“No, it’s fine.” Simon forced a small smile, though really he would have appreciated his previous solitude.
“I wondered how you were getting on. How is Sarah?”
Simon gave a little sigh. “Close to the end.”
Duncan nodded. “I see. How are you bearing up? I haven’t seen you for sometime.”
“I’m alright, I suppose. How is one supposed to be? I’m going through the motions. I’m still making myself have a shave. I suppose that’s something.” Simon gave another tight smile. Describing grief was exhausting.
“You know, Simon, it is an unhappy part of my job that I have dealings with a lot of people who are grieving. I know it’s difficult to talk about. Tiresome, actually. When my own mother died I grew quite sick of reassuring people that I was okay. I most certainly wasn’t, but one felt one had a duty to put their minds at rest. Quite ridiculous.”
Simon looked at his friend. His interest peaked only slightly in his lethargy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that your mother had died. Yes, it is rather repetitive. Though I realize that people mean well.”
Duncan chuckled. “Oh, I’m not sure that they do.”
Simon raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“Don’t get me wrong. They think they do. And they most certainly don’t mean any harm. No, what I find is they’re normally reassuring themselves that there is nothing they can do. Grief is distressing; people seem worried it might be catching. They ask if you are alright, when of course the answer is that you are not. You say yes anyway, as they know you will, and then they feel absolved of duty. Don’t blame them. You’ve probably done the same thing yourself.”
“Did you feel angry when your mother died?” Simon watched a last ray of the evening sun as it shone through a stained glass window, creating a dapple on the stone aisle ahead. “I feel so damned angry at the moment. With everyone. Everything. Did you get over it?”
“I certainly did feel angry, though mostly with myself. Yes. I did get over it. Though it took me most of forty years. I was only sixteen when she died. It was my fault, actually. Hello, Porridge. Have you come for a stroke?”
“Your fault? I’m sure it wasn’t.” Simon trotted out the platitude almost without thought.
“Oh, it was. I had been smoking in the sitting room after a party. I didn’t put the butt out properly. My father, brother and I escaped. Mother did not.”
Simon’s jaw dropped. “God. I mean – I'm so sorry. How awful. How bloody awful.” He looked away awkwardly.
The two men sat in companionable silence. Some time passed until Simon spoke. “Do you believe in Heaven, Duncan?”
“I do.”
“Fluffy clouds and pearly gates?”
“No. I very much doubt it. But I’m sure that our souls go on and that somewhere we meet our maker.”
“What about our loved ones? Those who have died before us?”
“Yes, I think we see them again. Perhaps not in this physical form, but I think our souls meet again.”
Simon bit his cheek in his habitual tic. “So what about hell? If heaven exists, is there a hell?”
Duncan frowned. “I certainly don’t think children go to hell.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Simon said.
“Okay.” Duncan paused. “My church, strictly speaking, believes in hell as a physical place. I can’t believe that. I don’t think there is a flaming place below, if that is what you are asking. I suspect that those who led a truly wicked life have greatly troubled souls and that those souls suffer for their wickedness in an afterlife. More than that, I don’t know. And trust me, Simon,” the kindly priest put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, “I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
Simon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “What about suicides? Do people who commit suicide go to heaven, Duncan? Or do they go to hell?”
Duncan took his hand off Simon’s shoulder and turned to look at the younger man. Simon steadily returned his gaze.
“I think, Simon, that it might depend on the case. Generally though, suicide is considered a rather selfish act.”
“Jesus committed suicide, did he not?”
Duncan looked up at the great stained glass window that stood over the altar of the church. It depicted Jesus turning water into wine at the wedding in Cana. “Jesus’ death was an act of martyrdom, not suicide.”
“What’s the difference?”
Duncan spoke slowly. “Well, a suicide is normally an act of desperation. It’s a selfish act, one in which the person is running away from something. A martyrdom is when a person allows their life to be taken for the greater good of others. One is selfish, one is selfless.”
“What if you wish to die for somebody else? What if you have made a promise?” Simon tipped his head back, looking unseeingly at the ceiling arched high above. “Then surely you would go to heaven.”
“Would that death cause more joy in the world, or more pain? What about those left behind? In the event that others are hurt, then no, Simon. I’m not sure that the death would warrant a place in heaven.” Duncan bent down and stroked the Labrador that lay at his feet again. His voice was soft when he spoke again. “Should I be worried about you, Simon?”
Simon shook his head. “Don’t worry about me.” He stood up. “I’m just in a peculiar mood. Thanks for talking to me, Duncan. I appreciate it. Come on, Porridge, it’s getting late and we’re walking back.”
Duncan stood as well, walking into the aisle and patting Porridge as Simon passed. “It never goes away, Simon. I’m not going to pretend that it does. But it becomes easier to cope. Day by day. You don’t forget, but you do learn to get on with your life. I know it doesn’t seem that way at the moment but…”
“I know. Life goes on.”
* * *
Duncan stood in the doorway of the church and watched his troubled parishioner wander up the road, his shoulders hunched, his head down.
He wished that he could call Melissa, but he knew that he mustn’t. Simon had chosen to speak to him, to ask him questions grounded in faith. Duncan had to respect his privacy.
Grief was a terrible thing, he mused. He turned back into the church, locking the heavy doors behind him. He had been intending to go straight home, to the shepherd’s pie and wifely warmth that awaited him across the road, but he decided to make a prayer first. A prayer that God would guide Simon, protect him from himself and grant him the power to see how needed he was on earth.
He’d call in on Simon the next day. Try to talk more with him. Remind him of the pain he’d cause his parents if he ended his life. Remind him that the last thing Sarah would want would be for her father to die. He had dealt with the suicidal before – sometimes successfully, twice sadly not.
No matter what, Duncan thought sadly, ultimately, it was Simon’s choice.
Chapter 30
STAY FOR GO FOR
Melissa Sarah
Mum and Dad Me?
Porridge
It was noon the day after Simon visited St Matthews. He was trying once again to finish an unpalatable Sainsbury’s egg sandwich before his afternoon flurry of patients began. His Stay For/Go For list lay before him. He had added ‘Me?’ to the ‘Go For’ side, but had since crossed it out.
What did he want? He wanted his daughter to be happy. If not here with him, at least to be happy somewhere. He stared at the list. That Sarah would simply cease to be was not a possibility he could face. It was too final, too blunt. Therefore, he had to believe that she would go on to another place. The only theological option he knew of was heaven.
If he killed himself (and he noted his dampened emotions seemed unmoved by the idea of leaving the world) would he, too, go to heaven? Would he know Sarah in the afterlife?
That suicide barred one entry to heaven was a common theory, but not necessarily an accurate one. Simon had led a previously good life. He had been kind, generous - unafraid to stand up for those weaker than himself. That he should gain entry to heaven in n
ormal circumstances seemed, to him, reasonably assured.
But if he died at his own hand? He looked at his list and thought of those he would leave behind. He would cause a great deal of pain. His parents, already grieving for their granddaughter – well, it would kill them. And Melissa? Melissa who was about to lose her daughter, her only child, a baby born after years of hope when it seemed conception would not happen.
He looked once again at the collection of photos on the wall of his office. Sarah beamed a gappy-toothed grin down on him – it was a school photo. He remembered that morning. She'd just lost that tooth before school.
Another frame held a wedding picture. The picture was taken inside the reception venue. The original plan had been to take photos outside the church, but that had been abandoned due to horrific weather. Simon smiled, admiring his bride. Melissa had looked wonderful as she had walked down the aisle, yet more wonderful still when she pulled on wellies in the church-porch to walk back to the hired car.
He thought of the Hindu bride he had seen on the steps of the Temple. It seemed impossible to believe that any tragedy could befall them. It had seemed impossible on that rainy day eighteen years ago to believe any misfortune would blight their lives. But here they were. Separated, barely talking and with a child who would shortly die.
Beside him, his phone vibrated, dancing across the desk. He picked it up, his voice gruff. “Hello?”
“Dr. Bailey? It’s Fiona at Madron House. You should come now. Sarah’s slipping away.”
Chapter 31
Robert, Melissa’s father, put down the Harry Potter novel he had been reading to his granddaughter. The heavy tome was the final installment of the series and Sarah’s visitors had been taking it in turns to read it to her.
Sarah’s eyes had closed and she was sleeping, one corner of her mouth twitched up into a half smile.
Melissa slept also, her chair pulled up to the bed, her head resting by Sarah’s. She held her little girl’s hand in her own.
Robert closed his eyes. They had come to the end of the book.
* * *
In his office, Simon put down the phone and stared at it for a few seconds. Then he put the lid on his pen and put it back in the pot on his desk. He straightened his papers and locked his prescription pad in the drawer. He stood and drifted towards his coat stand and took his jacket, as he had done so many times before. The vials of insulin in his breast pocket jingled cheerfully against each other.
His mind had gone blank. He felt numb. Weightless. He felt himself smile in the direction of the receptionist, who watched him walk calmly out of the surgery.
It was on a sub-level of consciousness that he started the Jaguar’s engine and headed out of the surgery car park, towards Madron House for the final time. The chirpy women on the radio’s traffic update blended unheeded into the usual cacophony of car journey sounds.
“Looks like we’ve got a gas leak on High Street guys, which has been shut down for the repairs, so watch out for heavy traffic on all routes out of town.”
But Simon didn’t hear anything at all. As he nosed the car through the traffic towards the hospice, he was hardly aware of the act of driving. In his mind he sat on the rug of their sitting room floor, building a Lego house with Sarah, amiably arguing about who should use the last red block.
* * *
Beside his daughter and his granddaughter, inside the sleeping Robert, sixty-eight years of enjoyable cheeses, cream, and Fruit and Nut bars were doing their work. Arteriosclerosis, a final layer of built up plaque, settled in his left artery, narrowing and hardened, the remaining elasticity of the tubular muscle ceasing. Blood gushed to the damaged tunnel, slowing considerably as it forced its way through the ever-tightening gap.
* * *
All around Simon traffic honked and blared, the gridlock inescapable as 30,000 office workers attempted to escape the drudgery of the week and head back home to light barbeques before the good weather disappeared again.
The temporary lights tripped back to red, letting only three cars through. The roar of angry commuters was audible on the street through open car windows, as the temporary lighting system let only three cars through. Snatches of different radio stations competed in the air, and drivers tapped impatiently on their car roofs, their shirts sticking to their backs, dark patches appearing beneath their arms.
Sitting at the head of the queue, untroubled by the rage around him, Simon smiled. In his mind, he helped Sarah arrange plastic trees around the Lego house.
* * *
Robert’s breathing slowed. The Harry Potter book slipped to his side. A nurse put her head around the door and smiled at the peaceful scene. Grandfather slept soundly in the armchair. Mum slept with her head resting on the bed. In the centre, Sarah lay quietly.
Inside Robert, somewhere around his ankle, a random platelet activated, adhering to the wall of a blood vessel before being joined by another sticky little platelet. They formed a tiny white clot, which began travelling with the blood stream, slowly making its way up through his tweed trouser-clad leg.
* * *
Pulling up into Madron House car park, Simon stopped and let his head fall back against the headrest. He closed his eyes briefly and sank back into his mind. He watched Sarah put a Lego man into the house. She smiled up at him, love and trust twinkling in her eyes.
Simon opened his eyes and turned off the engine. He got out of the car and strode towards the hospice entrance, past the fountain with its engraved pebbles. In Reception, he walked straight past the desk. “I’m here to see Sarah.”
The nurse leapt up, following him along the corridor. “Dr. Bailey, your wife and father-in-law are with Sarah. We don’t believe she has much longer. We rang the moment her vital signs began dropping. We’re making her as comfortable as we can. Can I get you a cup of tea?” She trailed off as she noticed his expression.
Simon looked up at her, smiling. Her words barely rippled the pool of tranquility that formed a seal over his emotions.
The nurse waited, braced for abuse, anguish or questions but none were forthcoming. “Right, well – I’ll take you down there.”
They padded down the thickly carpeted hallway, arriving at Sarah’s doorway in silence. The nurse smiled quickly at Simon, then opened the heavy door and led the way into the room.
Simon glanced at the two sleeping adults and walked over to the book, which now lay on the floor, next to Sarah’s sleeping grandfather. He picked it up.
“They finished it.”
“I’m sorry?” The nurse unhooked a bag from the stand.
“Nothing.”
“Should I?” The nurse gestured towards Robert.
“No, don’t wake him.”
Melissa stirred and looked up at Simon, bleary eyed. “Hey you.”
“Hey you.”
They exchanged a sad smile.
The nurse interrupted. “I’ll be at reception if you want anything. Just buzz.”
Melissa and Simon both nodded as the nurse left.
Simon gestured towards Robert. “Your dad managed to finish it then.”
Melissa looked at her father. “He’s been reading non-stop for three hours. He was determined to get to the end of the book.”
“What happened?”
“Harry Potter wins. He grows up, gets married.”
“Oh. Sarah will like that.”
A tear trickled down Melissa’s face. “Yes. She will.”
“Where’s your mum, Mel?”
“She’s on her way. She was shopping. We didn’t … Where’s your mum and dad?”
Simon lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I haven’t rung them yet. There doesn’t seem much point – I mean, I’d like it just to be us. You know.”
“Yeah. I know. My dad’s…”
“He’s asleep. Leave him.” Simon looked at Sarah, sleeping peacefully as he had seen her sleep a thousand times before.
There was something slightly different now. Her features had arranged
themselves into a mask of serenity. It was hard, looking at the little girl, to imagine she was feeling anything but quiet happiness and calm. Had Sarah been lying in her own whitewashed wooden bed with the hearts cut out of the headboard, it might have seemed as if she was sleeping after a long and exhausting day at the park.
He put his hand into his jacket pocket and closed his fingers around the four glass vials. Life saving, life ending. Simon knew what he must do.
For Simon realized that if wanted to see his daughter again, he would need to ensure his place in heaven. Hurting those who remained behind was not something that God – or Sarah - would want. He would see her again, one day. But for now he would have to wait.
The choice he thought he had had never really existed. To be a good man was the only option. A good man would never hurt those who loved him.
Simon moved to the corner of the room, lifted the one-way shutter lid of a sharps bin and let the ampoules fall from his hand into the irretrievable confines of the receptacle. He nodded to himself.
Returning to the bed, he gently moved the tube feeding morphine into the girl’s hand. Tenderly moving the drip over Sarah’s arm, he kicked off his shoes. Being careful not to wake or hurt her, he climbed onto the bed and wrapped himself around his sleeping daughter, his head cradled in his upper arm, his lips just grazing her ear.
Melissa held one of Sarah’s hands in her own. With her other, she took Simon’s.
* * *
In Robert, the tiny white mass was arriving at its destination. Like a piece of driftwood in a rain-engorged beck it stubbornly slammed against the entrance of the tunnel as it tried to pass through with the torrent. Unable to proceed, it blocked the passageway.
* * *
Simon squeezed Melissa’s hand. He could feel Sarah breathing - so very shallow - and his own breath sounded thunderous in comparison.
Simon's Choice Page 20