by Jodi Picoult
“Who is she?” I ask politely.
“Who the fuck knows,” Kelsey answers. “She came with the house. For years I thought the parents were ghosts and that’s why they were fuzzy. Then I did a little research.” She reaches into the top drawer of a massive desk and takes out two cigars, offering me one. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks.” I think Kelsey Hobbs may be my favorite person at Harvard.
She lights her cigar and takes a deep drag. “It felt like you needed rescuing. Just a guess, but I’m thinking if you spend the whole day with people who are dying, it’s not your first choice of conversation topic when you’re off the clock.”
“Actually, I don’t mind talking about dying. But there’s a limit to what I know about death, having not experienced it myself.”
“Imagine the business you could start if you had.” Kelsey narrows her eyes. “Is it depressing?”
“Sometimes,” I answer honestly. “Mostly, it’s humbling.”
She stabs the cigar into an ashtray. “Well, I’m going to die sooner rather than later because of these things. Maybe I’ll hire you.”
I smile. “Maybe you will.”
The door opens, and Brian’s head pokes through, followed by Horace Germaine’s. “There you are,” Horace says to his wife. “You’re doing a terrible job of hosting a party.”
“They’re all horrible people,” Kelsey says. “Besides, I’m hiring Dawn to help me die.”
Brian’s smile freezes on his face.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Horace asks pleasantly.
“We’re all dying,” I say cheerfully.
The dean of faculty raises his brows. “That’s grim.”
“Not really.”
“Dawn—” Brian’s face flushes.
“Really, it’s okay to discuss it,” I add, warming to the topic. “Talking about sex doesn’t make you pregnant, and talking about death isn’t going to kill you—”
“No one wants to talk about dying at a faculty meet-and-greet,” Brian grits out.
“Why? You talk about dead cats all the time.”
“Why don’t we get you a drink?”
“I have a full glass.”
“Then why don’t we get you another one?” Brian grabs my arm and tugs me toward the door. He turns at the last minute, addressing Horace. “I am so, so sorry.”
I stumble behind him like a child who knows that the worst of the punishment is yet to come. When we are in a hallway somewhere near the bathroom, Brian faces me. He is so upset that for a moment he can’t even speak. “You knew how much tonight meant to me,” he finally says.
“I talked about my job. Would you prefer that I introduced myself as Brian’s wife?”
“Don’t twist my words.”
“I’m twisting your words?” I say. “I came to a cocktail party. You abandoned me.”
It’s saying this out loud that makes me realize that this isn’t about Gita—and maybe never was. She is the symptom, but not the illness. I had always believed that Brian would be there for me. It’s why I fell in love with him—slowly, second by second, depending on him for strength and comfort until I couldn’t remember what it was like to exist without that. But then came the moment when Brian wasn’t there for me. And if that was possible, then maybe I’d been lying to myself for years. Maybe our entire relationship was on shaky ground.
You abandoned me, I think again, and I wonder if I’m angry at him for that, or angry at myself for taking him for granted.
There’s a flush, and the bathroom door opens. A woman with a thick rope of seed pearls looks from me to Brian and then edges past us, murmuring an apology.
The room is swimming, and I don’t know if it is because of all the wine I’ve drunk, or because I’m crying. Brian reaches for me, but I am faster. I run through the hallway, past the woman who was using the bathroom, into a kitchen, where a hired chef is filling the trays of four bored servers. I nearly crash into a table with stemware on it, and fly out the door like the Devil is at my heels.
Outside, in the cool, quiet patch of a Cambridge backyard, I walk the perimeter of the fence until I find a latched gate. I let myself out and walk down the street, stopping under the glow of a streetlamp at the corner to wipe my eyes and kick off my heels. Two college kids walk by, arguing, too caught up in their own drama to notice mine.
Love isn’t a perfect match, but an imperfect one. You are rocks in a tumbler. At first you bump, you scrape, you snag. But each time that happens, you smooth each other’s edges, until you wear each other down. And if you are lucky, at the end of all that, you fit.
Two weeks after I moved in with Brian, we went out to dinner at an Olive Garden. He was so excited about the doggy bag he took home—a whole second chicken parmigiana that he was going to eat for lunch the next day. At a stoplight was a homeless man who waved, and without saying a word, Brian rolled down his window and gave him the doggy bag. I thought: He’s so good. I wanted to be like him. I hoped he would rub off on me.
Even now, sitting on the curb with mascara running down my face and a terrible wish to rewind the past twenty minutes, I cannot imagine what my life would have looked like without Brian in it. I don’t know who would roll his eyes with me at the concept of pineapple on pizza. Who would know which song to turn up on the radio, without me having to ask. Who else could possibly know me well enough to wound me.
The car slows as it approaches, its bright yellow eyes blinding. It pulls to a stop; the door slams. Brian sinks down beside me on the curb. His hand rests beside mine, on the concrete.
I cross my pinkie finger over his.
“I don’t mean to be such a bitch,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Brian murmurs. “I wish I could take it all back.”
My throat tightens. “Me, too.”
It strikes me that we may not be talking about the same thing.
I rest my head on his shoulder. “When you’re department chair,” I say, “we’re serving better wine.”
* * *
—
WE ARRIVE HOME in the soap bubble of a fragile peace. “I…could take a shower,” I offer.
That’s code for: Let’s have sex. I know there was a moment in our relationship where sex was totally spontaneous. But at some point, it became more structured because we cared about each other. Brian would shave so that his beard growth didn’t scratch my thighs. I’d bring a washcloth and tuck it under the pillow so that when we finished, there wasn’t a wet spot.
Brian squeezes my hand. “Maybe you need someone to wash your back,” he says.
“Maybe I do.”
The door opens, and we jump apart, as if this is not our house, as if we are not married. Meret slips inside, just as surprised to see us there as we are to see her. She is barefoot and carrying my shoes. Her face is streaked with mascara, and she is struggling to hold back tears.
“Baby,” I breathe. “What happened?”
A battering ram of the worst hammers at my mind: she was date-raped, she was in an accident. Her face twists as she holds out my heels. “I broke the strap,” she sobs, and then she runs upstairs.
I look at Brian, bewildered. His hands clench and unclench; he has never done well with a tidal wave of emotion. “I’ll go,” I say.
In Meret’s room, I sit down beside her on the bed. I rub her back, waiting for the sobs to stop. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head, but the story bleeds out.
The dance, under twinkle lights, at a camp on a lake. A DJ playing “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” Meret and Sarah, sitting to the side on a redwood picnic table, when two boys came over. Todd and Eric were not like a lot of the other boys in camp—they weren’t geeks. They were on the soccer team, doing STEM to boost their college résumés.
They had a flask.
Sarah took a drink, and so did Meret.
Todd came up with the idea to steal the rowboat, even though the waterfront was off-limits. It would only be for a little while. It would be romantic, Sarah said. So Meret went with the others, and it was fun. It was messy and dirty and forbidden and she was in on it, instead of standing on the sidelines.
Eric got into the boat and helped Sarah in. But before Meret could climb inside, Todd stopped her. She’ll sink it, he complained, and Eric laughed.
Don’t say that, Sarah said.
Meret looked at her, so so so grateful.
Sarah smiled at the boys, and added: If she falls in, she’ll float.
They were laughing as Todd climbed in, as they rowed Sarah into the middle of the lake like a princess. They were talking scientifically about whether fat makes you sink or rise, when Meret ran away.
I grab Meret’s shoulders and I look her in the eye. “You are not fat,” I say slowly.
Her eyes spill over with tears. “Mom. Don’t lie to me, too.”
I want to ask how she got home, but I am afraid. I want to swaddle her in bubble wrap. I want to hunt down those asshole children and blister them.
She finally falls asleep, lashes damp and spiky, her hands curled over her chest.
When Meret’s breathing evens, I go to our bedroom. Brian is already in bed with the lights out. I give him the abridged version.
He is hurting for her, too, I know. But he swipes with that sore paw: “I told you she should have stayed home.”
Whatever hopes I had of being with him tonight are gone. His words are a sword in the middle of the bed, cutting the sheets to ribbons. I take my pillow and sleep in my office.
* * *
—
Scene from a marriage:
BRIAN (ENTERS KITCHEN): I overslept.
DAWN: There’s coffee.
BRIAN: Last night—
DAWN: I don’t know what time I’ll be home.
(He pours coffee into a travel mug.)
BRIAN: Is Meret—
DAWN: She’s not going to camp today. Or ever again.
(A beat.)
BRIAN: I’ll bring in something for dinner.
(He exits.)
(End scene.)
* * *
—
THINGS YOU SHOULDN’T do when someone is dying:
Don’t talk about when your aunt or your grandmother or your dog died. This isn’t about you, and the sick person shouldn’t have to comfort you; it should be the other way around. There are concentric circles of grief: the patient is at the center, the next layer is the caregiver, then their kids, then close friends, and so on. Figure out what circle you’re in. If you are looking into the concentric circles, you give comfort. If you’re looking out, you receive it.
Don’t say things that aren’t true: You’re going to beat this cancer! It’s all about a positive outlook! You look stronger! You aren’t fooling anyone.
Don’t overact your happiness. It’s okay to be sad with someone who is dying. They’ve invited you close at a very tender time, and that’s a moment of grace you can share.
Don’t think you have to discuss the illness. Sometimes, a sick person needs a break. And if you ask up front if he wants to talk about how he feels—or doesn’t—you’re giving him control at a time when he doesn’t have a lot of choices.
Don’t be afraid of the silence. It’s okay to say nothing.
Don’t forget: No one knows what to say to someone who’s dying. Everyone is afraid of saying the wrong thing. It’s more important to be there than to be right.
Win and I have reached the stage where we can sit in quiet, without a background noise of NPR on the radio or the television murmuring. That’s an important part of the process. I know that Win is turning over memories as if they are treasured jewels. I am going over everything Meret told me the night before, and trying to pick a path forward through comfort and courage.
Win is figuring out how to die; I am figuring out how to live.
She is having a bad day. She hasn’t eaten. For the first time, she didn’t try to get out of bed. There’s a point in the process of dying when it really hits you. You have the diagnosis, you know that your body isn’t acting the way you want—but one morning you wake up and realize that you really weren’t sure that you would wake up. You understand that there’s a curtain you cannot see behind, and your toes are brushing the edge of it, and you aren’t able to reverse course.
Win clears her throat, and I immediately offer her a glass of water with a straw in it. She sips, wets her lips. “What’s the strangest request you’ve ever had?”
“To make someone’s ashes into a diamond. There’s a company called LifeGem that does it.”
“Of course there is,” Win murmurs.
“My client’s widow wore it until she died, too, and then she was buried wearing the necklace.” I glance at her. “Why? Do you want to make Felix a piece of jewelry?”
“Weave me into a hair shirt instead,” she says. She is listless, tired.
“Maybe you should close your eyes for a bit,” I suggest.
“I’m afraid if I do, I may not open them again.”
“And that makes you anxious?”
“Shouldn’t it?” She raises her brows. “I just wish I could get a peek at what’s coming. Other than a whole mess of fear served up with a side of who the hell knows.”
“People fear different things about death,” I tell her. “Pain. Not finishing something you’re working on. Leaving someone you love. There’s even real FOMO, fear of missing out, of the world going on and you not being here to see it.”
“I can’t decide if missing the 2020 election is terrible timing, or excellent timing.”
“It probably depends on who wins,” I say, smiling a little.
“The not knowing. That’s what’s killing me,” Win murmurs. “Well. That, and cancer.” She glances at me. “I’m okay with dying. I really am. But I don’t want to do it wrong, you know? Does that sound ridiculous? I just wish I could know what’s going to happen. How I’ll know it’s time.”
I have not thought about my failed doctorate in a long time—at least not until I was reading Win those hieroglyphics. But I remember that what fascinated me most about the Book of Two Ways was how comforting it would be to have a map to reach the afterlife. Even the Ancient Egyptians recognized that knowledge was the difference between a good death and a bad one.
“I don’t know how long you have,” I say carefully, “and I don’t know what the process is going to feel like. But I can help you understand what happens to your body.”
Guided death meditation is something I usually do with healthy people who want to understand how to help those who are terminally ill. But I think it might help Win a little; bring her some peace. The meditation was developed by Joan Halifax and Larry Rosenberg, based on the nine contemplations of dying—written by Atisha, a highly revered Tibetan monk, in the eleventh century.
Win says she’d like to try it, so I help her out of bed and have her lie on the floor in corpse pose. I sit next to her, legs crossed. “If anything I say starts to stress you out,” I tell Win, “raise a finger.”
She looks at me and nods.
“Just listen to my voice,” I say, and I begin, pitching my tone even and soft. “All of us will die sooner or later. No one can prevent death; it’s the outcome of birth. It’s inevitable. Not a single sentient being—no matter how spiritually evolved, or powerful, or wealthy, or motivated—has escaped death. Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed did not escape death, and neither will you or I. All the gifts of your life—education and money and status and fame and family and friends—will make no difference at the moment of death. In fact, they can make it harder, because we hold on to them. What are you doing right now th
at will help you die? Hold your answer in your head. On the inbreath, think: Death is inevitable. On the outbreath, think: I, too, will die.”
I move on to the second contemplation, rising up on my knees to dim the light beside the bed. “Your life span shortens every second you live. There is the moment of your birth, and the moment of your death, and your movement toward death never stops. Every breath you take in and release brings you closer. Appreciate what you have now, because there may be no tomorrow. If your life span is decreasing every day, what are you doing now to appreciate what you have left? What gives your life meaning?”
Win’s finger twitches and I wait, but she relaxes.
“Every word you speak, every breath you take, moves you closer to the end of your life. On the inbreath, inhale gratitude for the additional seconds you have been given. On the outbreath, think of the seconds that have passed in your life.”
I watch her chest rise and fall. “Death will come whether or not we are prepared. Of the one million three hundred thousand thoughts we have each day, precious few are about how to meet the challenge of death. Can you listen to me, now, as if there is no tomorrow? Are you ready to die?”
I work through the other contemplations: that death has many causes; that the body is fragile and vulnerable; that loved ones can’t keep you from dying. I ask her to imagine herself on her deathbed, growing weaker, picturing her house and her clothing and jewelry, her paintings and her bank account and her wine collection—all the comforts she has worked hard for, now useless. “Dying means letting go of everything,” I tell her. “Picture everything you have being given away to friends and to relatives. Some of it may wind up in a thrift store or a dumpster. You can take nothing with you. On the inbreath, think about this. On the outbreath, let go of everything that is yours.”