She dared to broach the subject with him now. “Michael, how do you see our relationship—I mean if we ‘try again,’ as you say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would . . . would it be as friends? Or… as a brother and a sister?”
He looked downcast and his voice was tinged with frustration. “Is that how you see us now, Claire? As a brother and sister?”
“Oh, Michael, I don’t know. I’m so confused. . . .”
He took her hands in his again, gripping them tightly. “Claire, you surely know it was more than a platonic love I felt . . . I feel for you. I love you, Claire.” His words were ragged with emotion.
Despite her caution, her heart soared at his words. And yet her joy at hearing him declare his love with such feeling didn’t change anything. Not really.
“Michael, I don’t know what to say. I can’t… I just don’t see how it could ever work between us.” She heard the words come from her mouth and immediately wanted to snatch them back. She wished she could fall into his arms and pretend none of this had ever happened. But she didn’t. Instead, she steeled herself and repeated the words woodenly, as much for her own benefit as for his. “I don’t think it could ever work between us.”
Michael slowly loosened his grip on her hands, placing them purposefully back into her lap. Standing, he zipped his jacket and shoved his hands back into his gloves, then covered the distance to the front door with long strides. With his hand on the knob, he turned and looked deeply into her eyes.
“I can’t force my love on you, Claire. I can’t force you to love me back.”
His voice held no anger, but to her it seemed cold and abrupt. He opened the door and was gone.
But I do love you, Michael. I do love you, her thoughts pleaded.
She went to the window and pulled back the curtain. Numbly, she watched as he disappeared into the encroaching shadows of dusk, remembering another day long ago when she'd peered through a curtain and watched him go away, out of her life. She sank to her knees and wept.
Chapter 19
Michael returned to work Monday morning. The events he'd been forced to relive over the past days and weeks—and then Claire’s rejection of him—had taken a heavy toll. He was confused and depressed, still not able to understand why things had happened as they had. Yet, physically and emotionally exhausted as he was, he knew it would be better to go on with his life—to maintain his regular work schedule, to continue the activities in which he normally participated—rather than seclude himself in his grief. And it was, he realized, grief. That had always seemed such a strong word, reserved for death. Yet the numbing disbelief; the physical ache in the pit of his stomach, were no less real than the pain he'd felt after his grandfather’s torturous death.
Seeing Claire again had made him realize how deeply he did love her. He wasn’t sure he could ever see her as Kitty Anderson. And wasn’t that a good thing? The Claire he loved was the shy, sweet, thoughtful strawberry blonde who laughed at his jokes, who sometimes seemed to understand him better than he understood himself, who took delight in the smallest pleasures of life: sledding on a snowy hillside, a game of Scrabble, a shared cup of cocoa. The Claire he loved was the woman whose touch thrilled him, whose hand fit so perfectly in his own. Not the little girl whose face he could scarcely recall. That dim memory from the past had nothing to do with them—with Claire and him.
He had held such hope for a future with her. He had felt they belonged together. How could he have been so wrong? It was unimaginable to him that this was happening all over again, just like it had happened countless times in his childhood. Just like it had happened with Michelle back in college. Like a drowning animal, he clawed desperately to find a foothold, to find again the peace he'd known when Michelle had told him she loved someone else. His mind knew that peace had been real, but deep in a secret place in his heart anger rose up to strangle him.
Did God not want him to be happy? Was He some cruel trickster who sat up in heaven and held out enticing bits of hope in human packages, only to grab them out of reach just when he opened a trusting hand to accept the gift?
In the dead quiet of his apartment the night after he left Claire’s, he raised his fist and shouted at the ceiling. “I don’t understand, God. I don’t get it. Why are you doing this to me again? Haven’t I suffered enough?”
He ranted and wept. And then it came. Not an answer, certainly. Not an overwhelming peace. But in the silence after the tears and questions, a simple assurance. A knowledge that said, I have everything under control. It’s not for you to try to understand. Only know that I am here. And I will never leave you.
He would pray for Claire every minute, but he could not allow himself to fantasize about a future with her. If God’s plan for Michael Meredith’s future did not include Claire Anderson . . . well, he couldn’t let himself think about that now. He would have to be content to live each day as it was given to him.
In the way that it was a relief to resume a routine after a funeral, it felt good to walk through the doors of Riverview Monday morning. It didn’t change the fact that something terrible had happened, but there was comfort in the familiar after the foreignness of tragedy. Getting back into the schedule of work would keep him focused on something other than his problems, on something other than Claire.
After sorting through the mountain of mail that had accumulated on his desk in his absence, he walked over to the residential apartments. He took a quick tour through the hallways, stopping off in the central lobby to visit with the residents who gathered there for coffee each morning. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. He was even able to joke and banter with an elderly couple who had taken a particular liking to him. He was struck once again by how much he enjoyed this part of his job. These people were the reason he found such fulfillment in his work, he reminded himself. His loss notwithstanding, there were still small joys to be found in life.
With a lighter step, he headed back toward the nursing-care unit where his office was located. As he passed the construction site where the new senior center was rising from the earth, he noticed how much had been accomplished in his short absence. In just a week’s time, the exterior work had been nearly completed and there was a beehive of activity inside the building as workers began to lay the flooring and prepare to do the finishing work.
He resisted the temptation to go inside and take a closer look. Beth VanMeter would be in the office around nine, and he was anxious to talk to her and Vera Johanssen to find out how things had gone while he was away. After his time in Springfield, he felt ready to take on the challenges of this job anew. He prayed it would offer distraction and consolation.
The weeks went by quickly and Michael stayed occupied with the activities surrounding the completion of the senior center. One entire week was spent moving in and rearranging furniture and equipment between the old fellowship room and the new center.
A dedication and open house were scheduled for a Sunday afternoon late in April. It took a hectic pace to finish everything on time, but the day turned out to be a huge success. A record number of visitors toured the facility, and the reaction of the public was more favorable than Michael could have hoped for.
By the time he got home after the clean-up Sunday evening, he felt he might sleep for a week. He did, in fact, sleep late the next morning. It was almost nine when he arrived at the office. He headed down the hallway to Vera Johanssen’s office, anxious to revel with her in the success of the weekend’s event.
Vera looked up from her desk as he walked through the door, and he knew from her face that something was wrong.
“Michael, thank God you’re here.”
“What is it, Vera?” He felt bile rise in his throat. Please, God, not now.
Vera picked up a narrow advertising flyer from her desk and handed it to him. He glanced at the pamphlet and back at Vera, questioning her wordlessly. He held in his hand an announcement of a lecture to be given in St. Louis by a me
mber of the Hemlock Society, an organization that actively promoted euthanasia. Even a cursory scan of the flyer revealed the society’s radical agenda for promoting assisted suicide and what they termed “death with dignity.”
“Ollie brought that to me first thing this morning,” she explained.
He turned the paper over in his hands, willing himself to stay calm. “Would Ollie understand what this was all about, Vera?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I know he reads a little bit, and I know he comprehends more than you might think, but. . . not this. I don’t think this . . .”
“Did you ask him where he got it?”
“No. I’m afraid I intimidated him with my reaction. He became very upset, and after that I couldn’t make any sense of what he was saying.”
“Have you talked with any of the nurses who worked last night?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“That was probably wise.”
He skimmed over the flyer again and threw it on his desk in disgust. “I can’t believe anyone would bring something like that to work.”
He shook his head in dismay, then mentally checked himself. It wasn’t fair or rational to jump to conclusions. “Of course, it’s entirely possible that whoever brought this in was just as appalled by the subject as we are. Anyone could have picked up this type of brochure. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything . . .” He let the sentence drop unfinished.
“No, it could be perfectly innocent,” Vera admitted, but her voice was devoid of conviction.
“But you don’t think so?”
Vera shook her head.
“How would Ollie have gotten hold of it?” He thought for a minute. “I suppose I should try to talk with him.”
Vera nodded. “I think he’s working on the east wing today.”
Oliver Moon was washing windows in the day room on the east wing. His back was turned to the wall, so Michael stood out of sight and watched him for a few minutes.
Meticulously, the diminutive man ran a squeegee down each window, then took a chamois from the pocket of his coveralls and polished each pane of glass until it sparkled. The entire time he worked, he muttered and mumbled unintelligibly to himself.
There were only three residents in the day room, but one began to complain loudly about the “racket” Ollie was making when she saw Michael. “It’s bad enough we have to sit in this drafty hole all day,” Ethel Manning screeched. “Do we have to listen to his jibberty jabber, too?”
Ignoring her, Michael cleared his throat and approached Ollie.
The man turned, his eyes wide.
“Sorry, Ollie. Didn’t mean to scare you. Could I talk to you for a minute?”
Immediately Ollie began wringing his hands. “Ar sorr . . . Ar shu-up . . . Ar sorr . . . Murmuff. . .” he mumbled.
Michael realized that Ollie thought he was being reprimanded for disturbing Ethel Manning. Putting a hand on his shoulder, Michael steered him into the hallway and out of hearing of the day room.
“No, Ollie. You don’t need to apologize. I’m not upset with you.” Michael cocked his head toward the day room. “I’m sure Ethel would find something to gripe about even if you didn’t say a word.”
The nearly toothless mouth split into a broad grin, and Ollie’s rounded belly shook with silent laughter.
Michael smiled and motioned toward the corridor. “Let’s go down to the cafeteria. It’ll be quieter there. I have something I want to talk to you about.”
Ollie merely nodded and shuffled obediently alongside the administrator.
True to Michael’s prediction, the cafeteria was deserted at this hour between coffee breaks and lunch. He pulled out a chair and motioned for Ollie to sit down. Michael sat across from him at the small table.
“Are you a coffee drinker? Can I get you a cup?”
Ollie shook his head.
Slipping the pamphlet from his suit pocket, Michael laid it on the table in front of the older man. In the gentlest voice he could find, he told her, “I want to talk to you about this, Ollie.”
Oliver Moon hung his head as though ashamed.
Michael put a hand on the narrow shoulder. “I’m not angry with you, Ollie.”
“Ver. Ver.” He wagged a finger, obviously pantomiming what he perceived as Vera’s scolding.
“No. I just talked with Vera and she’s not angry, either. She just had some questions. I need to ask you some questions about this paper. Do you know what this writing is about?”
Silence.
“Where did you get this, Ollie? Did someone give it to you?”
Slowly the white-blond head wagged back and forth.
“Can you tell me where you got it, Ollie?”
The little man became agitated. Stuttering more than usual, he finally spat out, “Shar . . . shar . . . charner…”
“I’m sorry, Ollie, I don’t understand. Sharpener?”
He shook his head adamantly. “Uhnn,” he grunted. “Charners . . . mah sacks. Mah sacks . . . ners…” He made a vigorous motion with his hand as though he were throwing something on the floor.
“I’m sorry, Ollie. Are you saying nurse? Did you get this from a nurse? Can you tell me which nurse gave it to you, Ollie?”
“Nah. Nah. Charp-ner,” he repeated, growing more distressed. “Mah sacks. Aarp-ners,” he tried again, complete with the hand motions.
It was obvious that Oliver Moon knew he'd not made himself understood clearly, but Michael felt he was too distraught to take any more questioning. He pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Thank you, Ollie. I appreciate your help.”
Ollie seemed near tears.
“Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong, all right? Everything’s okay. Thank you for your help. Do you mind if I keep this?” he asked, pointing at the brochure.
Ollie pushed it across the table toward Michael as though it were a hot potato.
At home that night, Michael typed EUTHANASIA into his laptop’s browser. Thousands of hits. He read a few thoughtful exposes on medical ethics and he’d read numerous accounts of people who’d helped a terminally ill loved one end their lives. How could those two terms even go together? Loved one and suicide? It was inconceivable to him.
And yet, increasingly, it was legal, starting with the Netherlands’ supposed “success” in ushering in legal physician-assisted suicide in the eighties. In 2000, it was formally legalized, and since then, it had been like watching dominoes fall. Even here in the U.S.
Michael had skimmed snippets of a book that was essentially a handbook of various methods of “self-deliverance,” as that volume referred to suicide and euthanasia. The book included lists of lethal dosages and methods—legal and otherwise—for obtaining sufficient quantities of the necessary drugs.
But surely no one in a sleepy little town like Hanover Falls would desire to read such a book? He certainly didn’t condone censorship, but that some publisher had deemed this a topic worthy of publishing widely seemed to Michael to be indefensible. The topic had been discussed in some of the college courses he'd taken toward his degree in social work, but he’d never dreamed it would become so personal. And of course, many of the continuing education seminars he attended offered a workshop or lecture on euthanasia. But he’d never attended them. Never seriously thought he would face the question head-on in this quiet, conservative Midwestern town.
Frighteningly, after voters in the state of Oregon had ratified a decision to legalize physician-assisted suicide, and then a Michigan physician known as “Dr. Death” attended and assisted in numerous suicides, apparently immune to the law, those dominoes started to fall hard and fast. Five states now recognized some sort of physician-assisted suicide—legal euthanasia! It seemed unbelievable.
Still, regardless of those threatening inroads, for the vast majority of the nation—including here in Missouri—euthanasia and physician-assisted suicide remained illegal.
Michael struggled to remember the details i
n the medical files of Frederick Halloran that he'd destroyed. Was there a connection? Had Vera Johanssen been right all along? Was there something suspicious about that patient’s death? If so—if there was even a remote possibility that someone at Riverview had acted on the beliefs espoused in these books and in Ollie’s pamphlet—those actions went far beyond the prevailing definition of euthanasia. Evil though it was in his eyes, physician-assisted suicide did at least purport to require the consent of the patient involved. Frederick Halloran had never been in any condition to make a rational decision concerning his own death. Halloran had been out of his mind, his cries for help a visceral reaction to unrelieved pain. If his death had been hastened, it could not be labeled anything other than murder. The thought chilled him.
He printed out a few pages he wanted to study further, but it was after midnight when he finally closed his laptop and headed for bed, deeply disturbed. But sleep came fitfully and his dreams were even darker than usual.
Chapter 20
The following morning found Michael in Vera’s office telling her what he had—or hadn’t—learned from Oliver Moon.
“You know how hard it is to understand him,” he told the director of nursing. “I feel sorry for the poor guy. He gets so frustrated trying to get the words out. All I could make out was what sounded like ‘sharpeners’ and something about sacks. Does that mean anything to you?”
Vera shook her head slowly, thinking.
He thought for a moment, then abruptly asked, “Vera, would Ollie know the difference between a registered nurse and an LPN or an aide?”
“Oh yes,” Vera replied with a low chuckle and an adamant nod of her head. “Oliver Moon knows exactly whose orders carry the most weight around here.”
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