Dying Wishes

by Judith K Ivie

  “It’s what Sister Marguerite would call a sin of omission,” I said, warming to the theme. “It’s not a big deal even to the Church. It’s more like a little white lie to save their feelings.”

  “Uh huh,” said Strutter, unconvinced.

  Margo was smiling full out now. “I like it. We settle the kid’s hash and shut up the rumor-mongers at the same time. Then what?”

  “If we’re lucky, we get Tommy his job back,” I told her.

  Fifteen

  Before I tackled the grocery shopping on Saturday morning, I made a quick stop at the party store to pick up a couple of masks for Margo and me. I selected a black cat, complete with beautiful, sparkly whiskers, for Margo and a vampire number with fangs for me. Next, I picked up a few DVDs at the video store. I concealed everything under a folded tarpaulin I kept in my trunk and proceeded to the Stop & Shop, the picture of suburban domesticity.

  Armando and I passed the afternoon peacefully, he doing his overdue laundry and I slogging dutifully through the questionnaires Gerald MacRae had asked me to complete before seeing him again. One had to do with my living will. It could be considered only a request to my doctor, not a legal order, but it allowed me to make my wishes about not being kept alive on a respirator and not extending my life through other artificial means clear. It also addressed things like pain management, organ donation and disposal of my remains. The second questionnaire was preparatory to creating a durable power of attorney for health care, which would assign someone else the authority to make decisions for me if I was unable to. Again, it concerned only the cessation of treatment, such as the use of feeding tubes, but it was legally enforceable and would prevent my ending up like poor Terri Schiavo. Since Armando, Emma and Joey were well aware of my feelings on that subject, I had no hesitation in volunteering them for that task.

  As I worked I thought long and hard about the people I had known who had not died well, thanks to their well-meaning but misguided loved ones who believed that life should be extended by every available means, regardless of the individual’s preferences. Their definition of “life” clearly was not mine, and I refused to allow myself to be at the mercy, at the end, of people whose beliefs are not mine.

  Certainly, I trusted my doctor, my husband and my children to respect my wishes, but who knew if any of them would be available at the time I needed their support? Strangers might be the ones who had to make the tough decisions. My wishes in writing, signed and notarized, would help them do that.

  I researched such things as hospice care, voluntary refusal of food and fluid, and yes, even euthanasia. Instead of feeling depressed I found myself strangely empowered by knowing the options that are available. The knowledge of them doesn’t compel me to make a choice right at the moment. It simply equips me to make the best possible choice for myself when the time comes.

  My task was completed by dusk. I showered quickly and changed into a black turtleneck, slacks and flat shoes suitable for the various activities my evening would include.

  When John and Margo arrived, I was amused to see her similarly dressed. John looked from one to the other of us. “You two look like cat burglars ready to head out for an evening prowl. Should I be concerned here?” His tone was bantering, but he looked closely at Margo.

  She tittered nervously while I fidgeted, uncomfortable under John’s scrutiny. Fortunately, Armando chose that moment to join us. He carried an enormous bag of tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa.

  “Do you think that will tide you over until we bring back the pizza?” I asked, smirking at Margo. “We need to pick up some DVDs, so we’ll be a little while.”

  “We will be fine, Cara. Do not worry about us. The U.S. soccer team is playing the Argentines on ESPN.”

  John’s eyes lit up, and he hustled into the family room after Armando. “See you later,” he threw over his shoulder.

  Margo and I bumped knuckles in the hall and made our escape through the kitchen and into the garage. “What did I tell you?” I exulted.

  “Yes, but how are we going to pick out DVDs, order pizza and pick it up, and still fit in our visit to Vista View before they miss us?”

  “Are you kidding?” Those games go on forever. They won’t even know we’re gone. Besides, I already have the DVDs, and the pizza is ordered for pick-up at eight-fifteen,” I retorted as I rummaged in the car trunk for my earlier purchases. “Let’s do this.”

  The visitors’ parking lot at Vista View was overflowing with guest cars. We had to leave the Jetta on one of the side streets and walk back to Building One. Margo was enchanted with her sexy cat mask, and I was pleased with my vampire get-up, as well. It was fun to have a reason to dress up and be bad girls headed for a showdown with our arch nemesis.

  As Bert had predicted, the party was in full swing in the elaborately decorated dining room. The tables now rimmed a large dance floor, and each one bore a grinning jack-o’-lantern, lit from within by a flickering, battery-operated candle. Skeletons and cobwebs festooned the walls and dangled from the ceiling while energetic dancers, all masked and many in full costume, gyrated to oldies blasting from a jukebox. I was relieved not to see Ginny Preston in attendance; nor were the Grants and the MacRaes present. It was just as well.

  Not surprisingly, I spotted Bert in the center of the action and waved. He lifted his Batman mask and waved back. Margo and I were tempted to join in the fun, but we were here on a mission, and time was ticking by.

  “Where’s Sandy?” Margo mouthed over the music as we scanned the room. After another minute I spotted her blonde bob behind a huge punch bowl at the serving counter. She was wearing a Marilyn Monroe mask and a bustier that was keeping the men she was serving enthralled. Whatever she was ladling into their proffered paper cups was apparently adding to their enjoyment, which surprised me. Surely spirits—the alcoholic kind—would be frowned upon at a Vista View function. Still, I was certain there was more than one flask among the party-goers, and punch bowls were always fair game for spiking.

  Slowly, Margo and I moved in. We helped ourselves to paper cups and joined the throng around the punch bowl, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal ourselves to Sandy. Just as we reached the serving table, there was a pause in the music as the jukebox changed selections. We looked at each other and pounced.

  I ripped off my vampire mark and leaned in. “The next time you have a message for me, Sandy, have the guts to deliver it in person. Painting it on the front door of a place of business constitutes malicious mischief in this town, you know.”

  Margo removed her cat mask and glared at the hapless girl who stood motionless, ladle in hand, staring at us. “And how stupid do you have to be, not to mention heartless, to steal a police officer’s dog who never did you a moment’s harm? For your information, I had nothin’ whatsoever to do with your boyfriend losin’ his job. Any tales that were told about Tommy Garcia came from some silly busybodies here who need more to occupy their minds, not from me. Tommy is a fine, decent young man, which makes me wonder what he wants with a sorry piece of work like you, Sandy.”

  With infinite caution, the Marilyn Monroe mask was lifted, and we found ourselves face to face with Suzanne, one of the maids with whom I had shared a table the previous day.

  “Police officer?” she repeated incredulously. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She shifted her affronted gaze to me, and I cringed.

  “Ooops,” said Margo. At that moment the real Sandy came through the door leading from the kitchen, bearing a platter of cookies. She took one look at Margo and me, dropped the platter to the floor with a crash, and took off back to the kitchen at a dead run.

  Once again, music blared from the jukebox, but dancing and conversation died as the revelers tried to figure out the players in our little melodrama. Before they could do so, however, a real drama erupted at the back of the dance floor.

  “Page emergency services,” someone hollered. The crowd parted, and I was horrified to see Bert crumpled on the fl
oor in a heap. Instinctively, I moved toward him, but Margo held me back. The Vista View staff members scrambled to their tasks, obviously well trained to handle such emergencies, and the best thing we could do was stay out of their way. Mercifully, someone pulled the plug on the jukebox.

  Within minutes a team of paramedics arrived. Accompanying them was a tall, gray-haired man carrying a black bag that identified him as a physician. “Dr. Petersen, I presume?” Margo murmured.

  At some level I registered the fact that the elusive Dr. Petersen was at last in our presence, but I was too concerned about Bert to pay Petersen much attention. As the paramedics gently placed Bert on a gurney, I was struck by how slight and frail he seemed now, when only minutes ago he had been the life of the party. Without being aware that I did so, I worked my way to the front of the crowd, willing him to be all right.

  The medical team worked together efficiently to strap Bert to the gurney, set up an intravenous line and attach a variety of electronic monitors to his still form. After ascertaining that he was stable enough to move, the paramedics rolled the gurney slowly through the crowd that parted to make way for them. Dr. Petersen followed, barking orders into a cell phone. As the little procession passed me, I was startled to see that Bert’s eyes were open and alert. He motioned to the paramedics to stop.

  “Sorry, Gorgeous. Our dance will have to wait. Unavoidable delay,” he apologized.

  To my chagrin a tear rolled down my face. “Another time,” I whispered.

  “Have a great birthday, if I don’t happen to see you,” he added with a wink as the gurney moved forward again.

  Margo came to stand beside me and give me a hug. Now that Bert and his medical team had left the building, the bystanders turned curious eyes to us.

  “Bert’s in good hands, Sugar. I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Right now, you and I have some serious amends to make.” She jerked her head toward the serving station where Suzanne still stood looking totally dumbfounded.

  “Right,” I said. I swiped my sleeve over my face and went to eat my fair share of crow. “Do you think we could persuade Strutter to staff the sales desk on Monday?” I pleaded, aware of the disapproving looks and whispers following us. “I believe we’ve had enough of Vista View for a while.”

  “And vice versa,” Margo muttered unhappily. “You know, now that I come to think of it, I wasn’t very good at this in high school either.”

  ~

  “You were where?”

  “You did what?”

  Despite their ethnic differences, John and Armando looked remarkably alike as they paced before us in the family room. It had taken us more than an hour to extricate ourselves from the crush of exiting guests and cars and pick up our overdone dinner at Village Pizza on Old Main Street. It lay untouched on the kitchen table.

  Margo and I stood by the sofa. We were bad girls, all right, summoned to the principal’s office to explain our behavior, only there were two principals, and so far, we weren’t doing too well with the explanation part. It didn’t help that I burst into tears the minute I saw Armando and blurted out an extremely garbled account of what had occurred. His sympathy lasted until I confessed that we had mistakenly confronted the wrong Vista View employee, not the one who had vandalized the Law Barn door and stolen Rhett Butler. The choking sounds coming from Margo reminded me that John and Armando were not totally up to speed on the events of the past few days.

  Armando handed me a box of tissues, and Margo yanked me down on the sofa rather harder than necessary, I thought. I blew my nose and gulped. Armando looked really, really mad—the kind of hardcore angry that he could radiate successfully without saying a word. I’d had occasion to experience it once or twice before.

  “It was just a little latex paint,” I offered weakly. “It washed right off, no big deal. God knows we’ve received worse threats in the past.”

  Margo pinched me as Armando’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I am well aware of the previous threats received by you and your friends. So are most of the emergency personnel in Hartford County with whom we are now on a first name basis. If it would not be too much trouble for you to tell me the truth, I would like to hear about this particular threat.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at me.

  John stepped forward. “And I am more than a little curious about our dog apparently being stolen. Were you ever planning to tell me about that?” He actually shook his finger in Margo’s face. Predictably, she snorted, and I got a fit of the giggles.

  “Uh oh, Ethel, I think we’re really in trouble this time. Fred and Ricky might cut off our allowances,” I gasped, holding my sides.

  “Why do you always get to be Lucy? It’s my turn to be the cute redheaded one,” Margo complained. We held onto each other and howled as our husbands deflated in confusion.

  They stared at us, disgusted. “They’re hysterical,” John decided.

  Armando shrugged. “I am hungry. Let us see if we can salvage some of that pizza.” They stalked into the kitchen to forage, leaving us to recover as we would.

  “Oh, my god, they looked so funny,” I spluttered, and we laughed until we cried.

  ~

  By the time we were all fed and order was restored, Armando and John had received a full and truthful account of the events of the week. Once they were persuaded that we had not been stalked by some homicidal maniac but were instead the victims of a young woman who was mad at us because she thought we had dissed her boyfriend, they regained their good humor. Full stomachs helped a lot, as it always seems to with men.

  We sat sipping wine in front of the fireplace, my hastily selected DVDs forgotten.

  “Did you ever clear the air with this Sandy person?” John wanted to know.

  “As a matter of fact, we didn’t. She took one look at us, dropped a plate of cookies and high-tailed it back to the kitchen. We looked for her after we apologized to poor Suzanne, but she was long gone,” I told him.

  “I believe she got our message nevertheless,” Margo added. “The poor kid is probably shakin’ in her shoes thinkin’ about Monday. She knows one of us will be there, and then what will happen? Bet she calls in sick.”

  “First of all, neither of us will be there, Strutter will. I think you, me, Sandy and Ginny need some space. Then we can have a little straightforward conversation about appropriate and inappropriate behavior, which is probably what we should have done in the first place,” I said.

  “Not that the two of you are exactly role models in that regard,” John couldn’t help adding, and Armando chortled appreciatively. We accepted the barb without comment. We deserved it.

  “Movie, anyone?” Armando asked. He was a night owl and often stayed up until the wee hours, watching television.

  Margo looked as sleepy as I felt. “Sorry, Sugar, but I’ve had about all the drama I can take for one evenin’.” She got to her feet, and John did the same.

  “I have to say it was an interesting one, was it not?” said Armando as we showed them to the door.

  “Yeah, let’s do it again real soon,” John agreed with heavy sarcasm. The two men laughed again.

  Margo hugged me goodnight. “Well, at least the boys are bondin,’” she whispered, and we shared a final giggle.

  Sixteen

  Late Sunday morning Emma and I sat on our favorite bench outside the Keeney Memorial on Old Main Street. We were sipping hot coffee and licking sticky bun crumbs off our fingers. Despite the carbohydrate indulgence, we felt virtuous, having completed a brisk walk down to the Wethersfield Cove and back before stopping in at the diner. Along the way I regaled Emma with a recap of Margo’s and my adventures of the previous evening.

  She grinned at me over her coffee cup. “And you wonder where I got the mischief gene.”

  “Oh, I never wondered for a minute. I just hoped you would eventually outgrow it, as I thought I finally had. I have to say, though, I sort of enjoy knowing there’s still a bit of the devil in me.”

  “Hard to believe y
ou’re about to turn fifty,” she agreed.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” I growled, but with a smile.

  We were quiet for a while, savoring the late autumn sunshine and the small town ambience of Old Wethersfield on a Sunday morning. A block away the doors of the First Church of Christ flew open, releasing the faithful from their weekly gathering. Strains of an exuberant recessional, played on an impressive pipe organ, followed them and brought me back to my childhood.

  “Did I ever tell you that my grandfather was the organist and choirmaster at St. Matthew’s Lutheran Church in New Britain?”

  “Really, which grandfather?”

  “My father’s father. He’s the only grandparent I ever knew, and he died when I was eleven or twelve.”

  We watched the congregants file out. Several walked directly across the street to the diner, no doubt desperate for coffee. Most headed for their cars, intent on getting home to put the final touches on the big Sunday dinner that was still a tradition here.

  “What was he like, do you remember?”

  I thought back. “Not really. What I knew about him came mostly from my mom, and to hear her tell it, Grampa was something of a terror,” I chuckled. “I thought he was terrific, but that was mainly because he gave each grandchild ten dollars every Christmas.”

  “Whooee, ten whole dollars!”

  “Hey, that was a lot of money to a kid back then,” I reminded her. “Joey and Justine’s little girl will be spoiled rotten, I imagine.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Everything is so different now, including families. Because of all the divorces and remarriages and what have you, most kids have a whole herd of grandparents, and Allison will be no exception. In addition to Justine’s parents, she’ll have your dad and Sheila and Armando and me. Her biggest problem will be trying to keep our names straight.”