by James Dobson
She placed her hand on his gratefully.
“I forget things.”
“I’m here at your request,” he said in response, “to assist your transition.”
The explanation seemed to calm her further.
Matthew escorted Ms. Jackson back to the kitchen, where he carefully explained her own recent history based upon the data points listed on the assignment form.
“It looks like you contacted our office last month to initiate the approval process. We contacted your next of kin to confirm sound mind.” He paused to look at his client doubtfully before scanning the third entry. “And I see that we obtained both required digital signatures, yours and someone named Blake Jackson. Your brother?”
A thin smile crept onto Brianna’s face. “How is Blake?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him since…since…how long has it been?”
Matthew could only guess. “I would assume you saw him last week.”
“Did I?” she asked with an edge of self-disgust. “Forgive me. I forget things.”
Matthew looked at the next item. “And you decided to make Blake the sole beneficiary of your estate?” Lucky guy, Matthew thought, inheriting the world’s largest collection of useless rubbish.
Brianna gave no response. She appeared distracted, as if temporarily visiting a different time and place. “I miss Blake. Did he ever get approved for treatment?” she finally asked.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know,” Matthew answered, feeling an impatience rise that reminded him of conversations he had had with his mother two years before. “I just need to confirm one last detail before we proceed.”
Her glossy gaze returned to the present moment. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
To meet the legal requirements, Matthew read word for word the next item, which she might or might not have understood whenever she’d decided to volunteer.
“Ms. Jackson,” he began, “NEXT Inc. has reviewed and approved your request to participate in the beta-test phase of a new in-home transition assistance service. Despite the presence of a representative of our company, your transition will be categorized as a ‘Self-Administered Termination,’ described in Section 349 of the law commonly labeled the ‘Youth Initiative.’ My cooperation with your decision will be restricted to those services defined as ‘Aiding Volunteers’ and disposal of your remains will be handled in full compliance with the instructions detailed in Section 421 of the same statute. It is therefore understood that you assume complete responsibility to use the supplied kit as instructed and waive all right to hold NEXT Inc. liable for any unintended consequences of the procedure.”
Matthew looked up from the tablet to visually check Brianna’s comprehension. Then he tapped the first option on the screen: “Client Waives Liability.”
Matthew placed the tablet in front of the woman. “Please press your left thumb onto this square section here.”
She did.
“Perfect,” he said, pleased to properly complete the legality.
Nearly finished, and not a single mistake.
“So,” he continued, “I suppose we should move to the bathroom.”
“Oh,” she said, as if suddenly remembering her manners. “Just down the hall. First door on the left.”
He reached down to pick up the bag of supplies he had placed on the floor beside his chair, then stood. But she remained seated. He offered his arm, which she didn’t accept. He knelt into position to look her in the eyes. Then he placed a hand on hers.
“It’s perfectly normal to feel a bit scared,” he said. “But it will be painless. I promise.”
She returned his gaze. He didn’t sense relief. He sensed bewilderment.
Matthew felt a fleeting hesitation. What if she had changed her mind? Was he supposed to pack up and leave? Suggest a new appointment time? Fail on his first assignment?
Then he remembered. Ms. Jackson forgets things.
“Listen to me, Brianna. You’re doing the right thing. The heroic thing.”
The attempt bounced off an apathy that ran deep. How long had she lived in solitary confinement? Even when such confinement was self-imposed, the absence of human interaction, human affection, could steal one’s will to live. But a trace of that will remained in Ms. Brianna Jackson, it seemed, no matter how faint. She might not care to live, but she didn’t want to die.
She pulled her hands away from Matthew’s tender grasp. “Why are you here?” she asked brashly. “What do you want?”
“I told you, my name is Frank…I mean Jed. You scheduled me to come and help you…”
“I don’t need your help,” she barked. “I’m fine all by myself.”
Matthew felt his heart pound with a sudden rush of panic, and anger. His first NEXT client was getting ready to hand him his first failure. His promising new career threatened to fizzle at the hands of a befuddled old woman who hadn’t the sense to put leftover fish sticks in the refrigerator.
“Besides,” she continued in a fit of foggy paranoia, “I don’t have the kind of money you want.”
“I’m not looking for money, Ms. Jackson. I’m here to…”
But it was no good. She shuffled hastily out of the room.
Matthew looked back and forth at nothing and everything. What to do now? Should he chase her down and force her into the tub? Did forgetting your transition appointment make your approval null and void? He had been given no instructions for this situation. Why would he have? Most volunteers probably served their transition companions cookies and milk before rolling up a sleeve to face the end with defiant resolve instead of running out of the room in reaction to a delusional mirage. What did she think he was, a hit man from the mob squeezing money out of pack rats? Or perhaps a crazed killer stalking harmless debits to steal a stack of old Good Housekeeping magazines?
You have a job to do, Matthew reminded himself. And a mission to fulfill.
If anyone needed to be freed from her misery, it was Brianna Jackson. Her forgetting that she had volunteered was proof enough that she needed to go. She hadn’t changed her mind. She had simply misplaced it.
He knew what he needed to do.
A cold spike of adrenaline reached upward through Matthew’s throat before descending down his limbs into hands suddenly quivering in dreadful anticipation of a task they were never meant to fulfill. Ignoring the rising fear, Matthew carried the bag of supplies in the direction of the bathroom he had passed while searching for his missing client. It took him less than a minute to empty out the tub and position the tourniquet, sterilization cream, and other items on the corner of the sink. Then he reached into his bag for something Brianna Jackson had not requested. He had decided to improvise, to make real-time decisions to deal with an unscripted scenario. He could cover the extra expense himself if needed, sort of a complimentary upgrade for an unusually anxious client.
He shook the container to confirm its status. Full.
A moment later he approached Brianna’s bedroom door. He started to knock, but changed his mind. He instead turned the handle. Unlocked.
He didn’t have time to plan how he would get her to breathe in the vapor. He nearly panicked when she turned toward his unexpected approach. But then he stopped.
“Brianna,” he said gently. “I apologize. I can see that you’re upset.”
She softened a tad.
“I’d like to give you something to calm your nerves,” he said while handing her the inhaler. “And then I’ll leave you alone.”
She looked at the label. Big words that meant nothing to her. “What is it?”
“It’s what I came to sell you,” he lied, assuming the role of door-to-door salesman. “But we’re allowed to give free samples. No obligation. If it works, call in an order. If not, you’ll never hear from us again.”
She inspected the device. It looked like something asthmatic athletes used before a big run, only several times larger. “How many shots?” she asked.
“Whatever helps you relax. I inhale deeply t
hree or four times. That usually does the trick.”
She eyed it again, this time with more interest than the last. “So you use this stuff?”
“I do,” he said. “Helps me fall asleep at night.”
“And there’s no charge?”
“A free sample, my compliments.”
She lifted the inhaler toward her mouth. “Well, I have been feeling more nervous lately.”
“I think this will help,” Matthew said. “Go on, give it a try.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later Matthew stood watching a single stream of perspiration flow down the side of his face. He reached down, tore a bit of bathroom tissue from the hanging roll, and wiped his face dry. All of his supplies had been carefully returned to the bag, with one exception. He forced his eyes back toward the tub. An arm dangled lifelessly, the rubber tourniquet still fastened securely above the elbow. He hadn’t noticed he had been holding his breath until after the knot loosened and the item fell free. He exhaled, and then reached into the bag he had inspected before and, thanks to fast thinking, would likely inspect again. Removing a small tube he twisted loose the lid and released a large dab of cream to purify his hands.
He returned to the kitchen table to awaken his tablet and complete the final step in his assigned sequence: ALERT DISPOSAL SERVICES. He tapped the icon, informing some nameless colleague that he could remove the cadaver anytime in the next twenty-four hours.
Matthew walked out the front door and looked toward his car. He stood for a moment as the adrenaline that had fueled a dreadful improvisation waned. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, eager for the fresh scent of the clean summer air. Then he turned toward the bushes, where he released a violent wave of nausea.
Chapter Fifteen
The shop offered a range of dresses that would look adorable on Amanda’s slight frame, the perfect blend of modest chic and playful spunk. They were the kind of clothes Julia would have worn back when hints of pubescent transformation had begun to show themselves on her own figure. Amanda had recently graduated from training-bra-awkward to the petite-women’s section of what must have been ten different stores in the past hour.
Julia displayed a blouse and matching skirt toward the twelve-year-old skeptic. “How about this?” she asked hopefully. “It would bring out your beautiful eyes.”
The beautiful eyes rolled dismissively. “Too old!”
Julia glanced back at the set. “What do you mean, old? It’s the latest fashion.”
“Yeah, for someone in their forties.”
The comment stung, as intended. Julia had recently celebrated her thirty-sixth birthday, tipping her officially closer to forty than thirty. Her taste in clothes, as in everything else on which she offered an opinion, was apparently out of date.
“I don’t see what was wrong with what I tried on in the last shop,” Amanda said.
That’s when Julia rolled her eyes. Why had she even agreed to enter a store like Her Edge? “I told you,” she replied, attempting to conceal exasperation with a maternal lilt. “It was way too low and way too short.”
“It was cute,” Amanda said. “Aunt Maria would love it.”
Julia couldn’t argue. Ever since her younger sister dominated the “most likely to turn heads” category back in high school, Maria had lived by the motto “If you’ve got it, flaunt it!” Julia, the valedictorian, could never compete with the fast-and-loose fashion sensibilities of Aunt Maria. Nor had she cared to. Elegant sophistication, not sassy allure, had served her well.
“I tell you what,” Julia said, pulling out her trump card. “Let’s go back to Her Edge and have you try it on again.”
Amanda leaped. “Really?”
“You bet,” Julia said, springing the trap. “I’ll call Troy and have him meet us there. We’ll let him decide.”
The glow on Amanda’s face dimmed.
“Or,” Julia continued with a smug grin, “you can try this one on for size.”
The girl took the outfit from Julia and slunk toward the dressing rooms with a pouty huff.
While scanning the store for other possible selections, Julia heard her phone chime. She skipped her usual glance at the screen, confident it would display an image of her husband’s flirting grin. He probably wondered how much longer he needed to wander through the outdoor mall looking at nothing while Amanda tried on everything.
“I’m sorry, babe,” she said after tapping the edge of her ear. “Amanda still can’t decide…”
“Babe?” the voice answered. “I love when you call me that. Such a tease.”
“Paul?” Julia asked with embarrassment. “Paul Daugherty?”
“The one and only,” he said brashly. “How’s my favorite journalist?”
Julia suppressed a groan. She had never liked Paul, even when she depended on him for her livelihood. How long had it been, nine months? A year?
“Favorite former journalist,” she corrected. “Or have you forgotten?”
It was Paul who had sold Julia’s last big series, a string of features in a weekend journal covering the real-life impact of the economic crisis. He didn’t know she had pitched it in a stealth effort to help legitimize Kevin Tolbert’s proposal by putting human faces on dark zone trends and bright spot choices. The stories created a mini-stir, especially once the editorial board realized the series cast a negative light on the former. The last thing RAP Syndicate wanted was for their readers to raise questions about what they considered “overwhelmingly successful” and “economically sound” policies that were finally tackling the mountainous budget deficit.
“I told you, Jewel,” Paul said self-protectively, “I tried to defend you.”
She knew Paul too well. He would have distanced himself from his “favorite journalist” the second he smelled the approaching witch-hunt. “The whole thing was Julia Davidson’s idea,” he would have backpedaled. “What was I supposed to do, censor her?”
Which is exactly what they would have expected him to do, although they would have resented the implication.
“I loved the series,” he added. And he probably meant it. Paul had always admired Julia’s talent as a writer, or at least envied it. “I told them it was a big mistake letting you go.”
“I’m sure you did, Paul.” It was more benefit of the doubt than he deserved.
“Besides, I got canned myself. So I’m no longer part of the evil empire.”
The comment surprised Julia. Paul had become a fixture at RAP Syndicate, almost as well respected as she had been in her glory days. Julia had won a Pulitzer, but Paul had orchestrated one of the most aggressive acquisition strategies in the company’s history. The company now described itself as home to the largest network of feature writers and opinion columnists on the Web. And, thanks to the sudden departure of one Julia Davidson Simmons, all of them safely antagonistic to debit-loving, religiously motivated breeders like Congressman Kevin Tolbert.
“You lost your job?”
“Two months back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” It was the expected thing to say.
“Don’t be,” he said glibly. “I’m glad to be out. In fact, that’s why I called.”
She waited for more.
“I just launched my own agency. Media and publicity, but mostly publicity.”
“Really?” she said, distracted by the sudden realization Amanda was taking longer than she should to change.
“Yep. It’s going great. I just landed a big contract with Trisha.”
The name recaptured Julia’s attention. “Trisha? As in Delisha?”
“That’s right. Trisha Sayers.”
Julia recalled the tour she had taken of the model turned fashion mogul’s plush office complex two years earlier. Trisha Delisha, as she had been known in her curvy prime, had been a fan of Julia’s popular column. “You’re marketing clothes now?” Julia asked.
“Nah. Trisha chairs some new communications commission connected to the Youth Initiative. N
icole Florea gave me a heads-up after she heard about my demise. She suggested I shoot Trisha a proposal and, bingo, the Daugherty Communications Agency was born!”
Julia felt her stomach tighten at the thought of the mountain of federal cash pouring into agencies like Paul’s to promote the same initiative her husband and Kevin had been working so hard to oppose.
“Congratulations,” she said grudgingly.
“Thanks. So, how about you? Anyone snag you yet?”
“Snag me?”
“Come on, Jewel. You’re probably crazy busy. Am I right?”
“Busy?” she muttered, eyeing a darling dress hanging slightly out of reach. “Oh, yes,” she lied. “Busier than ever.”
“I thought so,” Paul replied. “So I imagine there’s no hope for me.”
“Hope for you to what?” she asked.
“To what? To hire you, what else?”
The question stunned Julia. And, to her surprise, gave her a slight surge of adrenaline. She hadn’t realized how much her confidence had waned after a year of exile in journalistic Siberia.
“Hire me? To do what?”
“I told you, I landed a big contract. I need a writer who knows how to turn difficult concepts and controversial ideas into commonsense rhetoric.”
Julia didn’t know whether to take the statement as a compliment or a rebuke.
“You’d be perfect. And I can make it worth your while.”
She said nothing while trying to absorb Paul’s offer.
“Come on, Jewel,” he said to fill the silence. “Don’t play hard to get. I’m in a real bind.”
“Well,” she finally said. “I’ll need to think it over, and discuss it with Troy.”
“Who?” he asked before remembering. “Oh, right. Same partner?”
“Husband,” she corrected. “Troy is my husband.”
“Right, sorry. Still haven’t adjusted to the idea, I guess.”
“Can you send me something I can look over with specifics?” she asked hastily, eager to get off the phone to hurry Amanda along.
“Done!” he said triumphantly. “And don’t worry about your day rate,” he added. “I can double whatever you’re making now.”