Death Benefits

by Sarah N. Harvey

  “What about my mom’s mother? Did you ever meet her?” I can’t bring myself to call her my grandmother. She doesn’t deserve it.

  “Your mother’s mother? Feh!” Coralee scowls and spits—really spits—into her palm. “That’s what I think of that woman!”

  “Wow. That bad?”

  “Worse,” she says. “Much worse. She ran off with a flute player half her age. Abandoned her child and then demanded spousal support payments. Arthur, the old fool, paid her. He was heartbroken.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Dead.”

  “Does Mom know?”

  Coralee nods. “It was many years ago—a car accident—but I think it was hard on your mother…to have all hope extinguished.”

  “I guess.”

  “And what about you, Royce? How are you coping with all this?”

  I shrug and stand up. I don’t want to talk about how I’m coping, or how much my mother must be hurting or how messed up this all is.

  “Can I show you something, Coralee?” I extend my hand to her and help her out of the chair. She nods and follows me downstairs to the garage.

  When she sees the T-bird, she clasps her hands under her chin, as if I have just offered her a trip to Paris. “He certainly loves his cars, doesn’t he?” she says as I open the passenger door for her and she lowers herself into the vinyl seat. I like it that she still speaks of him in the present tense.

  “Do you have a driver’s license, Coralee?” I ask.

  “In my purse,” she says. “At home I drive a beautiful old Karmann Ghia. Pumpkin orange. Had it for years. Your grandfather taught me to appreciate cars.”

  “Do you want to go for a ride?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she says.

  I run upstairs and grab her purse and a couple of things from Arthur’s desk. When I start the car, the gearshift feels cool in my hand and my shifting is smooth and noiseless as we exit the garage. We drive along the waterfront, the setting sun behind us. Coralee rolls the window down, and the smell of the ocean fills the car—kelp and salt and a whiff of sewage from the outfall off Clover Point.

  “Is it supposed to smell like that?” Coralee asks, wrinkling her nose and rolling up the window.

  “Not really,” I say. “But they still pump raw sewage into the ocean around here.”

  “Disgusting,” Coralee says.

  We ride in silence until we get to Cattle Point, where I park, facing the ocean, and kill the engine. I know kids come here to party and the cops do regular sweeps, but it’s still light and I don’t have anything to hide. I’m just a kid taking an old lady for a drive.

  “I used to bring Arthur here,” I say. “He liked to drink coffee and yell at the sailboats. ‘Come about, you bastards. Trim the jib! Hoist the spinnaker! You’re luffing, you moron!’ If there weren’t any boats, he’d yell at the seagulls or people’s dogs. Or at me.”

  Coralee laughs softly. “You sounded just like him then.”

  Two Japanese girls in skinny jeans and high heels stumble in front of us across the grassy area that borders the rocks. One of them talks on a pink cell phone while the other takes a tiny dog out of an enormous jewel-and-chain-encrusted bag. The dog stands on the grass, shivering, while the girl says something to it in Japanese. Eventually the dog squats and takes a tiny dump. The girl scoops him up, motions to her friend and they stagger toward the silver Beemer parked next to us.

  Coralee rolls her window down and says something in Japanese, which I interpret as “Pick up your dog’s shit!”

  The girl with the dog looks terrified for an instant, but her friend yells something at us and flips Coralee off before they get in the car and drive off, music blaring.

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  Coralee shakes her head sadly. “Not everyone is as tolerant of old age as you are, Royce.”

  “I’m not always tolerant,” I say. “I used to get pretty pissed with Arthur. He could be such an asshole. I thought about stealing the car, going back to Nova Scotia.”

  “But you didn’t.” Coralee pats my hand.

  I shrug. “I started to like it here, I guess. I met Dani. I got used to Arthur. And I didn’t want to spend years in prison for grand theft auto.”

  “Very sensible,” Coralee murmurs.

  I take a deep breath and say, “He asked me to kill him. Euthanize him.”

  Coralee inhales audibly, but says nothing.

  “He left a note on his laptop. I deleted it, but I’ve got it memorized. Wanna hear it?”

  Beside me, Coralee nods. I recite the note word for word and wait for her reaction.

  “My poor Arthur,” she says, her voice thick and slow. “How desperate he must have felt to write such a thing.”

  Her response is not what I expect. Or want. I want sympathy and righteous indignation. I want wrath. I want her to be on my side, whatever that means. I want compassion—for me as well as Arthur.

  “Before the stroke, there were days I really wanted to do it,” I say. “Put Valium in his café au lait. Not because he asked me to either. Because he was such an asshole and he made everybody miserable.”

  If I think I am going to shock her, I’m disappointed. She doesn’t recoil in horror or even disagree.

  “But you didn’t,” she says.

  “Not then.” I hesitate, then carry on. “I tried later, at the hospital. With a pillow.”

  She strokes my hand and says, “Oh, Royce. You poor boy. What a terrible burden for you, my dear. He put you in an impossible position, but you were the only one he trusted. You can still help him now.”

  “Fuck that,” I say. I don’t want to admit she may be right, but I can feel my anger seeping away like air out of a slit tire. “So what’s next?”

  “You tell your mother what the note said. We talk to Marta and decide what to do. Together.”

  “What about…you know…the pillow…?” My voice trails off. I don’t think I can tell my mother what I did. Not now anyway.

  Coralee pats my knee. “You’ll know when the time is right.”

  I start the engine and drive to the hospital. It doesn’t matter anymore if Mom sees me driving the ’bird, but I still park it as far away as I can from other cars. Arthur will freak if it gets scratched. That’s when reality sets in. Arthur is never going to freak about anything, ever again. He’s not going to get better; he’s never going to hum or sing or tell me I’m a nincompoop. His life is over, but his body is stubborn. Just like him. I help Coralee out of the car, and we walk arm in arm up to ICU. The nurse tells us that Arthur’s condition is unchanged. I wash and gown up while Coralee goes to find Mom.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and look at Arthur. His hair is growing back and covers his head like dandelion fluff. His stubble is longer than I’ve ever seen it. I get two towels from the bathroom and drape one over his chest and one behind his head. His shaver is in my pocket, charged and ready to go. It’s not as effective on his cranium as Kim’s clippers, but it does the job. I have to be careful of all the tubes as I shave his face, and I can’t get into all the nooks and crannies, but when I’m done he looks less like a homeless person and more like himself. One thing about Arthur—he was always himself. No apologies.

  When Mom and Coralee come back, the first thing Mom says is, “Coralee told me about the note. Rolly, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Like what, Mom? ‘Your dad wants me to kill him’? I didn’t think that would go over too well.”

  “You could have told me,” she insists. “We would have worked it out.”

  “Well, I didn’t, so let’s move on.” My anger surges back, and I know it’s not fair to direct it at her, but I can’t stop myself. “If you can tear yourself away from your new boyfriend.”

  Coralee has stepped out of the room. I can see her out of the corner of my eye talking to a nurse.

  “That’s not fair,” Mom says. Her voice is steady, and I know she’s trying not to lose it.


  “Whatever. Are we going to pull the plug?”

  “Don’t be crude, Royce. I know you’re upset, but it doesn’t help.”

  “So let’s have a family conference. You, me, Coralee, Marta. One conference call solves all.”

  “It’s not that simple, Royce.”

  “But it is. He wants to die. He told me. We have to make that happen. Without holding a pillow over his face.”

  She leaves the room, tears streaming out from under her mask, and walks into Coralee’s arms. I feel like a total shit, but I know I’m right. Arthur is gone. He has left the building. And he deserves better than this.

  I head down to the cafeteria and eat some Black Forest cake. The icing has a crust on it and the cherries are mush. Even washed down with Coke it’s revolting. By the time Mom comes to get me, I am asleep, slumped over the table.

  “Time to go, Royce,” she says, shaking my shoulder. “Everyone needs to get some sleep.”

  I wipe the drool off my face and follow her to the parking lot. She shows no surprise when I say, “I’ll get the car,” so I assume Coralee has told her about the T-bird.

  We drive back to Arthur’s in silence, Mom following us in her truck. I park the car in the garage and help Coralee up to her room. She moves slowly and clings to my arm as we climb the stairs.

  “You gonna be okay?” I ask. “I mean, I can stay.” As I make the offer, I realize that I don’t know where I would sleep. No way am I going to sleep in Arthur’s bed.

  “I’ll be fine,” she says. “Your mother needs you.”

  “As if.”

  “Get some sleep, Royce. Things always look better after a good night’s sleep.”

  I nod, but I don’t believe her. Tomorrow is going to suck. The day after that will suck. Who knows how long the suckage will continue? For the rest of Arthur’s life, that’s for sure.

  Mom and I drive home in silence. She doesn’t even try to start a conversation, which is weird, since she’s usually a big believer in talking things out. Sharing. She slams the door when she gets out of the truck and stomps into the house, where she listens to her messages (three are from Lars), makes some toast and tea and disappears into her room. I pull out my phone and discover five texts from Dani, each one pissier than the last. Why do girls take everything so personally? I text her back: I am ok. A is not. Will call u soon. It’s all I can manage before I stagger downstairs and fall asleep, fully dressed.

  Seventeen

  The next day, Mom is gone by the time I wake up. She has left a note:

  Gone to hospital with Coralee. Back after lunch to call Marta. Please be here.

  No Dear Rolly.

  No Love, Mom.

  I try to eat some cereal, standing up at the sink. It tastes like soggy cardboard, and I think the milk is off. I dump the whole mess into the toilet and watch it swirl away. My stomach heaves a bit when I think about last night: the things I said to Mom.

  I go back to bed and sleep until noon. Then I go for a bike ride, shower and watch reruns of Law and Order. Thank god for Law and Order. So reliable, so binary. Right, wrong; good, bad; chaos, control. Sam Waterston’s caterpillar eyebrows are oddly reassuring.

  Mom and Coralee come home just before two. Which makes it seven in the morning in Sydney. Tomorrow morning, I think. Or have I got that backward? I can’t believe that Mom doesn’t want to inconvenience Marta by calling her in the middle of the night. Marta deserves to be called at two in the morning, but that’s not how Mom rolls.

  We sit around the kitchen table, the phone still in its cradle on the counter. Coralee is wearing a moss-green sweater that matches her eyes. Mom has on the same jeans and brown fleece she had on yesterday.

  “How is he today?” I ask.

  “The same,” Mom says. “The doctors…” She makes a sound as if she is being strangled. Coralee reaches out and pats her hand. “The doctors don’t expect him to improve. Too much damage.”

  “So he’s a vegetable,” I say.

  “Don’t say that,” Mom yelps. “He’s not a, not a… rutabaga.”

  My laugh comes out short and sharp, almost a bark. “A rutabaga, Mom? Where did that come from? What vegetable would he be? A carrot? A head of lettuce? A turnip?”

  Her mouth twitches slightly, and when Coralee says, “He’s an artichoke. Spiny on the outside, with a soft heart,” we all crack up. It’s not funny, but it kind of is. It’s hard to explain.

  When Mom picks up the phone, though, we settle down. No way Marta is going to think we’re funny. When she answers, Mom puts the phone on Speaker and we get down to business. Fairly quickly, it becomes clear that Marta, who hasn’t visited her father in fifteen years, doesn’t believe that he wants to die. She thinks I made up the note because I can’t be bothered looking after him anymore. She thinks we are taking advantage of a frail old man. Coralee finally picks up the phone, clicks it off Speaker and tells Marta to calm down. She never raises her voice, but I can tell that she is not going to let Marta get away with insulting me or my mother. She totally sounds like the nanny she once was, and everyone knows you don’t mess with Mary Poppins.

  “Royce is not a liar, Marta. Arthur trusted him to see that his wishes were carried out. I trust him. No, none of us has seen Arthur’s will. He may have left everything to the SPCA, for all I know. The doctors are very clear. He can’t breathe on his own, or swallow. He has stated his wishes, and we need to honor them, difficult though that may be. Yes, it was unorthodox, but why should that surprise you? Yes, I do think it’s the right thing to do. All right then. Tell your sister.”

  She hands the phone back to Mom. I can hear Marta blubbering on the other end.

  “Later tonight,” Mom says to her. “He may not… go…right away, but we’ll stay with him. I promise. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  She hangs up, and Coralee puts her arms around her. They stand with their heads together for a few minutes, swaying slightly and snuffling.

  Mom finally breaks away, swiping at her nose with the sleeve of her fleece.

  “I’m sorry, Royce…”

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I say. “Really. Can we go to the hospital now?”

  She nods and goes over to the sink to wash her face. Coralee heads for the bathroom. I pick up the portable CD player, which is sitting on top of all the boxes that were in Arthur’s hospital room.

  “How did all this stuff get here?” I ask.

  “Lars brought it,” Mom says. “They needed the room. What’s the CD player for?”

  “Arthur likes to listen to old show tunes.”

  “What?”

  “Old show tunes. He likes them. A couple of days ago, before the last stroke, he was humming. Didn’t Lars tell you?”

  “Lars?”

  “Yeah, I ran into him and told him about the humming. He thought it was a good sign. I guess he was wrong.” I don’t tell her about the singing. I think it might break her heart.

  At the hospital, Coralee and I sit with Arthur while Mom talks to the doctors and nurses and signs some legal papers. I plug in the CD player and put on the Rodgers and Hammerstein songs. Coralee hums along and strokes Arthur’s cheek while Mary Martin washes a man right outta her hair. We leave the room when the nurses come in to unhook him from the machines. When we come back in, Arthur looks more like himself, without the wires and tubes, but his breathing sounds terrible, as if he is drowning. The nurses have warned us, but it’s still a grotesque, not-quite-human sound. Mom and I position ourselves on each side of him, holding his hands. Coralee sits beside Mom and runs her hand up and down Arthur’s leg. Neither of them speaks, but it seems weird not to. I keep wondering if he knows we’re here, and if so, is he thinking, Why the hell don’t they say something?

  So I do. “Mom and I are here, Arthur. So is Coralee. I’m sorry it took us so long to figure things out. Don’t be mad.” I squeeze his hand as his chest rises and falls. The interval between his breaths is getting longer and longer, as the breaths themselves b
ecome shorter. It’s all I can do not to shout, “Breathe, goddammit!” Even though I know what we’re doing is right, it still seems wrong not to help him.

  When I can’t stand the gurgling, rasping sound any longer I say, “I took Coralee to Cattle Point yesterday in the T-bird. Hope that’s okay. There weren’t any sailboats to yell at, but a little dog took a dump in front of the car, and Coralee yelled at the owner. In Japanese.”

  “I didn’t yell,” Coralee says. “I never yell.”

  He gasps, as if shocked by her words, and the silence afterward makes me feel as if I too am suffocating. I stop talking and bow my head. His chest is still. We all lean forward, listening, holding our breath. Mom says, “I think he’s—” But before she can finish her sentence, he snorts. Loudly. We all flinch. Mom reaches for my free hand across the bed. Her grip is painful. Arthur gulps for air a few more times. He sounds as if he’s choking. I want to run out of the room, but Mom is holding on to me as if I am a boat and she is an anchor. Finally, it stops. He stops. We sit for a few minutes in silence, waiting. Nothing. I keep my head down as Coralee leaves the room. She brings back a nurse who moves me aside to take his pulse. I could have told her there is none. She writes something on the chart—the time of death, I assume—and leaves the room. I go around the bed to Mom and put my hand on her shoulder. She is holding Arthur’s hand against her cheek, and her tears are running through his fingers. I wish I had cut his nails.

  I put my arm around her. “It’s okay, Mom.” She nods.

  We stay with Arthur for almost an hour, not really doing anything at all. I know that other cultures or religions follow some protocol after death—tearing garments, burning herbs, wailing—but us non-believers just have to make it up as we go along. Coralee leaves to call Marta, and when she returns we tuck Arthur’s hands under the blankets—they look so cold—and say goodbye. Mom kisses him on the forehead, Coralee grazes his lips with hers, and I stand at the foot of the bed and sing, “Happy trails to you, until we meet again.” Coralee and Mom join in. “Happy trails to you, keep smilin’ until then. Who cares about the clouds when we’re together? Just sing a song and bring the sunny weather. Happy trails to you, till we meet again.” I have no idea where that comes from, or how we all know the words—maybe our right brains are helping our left brains—but at least it makes Mom and Coralee laugh.