“Oh, yeah? It is?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“By who, Sarah? Who told you that?”
“You did, Tory.”
“What does it mean?”
“Exactly what it says. We can understand death. That’s easy. You yourself believe it’s a door, right?”
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, a little birdie told me.”
“Very funny, Sarah.”
“It was Caleb’s bird, actually. The one at the end of your story that jumped on his shoulder after his mother died.”
“Even funnier.”
“Death is knowable, Tory, if only for its … inevitability. Its presence. Love, on the other hand, is a whole ’nuther ball game, it would seem.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“No, Tory. It’s not my word. It’s yours.”
“Right. I forgot. I’m your God.”
“Yes, you are. All right. That’s it. I’m finished. I’m leaving now.”
“You are? Do you know what happens next?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me before you leave?”
“No. Now, look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“What do you see, Tory?”
“I see … no, it can’t be … but, then again, this is a dream, so I suppose …”
“What do you see when you look at me, Tory?”
“I … I see myself.”
“That’s right. Bye, Tory.”
“So, did you enjoy visiting with one of your creations, Tory?”
“You again. Yes, I suppose.”
“Look around the room, Tory. What do you see now?”
“That’s me … lying on a table.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I don’t want to be here.”
“Sorry. No choice.”
“I don’t want to be here.”
“Yes. I heard you the first time. But this is where you belong, my dear. This is most definitely where you belong.”
“No.”
“What do you see, Tory?”
“I told you. I see myself lying on a table.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a sheet over me.”
“That’s right.”
“Am I dead?”
“Oh, no. Haven’t you ever watched ER, Tory?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“The sheet only comes up to your neck, right?”
“Yes … but …”
“The sheet is pulled over the face when the person’s dead.”
“So that means I’m alive on that table?”
“For now. What else do you see?”
“My arm is stretched out.”
“It most certainly is. Can you see what’s going on with that arm, Tory?”
“There’s a tube in it.”
“That’s right. That tube is your passport to eternity, Tory. Once certain solutions begin flowing through that tube, it’s hasta la vista, Tory.”
“That noise …”
“What about it?”
“What is it?”
“You know what it is.”
“I don’t.”
“Of course you do, Tory. You just won’t admit it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“Say it.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“No.”
“Tory …”
“All right, you pain in the ass! I hear dogs barking. Lots of dogs.”
“Ding-ding-ding! Correct! Very good, Tory! And what do we have for Tory before we move on to the bonus round, Johnny? What’s that? A body bag and a lifetime supply of Triscuits? How about that! But there’re only six Triscuits here. But of course! That’s all Tory will need for the minuscule slices of life remaining for her to live!”
“Very funny.”
“Keep your eyes on those blinds.”
“Why?”
“Just watch.”
“The blinds are sliding open.”
“That’s right. Care to place a small wager on what you’re going to see on the other side of that window? Behind the eggshell-colored vertical blinds?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“I don’t even want to be here. These games you’re playing with me are horrible.”
“Games? You think I’m playing games with you? This isn’t a game, Victorious Abigail. Believe me. Games have winners and losers. There are no winners here.”
“Sometimes games end in a draw.”
“Not today, darling.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what you think it means. There most assuredly will be a loser in our game today. And it won’t be me.”
“It’ll be me, right?”
“Yes. And me.”
“But you just said it wouldn’t be you.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? But I’m you, Tory. And you’ve known that all along.”
“What the hell is going on here? And what the hell are you talking about?”
“Never you mind, honey. Just keep your eyes on the bouncing ball—er, sliding blinds.”
“I’m sick.”
“No, you’re not. You only think you are.”
“Are those blinds opening? They don’t look like they’re even moving.”
“Oh, yes. They’re opening. They’re opening very slowly … in tiny, tiny increments … little movements that reveal a minuscule slice of the window behind it … slowly … millimeters at a time. At this rate, it might take an eternity for the blinds to fully open.”
“This is insane.”
“No, that’s not the word to describe it, Tory.”
“Then what is the word? How would you describe all this craziness? How would you describe all this weird stuff coming from someone I can’t even see?”
“Watch the blinds, Tory.”
“No. I’m through with this. I’m not listening to you anymore. And why am I even listening to you? And talking to you? This is my dream and I should be in charge, not you.”
“Ha-ha-ha. That’s hilarious, Victorious.”
“If you’re me, then I’m in charge.”
“What do you see through the window, Tory?”
“There are so many of them.”
“Yes, Tory.”
“Are these the animals I … ?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what? The truth? Should I do that Jack Nicholson scene from A Few Good Men for you? You can’t handle the truth!”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“It’s time to wrap things up, dear.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“Remember the song ‘Good Night’ on The White Album?”
“Yeah. Ringo sings it. John wrote it.”
“That’s right. Well, the first line says it all.”
“Now it’s time to say good night?”
“Right. And it is.”
“Have I ever told you how much I loathe euphemisms?”
“That’s not surprising. After all, you’re a writer. Clear, plain language is always the writer’s goal, isn’t it?”
“Yes. So would you be so kind as to speak in clear, plain language, please?”
“You’re irked by the good night reference?”
“Yes. Say what you mean.”
“Okay. Fine. I will. Now it’s time to die, Tory. Now it’s time to die.”
“No …”
“Oh, yes. Look at where you are now, dear.”
“I’m on the table … there’s a tube … oh, Jesus …”
“What can you see, Tory?”
“All I can see is the ceiling … I’m on my back … all I can see is the ceiling …”
“Turn your head, Tory. Look at the window. What do you see?”
�
�The animals are gone … I should say that prayer that old lady gave Sarah … I should say it … but I can’t remember a word of it … I don’t remember …”
“You’re rambling, sweetheart. It’s better to just be quiet and let it happen.”
“No … I don’t want to die … I …”
“Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends.”
“I’m lying here … and you’re singing Emerson, Lake and Palmer to me?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“That’s cruel.”
“I suppose it is. What do you see now behind the window, Tory?”
“I feel sick.”
“No, you don’t. You only think you do.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Look at the window, Tory. Tell me what you see.”
“I see … you.”
“That’s right. And who am I, Tory? Go ahead. Say it.”
“You’re … you’re … you’re me.”
“Yes.”
“I want to wake up.”
“Now what do you see, Tory?”
“I see …”
“Yes?”
“It’s …”
“Go on.”
“It’s full of …”
“Hold it right there. Don’t you dare even think you’re going to tell me it’s full of stars. Arthur C. Clarke and Stanley Kubrick are the only ones allowed to use that phrase. Do you understand?”
“But …”
“No buts. What do you see?”
“I’m afraid.”
“You should be. What do you see?”
“The window’s gone.”
“Indeed it is. What do you see now, Tory?”
“I see myself.”
“That’s right. Tell me what you see.”
“I’m looking down … I see myself lying on the table below me … there’s an unbearable heat rushing through my body … I … I …”
I watch myself from above …
Euthanasia Day
3:30 P.M.
The gas chamber is silent. Tory knows that the lethal carbon monoxide has done its job. Now comes the removal, the disposal, and the cleaning of the chamber.
She pulls on heavy yellow rubber gloves, dons a face mask, and steels herself for the task before her. This is getting harder, she thinks. Much harder.
Jake never leaves his office when Tory is emptying the chamber, and none of the front office staff comes anywhere near the back of the building.
This part of her job sometimes summons to mind stray lines from Eliot’s “The Waste Land”: “He who was living is now dead/We who were living are now dying/With a little patience.”
Tory pauses a moment, her gloved hands hanging by her side, her silent headphones embracing her neck. With a little patience. She feels something welling up inside her, but she can’t identify the feeling. Is it sadness? Anger? Panic? Fear? She doesn’t know, but she does know she has never felt like this. Yes, there have been moments when she has felt all of those emotions, in brief flashes that stabbed at her consciousness—but today is different.
And then, a sudden kaleidoscope of images and sounds floods her mind … the dogs and cats that have passed through the shelter over the past many months … the inside of the death chamber … the families walking through the kennel area, the children looking for the absolutely perfect pet … the heartbreakingly pleading expressions in the eyes of the caged animals as they mentally beg these strangers to take them home—away from this place … the mundane chatter of the office staff, oblivious to the reality of what is happening at the back of the building … her image of herself sitting on the couch in her mother’s living room on any Friday night over these past few months, hugging a pillow, her legs curled beneath her, utterly unable to eat a thing until, at the earliest, Saturday night … the looming shadows the old house throws when the sun hits it a certain way … and then, once again, the animals … the animals …
Tory reaches out and grabs the door handle of the gas chamber.
She closes her eyes a moment and takes a breath. Then she opens her eyes … and then she opens the door.
And then Tory sees … she sees …
I watch myself from above … with newly luminous eyes …
“Jake! JAKE!! Call 911! It’s Tory! I don’t think she’s breathing!”
The Hospital of St. Raphael
“She’s so young.”
“A heart attack at twenty-eight? Yeah, I’d say so. Why are you late?”
“Traffic’s a bear. The Columbus Day Parade. They close Chapel Street. She came in by ambulance?”
“Yeah, but they had to shock her in the field.”
“She worked at an animal shelter?”
“Let’s up her Lasix a little … her morphine too.”
“Yeah, Waterbridge.”
“And she just collapsed?”
“Yeah. One of her coworkers found her lying on the floor in front of the shelter’s gas chamber.”
“Christ. And you’ve found no evidence of heart disease—no sclerotic buildup?”
“None. She’s as healthy as you might expect her to be for somebody her age.”
“Toxic gas?”
“No. They say the door won’t open unless the gas is completely vented.”
“Then what the hell happened?”
“I don’t know. But they said one of the animals didn’t die.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guy who manages the place—Jay somebody—he said that when they found her on the floor, there was a kitten sitting next to her.”
“You mean from the gas chamber—one of the animals they euthanized?”
“Yeah. The cat didn’t die.”
“Oh, my God! Do you think that did it? Caused her to go into cardiac arrest?”
“Who knows? I’ve heard it can happen.”
“She’s so young, though. And does seem to be in good shape.”
“She should bounce back pretty quick then. All things considered.”
“Yeah. Wanna go for coffee?”
“You read my mind.”
FROM THE DESK OF TORY TROY
October 21, 2002
Jacob Slezak, Manager
Waterbridge Animal Shelter
167 Gilman Place
New Haven CT 06510
Dear Jake,
This letter is to inform you that I, Victoria Troy, do hereby resign my position at the Waterbridge Animal Shelter, effective immediately.
Sincerely,
Victoria A. Troy
362 Elizabeth Anne Road • New Haven, CT 06512
(203) 790-1953 • [email protected]
Epilogue
Saturday, November 2, 2002
All Souls’ Day
The young woman sits, chin on knees, staring out at the water.
The rock on which she sits is dark gray and cold, with tendrils of seaweed and patches of lichen clinging to it.
She does not move as she gazes at the horizon.
She does not notice the chill November air; she does not smell the brine; she does not listen to the sluicing of the waves.
But her eyes see more now.
The heart attack did not kill her, although it did spur her to quit a job she thought she had been able to handle.
She relives that day over and over; sometimes in the night when the trees move and the branches scratch the panes of her bedroom windows; sometimes in the afternoon, when driving to the store or bending to empty out the dryer; sometimes in early morning, when her new kitten, sleeping beside her, wakes up and climbs onto her chest to signal it’s time to eat.
She relives the moment she opened the heavy door and saw the bodies of the dead animals—all of them lying on their sides, their eyes closed…
She relives the moment she heard the sad, frail sound of a tiny white-and-black kitten crying.
She relives the moment she looked down and saw it—sitting between two dead dogs, its tail wrapped around its body in fear
, looking up at her, its wide eyes pleading.
And then Tory relives—what? She still doesn’t know what she experienced. She still doesn’t fully understand what happened to her in that dark time when she was … someplace else. So she focuses instead on the transformation it caused, though she can’t forget the … the details … the people she didn’t know, the voices she had never heard before, the bizarre, free-floating scenarios, the fears, the sadness …
The details.
She doesn’t remember Marcy finding her, unconscious on the floor in front of the chamber, her heart literally shocked into silence, the kitten mewing beside her.
She remembers awakening in the hospital, but she doesn’t remember the shouts before that, or the EMTs, or the ambulance, or the tears of her coworkers and her mother.
Later, she thought about what had happened, about what she lived through in those unreal … what? seconds? minutes? ages? when her heart wasn’t beating. She thought about the horror of what she had done, her talks with Dr. Bexley, the trial, and the verdict. And yes, she thought about watching her prone body from above as she received the lethal injection … and how, for a millisecond, she saw herself lying below on the floor in front of the euthanasia chamber. She remembered sensing her soul separating from her body and traveling into a realm of light, the kaleidoscope of images and voices that rushed through her consciousness—a ball of light that appeared behind her newly luminous eyes until all of time stood still. And then she thought about awakening in the hospital and the sight of her mother’s terrified face when she opened her eyes.
Tory stares at the horizon, not seeing the ponderous drift of a hull-down tanker, the whitecaps, or the soaring arcs of the Caspian terns with their shiny black crests. Instead, her eyes see more: the glorious light, the boundless sky, the dark maria of a diurnal moon.
There is a rock in these waters and her mind turns to it often. It will be there for eons, there where she once hurled it, the water washing over it with every tidal swing.
Tory feels a stirring against her chest and looks down. Bexley is awake, curled in the baby carrier, and he wants to be fed. Now.
She scratches him behind his ear, smiling at the purr coming from deep inside the little body, and rises to her feet.
Her hair is a little longer now. As a chill wind ruffles it, she wonders momentarily if she should get it cut.
She stares out at the water one last time, the vivid colors of refracted light on the waves looking surreal to her.
Her clear green eyes squint against the wind as she turns away from this bright, cold place.
Dialogues Page 26