Ripples Through Time (20 page)

That, I decide, is the closest I’ll ever get to an apology
from our bigoted culture.

Maybe it’s enough.

“So what now?” I ask after a minute. The moment has passed.
I’m not sure yet if Calvin knowing the truth about me changes anything. I
always expected there to be a weight lifted from my shoulders. Some sort of
euphoria in being able to share my burden. But I don’t feel any different.

“Do you want some tea?”

I nod. “Sure. I can go make it,” I say, starting to stand
up. Calvin waves his hand, laboriously pushing out of his chair.

“No, no, you stay put. I can still make some damn tea. I’m
only eighty-two.”

I smile, sitting back down. Calvin is
eighty-four. Sometimes I think he remembers just fine and enjoys messing
with people.

Calvin disappears into the house, hunched over and taking
tiny strides to keep his balance. He barely tops five feet now, and his clothes
are loose and baggy.

I pull out my phone. I’d felt it vibrate a couple of times
while we were talking but thought it would be rude to interrupt while Calvin
was here.

Two missed texts, one from my wife and one from Bethany, and
then a missed call from my daughter. Portia just turned twenty and is in her
second year of college.

The messages are inane—Jessica wants to know what I want for
dinner and Bethany wants to make sure Calvin is doing okay—so I decide to call
Portia back first.

She answers on the third ring. “Hey dad,” she says.

“Hey pumpkin,” I reply, smiling. She just laughs. Five years
ago she would have screamed at me for calling her that, but now she thinks it
is amusing.

I am thankful—more than for most things in my life—that both
of us survived her teenage years.

“How are you?” she asks.

“I’m fine, how is school?”

She reports that it is good, then goes into a patronizing
explanation that all of her classes are harder this semester than the last.
It’s a speech she delivers from rote, because every year I try to warn her that
it’ll get harder. She doesn’t believe me, but she likes to spout my speeches to
butter me up.

Which means she wants something.

“So what do you need?” I ask her when she’s finished.

“I was just calling to say ‘hi,’” she lies.

“Uh huh,” I reply. “How much money?”

“Dad,” she admonishes. “I don’t
only
call you when I
need money.”

“I can’t think of any other time.”

“What, I can’t just call you, no strings attached, because I
love you?”

“I suppose you could, but you never do.”

“Well this time I
am
, and I’m offended that you would
think otherwise about your own daughter!”

“Oh, well then I’m sorry I questioned you. I’m glad you
called.”

She laughs. “Okay, you got me. I need money. But it’s for a
good cause!”

“Oh? And what cause is that?”

“The ‘keep…Portia…fed’ cause? I spent all my money on
textbooks and that museum trip I was telling you about. And I also bought mom’s
birthday present.”

“What did you get her?”

“Well Quincy and I got her a picture frame. The ones that
scroll through boring family photos and play sappy music in the background. She
can put it on the night stand or something. What did you get her?”

“Nothing yet. I was thinking about an IPAD.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea! And I’m sure that if you both put
your minds together and work really hard at it, you
might
figure out how
to turn it on!”

“Har har,” I reply, smiling. “Maybe you could teach her how
to use it.”

“I could, maybe,” she says, “if I had money to incentivize
me. Seriously dad, I’m like literally starving to death up here.”

“Fine. You still have the credit card?”

“Yeah, emergencies only.”

“Let’s go ahead and call this an emergency. Two hundred. No
more, got it?”

“Two hundred. Deal.”

“I’d come by and drop some off, but I’m in the middle of
something,” I say.

“It’s fine. It’s actually kinda better this way. For me at
least.”

“But this way I don’t get to give you a hug and embarrass
you in front of your friends.”

“Exactly. Better. Thanks dad, you’re the best.”

“Stay safe pumpkin. Oh, and since I apparently have to buy
your love, how long is this going to get me?”

“Uh, let’s call it a week,” she says with a
laugh. “Maybe ten days.”

I chuckle. “Love you,” I say. “Stay safe.”

“Love you too,” she says, hanging up. I never thought I
could miss anyone as much as I miss my daughter now that she’s off at college. When
Quincy left it was rough, but Portia means more to me. She’s my little baby
girl, and she’ll always be my sweet innocent child (no matter how hard she
works to be otherwise). Quincy was always closer to his mother, but Portia was
a daddy’s girl all the way.

I flip back to the text messages. My wife receives a reply
from me that reads simply: ‘chicken?’ and then I check the text from Bethany. She
is worried about the phone call she got earlier from Calvin, but she was too
distracted by everything at work to take it seriously. Calvin basically told
her ‘goodbye,’ and Bethany took that to mean he wanted to get rid of the condo.
She is, in fact, pissed at him that he is thinking about moving again. She
knows how much he hates the place (almost as much as he hates retirement
homes).

And Bethany can’t imagine he could have meant anything else.
Her mother hasn’t been buried for more than a week. The grave is still free of
grass and weeds. The thought of losing her father as well is simply
unreasonable. Unfathomable.

But Calvin is fathoming it. I understand that when Calvin
says he
will
end his life with or without my help he is serious. What I
should do, I know, is report it. Call Bethany, explain the situation, and
then help find him someplace safe. A nice retirement home to live in that will
take care of him and protect him. Protect him from himself.

But I don’t type out any message. At least not right away. I
just stare at Bethany’s text—‘how’s he doing?’—lost in thought. I glance at the
yard again. The flowers are all blooming in the garden, a variety of colors
ranging from deep red to light blue. Bethany has wanted to (and now that Emily
is gone, she is seriously talking about) moving Calvin into a retirement home.
Somewhere to tuck him away, make him invisible until someone seeks to talk to
him. She wants to make him someone else’s responsibility.

But this is his home. This is where his wife died.
This
is
the place he should spend his retirement in. Why should he have to leave simply
because no one wants to take care of him?

In human history there are a lot of references to honorable
suicide, assisted suicide, or euthanasia. It’s been a way to shed dishonor in
both the East and the West. They used to think about it entirely different;
they thought that keeping someone who wanted to die alive was only to satisfy
the selfish desires of everyone except the person. That makes a lot of sense to
me, because we’re the ones left behind when someone dies. We’re the ones who
have to live with the hole they left. It should be up to the person, not the
people around them: if Calvin wants to make a selfish decision, it’s his to
make. Just because we have a stigma against it today doesn’t automatically make
it bad.

Don’t get me wrong, I am completely against Calvin killing
himself. But not for religious reasons. I don’t think God will smite him or
kick his ass out of heaven or anything like that. I just think life is worth
living. Everyone deserves to find happiness and no matter how bleak things get,
there is always something worth living for. But that’s not an opinion that can
be forced. Either Calvin feels the same way or he doesn’t. And if he doesn’t,
there’s nothing I can do to change his mind.

If Calvin was seeking help, it would be one thing; if he was
scared because of what he was thinking of doing then I’d jump at the
opportunity to help him. But he isn’t. The opposite is true: Calvin is adamant
that he wants to end his own life on his own terms. He’s made up his mind, and
I’m pretty sure that the only difference in whether I told Bethany would be
that Calvin would kill himself in a nursing home instead of at his wife’s
grave. And wouldn’t it be better for him…

Shit. I force the thoughts away. I can’t even believe I’m
fostering them. If I were to knowingly allow Calvin to kill himself, then I
might as well pull the trigger myself. It would amount to the same thing.
In for a penny, in for a pound.

No, I decide definitively. I can’t be a part of anyone
taking their own life. Not even when they feel there’s no reason to keep going.
I need to do everything I can to put a stop to it.

Nevertheless, when I finally type out a text message to
Bethany, it says: ‘going well. Will update soon.’ It’s a slow process as my
thumbs gently press the keys, back spacing often to remove an errant
letter. Arthritis makes me wish for the good old days when phones were for
talking on, not texting.

When I finally finish over ten minutes have passed. Calvin
is taking a lot longer with the tea than I anticipated. I start to stand up to
go check on him—not quite fearing the worst yet—when I see the old man
tottering across the living room, heading this direction.  He has a tray
balanced precariously on his arms and looks tired. He always looks tired
anymore.

I open the door and move to take the tray. Calvin keeps it
out of reach and steps past me, setting the tray carefully on the table. Two
porcelain cups from Emily’s collection are on the tray with steaming liquid
inside. There is also a manila envelope resting next to the cups.

Calvin hands me a cup, and I take a sip. “What’s in the
envelope?”

He waves the question away. “How’s the tea?”

“Good,” I reply. Chamomile, honey sweetened. Emily’s
favorite. They probably have boxes of it stashed away.

I take another sip of the hot tea and set it gently on the
table.

A barking dog alerts the neighborhood that its owner just
got home. When I check my watch I see its afternoon now. Only a few hours left
of sunlight before it slips past the horizon. I can hardly believe how fast the
day went.

“I’ll still do it,” Calvin says suddenly, breaking the
silence. He’s taken out the dentures, I notice. His words are harder to
understand, his speaking slower.

“You shouldn’t,” I say, shaking my head and sighing. “I
won’t let you, Calvin. I don’t even understand why you would want to.”

“I never said I wanted to,” he replied. “I said I have to.”

 “But you don’t have to. Your family loves you—“

“Same argument as before,” Calvin interrupts. “Doesn’t make
any more sense now than it did then.”

“Wake up, Calvin,” I say, slamming my hand on the table. “You’re
upset that your wife is gone and you’re thinking of doing something stupid. I’m
not going to help you.”

“Then don’t,” Calvin says harshly. “It’s only a few minutes’
walk to the graveyard, and I can get there myself. All I’m asking is that you
don’t tell anybody for a little while. Just let them find me there.”

“Calvin…”

“You aren’t my wife, Edward,” Calvin says. I fall silent.
“So please stop telling me what I can and can’t do.”

I hesitate, not sure what to say. I pick up my tea, blow the
steam off, and take another sip. Calvin picks up his own cup now and takes a
long drink.

“I’m sorry, Calvin,” I say, “but I still have to tell
Bethany. I can’t let you go through with this. Your life will get better.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” I reply.

“Then don’t lie to yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Calvin, but I’ve made up my mind. I won’t let
you do this.”

“I know,” Calvin says. His eyes droop and he half-smiles. I
furrow my eyebrows, confused.

“You know what?”

“I was expecting…that…answer…” Calvin says, then takes
another drink of his tea. A little bit dribbles down his chin. His eyes pop
back open and he points at the manila envelope. “My…will and power…of attorney
are in there. And…DNR…”

Calvin takes another gulp of his tea, and suddenly it hits
me. “Oh shit!”

I spring around the table and grab the cup from Calvin. His
head is drooping.

“What did you take?”

Calvin looks up. “Two…minute drive…to…the…cemetery…”

“What did you—“

It’s useless. He can barely look at me. His eyes are
glossed. I rush into the kitchen. The teapot is sitting on the counter, the
stove is still on, and on the counter rests a prescription bottle. Seroquel. A
sleeping pill they prescribed for Emily. Sixty count.

It’s empty.

I turn off the burner and lean heavily against the counter. The
hospital is twenty minutes away. I can call an ambulance, but it would probably
just be quicker to drive Calvin myself.

By the time I get back outside Calvin is barely conscious. His
eyes are drooping and his breathing is shallow and ragged. I can’t even imagine
what effect the drug is having on him.

“Come on Calvin,” I say, shaking his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

I’m not expecting a response but I think keeping Calvin
awake is important. Or not. I don’t know. If only my brother Adam were here, he
would know what to do.

I kneel down to pick the old man up. He’s so light, even in
his layered clothing. I carry him across the lawn to my car, awkwardly opening
the door and fumbling Calvin into the seat. I make sure (in what seems a comic
fashion) to buckle him in.

I don’t bother locking the house door or checking anything
else before climbing into the driver’s seat and buckling myself in. I reach for
the ignition and suddenly feel a hand grab my arm. Calvin’s eyes pop open. He
is already semi-delirious.

“No hospital!” the old man mumbles. “I’ll just…do it…again…”

Then his eyes slip shut. His breathing is slower now, more
relaxed, more disquieting. I sit, hand frozen on the ignition switch, terrified
and on the verge of crying.