN’T IN THE BEST of moods. He’d been looking forward to spending time with Zee. Not knowing what else to do with himself, he drove the van to his place in Marblehead to pick up his mail. As he climbed the steps, a police cruiser that had been circling pulled up.
“Been away on vacation?” the cop asked.
“No.”
“Your mail and papers have been piling up.”
Hawk retrieved the mail, thinking the cop’s question strange.
“So where have you been?” the cop asked.
“Working,” Hawk said.
“Not in town.”
“In Salem.”
“You working for one of the construction crews over there?”
Hawk knew the officer, though not well enough to call him by name. He had often seen him on his beat. Though his tone was friendly, the cop wasn’t as a general rule someone known to stop and make small talk.
“Do you have a real question you’d like to ask me, or are we just shooting the shit here?”
“Only trying to be friendly,” the officer said.
“I’m working on the Friendship.”
The cop looked at him blankly, clearly having no idea what Hawk meant by his last remark.
“It’s a boat,” Hawk said. “In Salem Harbor.”
It had always amazed Hawk that the towns of Marblehead and Salem shared not only a border but a harbor, yet few people he met knew what was going on from one town to the next.
“You shouldn’t leave your mail out like that,” the cop said. “It’s a written invitation.” He turned and walked back to the cruiser.
Hawk watched as it pulled away. “Weird,” he said under his breath as he let himself in.
39
YOU NEED TO CALM down,” Mattei said to Zee. Mattei had talked with Finch for over an hour.
“What do you think?”
“I think he’s depressed,” Mattei said. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Zee had to agree.
“This isn’t suicidal thinking,” Mattei said. “This is a logical thought progression in the course of a devastating illness.”
“He’s not exactly logical. He doesn’t even recognize people he’s known for years.”
“He’s not Maureen,” Mattei said.
“I know that.”
“Or Lilly.”
“I know it’s not the same thing,” Zee said. “But I don’t think I can live with another suicide.”
“I understand,” Mattei said.
“I don’t want to make this about me.”
>
“You’re entitled to your feelings,” Mattei said.
“Which is probably why Finch and Melville have been keeping things from me.”
“Have you made another appointment with the therapist I told you about?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Now might be a good time to do that.”
“Just let me get Finch stabilized first.”
Mattei’s look revealed her doubts. Instead of discussing it further, she got on the phone and called the neurologist. When she hung up, she pulled out her prescription pad. “I think we should add Effexor to the mix,” she said. “It seems to work well with Parkinson’s, and it won’t interfere with his other meds.” She wrote the prescription. “This should help his mood a bit,” Mattei said. “You have to do some thinking about what’s next.”
“What do you mean?”
“He should be in a long-term-care facility,” Mattei said. “You know that as well as I do.”
“The whole point here is that he would rather die than end up in a nursing home,” Zee said.
“He needs physical therapy, and he needs counseling. He needs a good nutritionist and a nurse administering his meds.”
Zee wanted to say, Nevertheless, but she kept quiet. She knew that Mattei was right.
“Let’s give these new pills a chance to work. Then we can see what we’re dealing with,” Mattei said.
They sat at the table for several moments, neither of them saying anything. Then, from the bedroom, Finch’s alarm began to ring.
“I’ll be right back,” Zee said, and headed toward his room.
Mattei spotted the unopened wedding invitation on the lazy Susan and picked it up. She was still holding it when Zee came back into the room.
“Is he okay?” Mattei asked.
“He’s fine. He just got a little tangled in his sheets.” Zee saw the envelope in Mattei’s hands.
“I’ve been meaning to send back the RSVP,” Zee apologized. The wedding was not until Labor Day weekend. “I’ll be there.”
Mattei hesitated before speaking. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to,” she finally said. “I hear that Michael’s bringing someone.”
Zee stared at her. “Well, that was fast.”
“I’d say his ego is a bit bruised,” Mattei said. “Again, I’ll understand if you don’t want to come. Though both Rhonda and I will be disappointed.”
“I’ll be there,” Zee said.
40
MELVILLE STILL REMEMBERED THE date that same-sex marriage had become legal in Massachusetts. It was May 17, 2004. On May 20 of that same year, on the anniversary of the day that Melville and Finch first met, he had proposed to Finch.
It wasn’t as if they’d never talked about marriage before. They’d been talking about it for years before the law passed, discussing every aspect of what it might mean for them: long-term care of each other, custody of Zee if anything should happen to Finch. When Finch was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, it became even more important to him for a while, though by that time Zee was in college and the custody issue didn’t much matter anymore. Still, there were reasons that Finch and Melville along with the rest of the gay and lesbian communities in Massachusetts had lobbied for same-sex marriage, and when civil unions became legal in Vermont, they had briefly contemplated a move to that state, but then they’d rejected it and campaigned harder than ever to get a real marriage bill passed in their home state.
By the time it happened, Finch had stopped talking about it. His disease had taken such a toll that it was all he could do to make his way through each day, let alone fight for the changes that he’d once found so important.
But Melville wanted to marry Finch more than ever, and for a number of very practical reasons. He didn’t care about inheritance—Finch had long ago set up his trusts providing generously for both Zee and Melville. But Melville had not been able to get Finch to sign a health-care proxy appointing him to make decisions in the event that Finch was no longer capable of caring for himself. The reason was simple: Finch wasn’t certain that Melville had ever agreed with his wishes.
For the last few years, Finch had been hoarding his medications. Anytime he took a fall and a doctor provided a painkiller, Finch filled all the prescriptions. When his primary-care physician did his annual checkup, Finch complained to him that he wasn’t sleeping, then hoarded the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed. When Melville called him on it, Finch got angry, claiming that Melville wouldn’t help him when the time came.
“I never said I wouldn’t help you,” Melville said.
“You never said you would.”
“We have years before that becomes an issue,” Melville said, persuading Finch to let him flush the pills, telling him that they would have long since expired by the time Finch got sick enough to want to use them.
They hadn’t talked about it since. But the previous summer, in 2003, they’d been up in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, staying at a favorite bed-and-breakfast and doing a bit of antiquing in an old barn, when Finch found a small brown bottle among a collection of vintage bottles in the loft. He’d been looking at it, rolling around the little silver balls inside the amber glass, when Melville came up behind him.
“What’s that?” Melville asked.
Finch thought about it for a minute before answering.
“Strychnine,” Finch said. “They used to prescribe it as medicine.”
Melville was horrified. He knew well how Maureen had died. It had been a horrible death, unbearably painful, the kind of thing you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. He stared at the silver balls that Finch held in front of him.
“You’re not thinking of using that,” Melville said.
“It worked for my wife,” Finch said.
“I’ll help you,” Melville said, never wanting Finch to suffer.
Finch stood looking at him.
“Put that back,” Melville said, taking the bottle and setting it among the others. “Or better yet, tell the man to get rid of it. They shouldn’t leave such things around.”
The shopkeeper was approaching. Melville couldn’t stand it. He was close to crying. He walked outside and stood in the sun, willing himself to breathe.
MELVILLE WASN’T THERE TO SEE Finch slip the amber bottle into his pocket. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Melville. He did. But he knew just how hard things were going to get, and he knew that Melville, when faced with it, might not be able to keep his hasty promise. The strychnine was Finch’s insurance policy.
ON MAY 20, 2004, MELVILLE took Finch back to the same bed-and-breakfast. Finch could no longer climb the stairs, so they had taken a first-floor room with a view of Lake Winnipesaukee. For the last few weeks, Finch had seemed confused. He’d forgotten several appointments and was having trouble finding things in the house. Melville had wondered if Finch was fighting something off; they’d had this problem before since he’d been diagnosed. Usually it flared up when he was about to get sick.
Melville wondered if he should postpone the weekend. He wanted the night he proposed to Finch to be perfect.
By Friday, Finch had not come down with anything. Though he still seemed confused, he was looking forward to the weekend, so Melville didn’t cancel the reservation.
They had dinner at Mise en Place, a favorite local bistro, then walked down to Lake Winnipesaukee to get some coffee. Unsteady on the way back, Finch took his arm. Melville watched as some looks came their way. Perhaps he should have picked Provincetown, Melville thought, or at least someplace in Massachusetts. But no, Finch had always loved Wolfeboro.
When they got back to the B and B, Finch took his pills. Melville had bought champagne, and he poured each of them a small glass, just enough for a toast.
“What’s this?” Finch asked, taking a seat next to Melville on the balcony.
From the bandstand an orchestra played “When I Fall in Love,” its sound echoing over the water. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
Melville di
dn’t get down on his knees. That was a different tradition. Instead he turned and said quietly to Finch. “Will you marry me?”
Finch looked at him sadly. Though everyone had been talking about the landmark legislation that had just happened in Massachusetts, Finch seemed to have removed himself from the importance of this historic event.
“It’s far too late for all that,” he said.
41
WHILE JESSINA WAS FEEDING Finch his breakfast, Zee walked down to Walgreens to fill his new prescription.
When she came back, the kitchen was in shambles, there was broken glass on the floor, and Jessina was carefully picking it up. Everything had been dumped on the counters—even the canisters had been emptied.
“What happened?” Zee asked.
“Finch did this,” Jessina said. “I went to check the laundry, and when I came back, he had trashed the place. He claims he was looking for something.”
He’s looking for his pills. The thought alarmed Zee, but she knew she was right. Though she usually kept the pills on the lazy Susan, she had begun to lock them in the upstairs room. She wasn’t about to tell Jessina, but she had been expecting this. “Where is he now?”
“He’s asleep in the den. I tried to clean the flour off of him, but I couldn’t get it all.” Jessina was clearly shaken.
“It’s okay,” Zee said.
She helped Jessina clean up the mess, then opened the new prescription that Mattei had written and woke Finch to give him the first dose of the antidepressant. She hoped to God that it would work.
42
ZEE DIDN’T CALL HAWK on Saturday, and she didn’t call him all day Sunday. By Sunday night he had decided that if she didn’t call him by the time he finished work, he’d walk over to see her. It was after 9:00 P.M. when he found himself at her door. He saw the light on in her upstairs window, but he no longer felt comfortable climbing the ivy. Instead he knocked on the kitchen door.
The Map of True Places Page 27