The Burning Side(58)

A little light comes over Billy. He steps closer and asks, “You a dentist?”

The man half turns, half nods. “Used to be.”

The words strike me as tragic, but Billy seems content to know that he would have a friend here. He would have more than that, actually. There’s a lot for him here.

But what’s here for me? My house doesn’t feel like home anymore, yet neither does this. I find people terribly easy to love, so I’m sure I could make friends. I’m already itching to know more about the woman who pointed at the president’s teeth. But as I watch the woman still trying to adjust her massage chair, I wonder how necessary relatability is for friendship. Because there’s a wide gap between them and me. Of course, I tell myself, it’s not like we would be living in the common room. We would have our little apartment, Billy and I.

When we turn to leave the common room, he pauses at the big calendar.

“Oh, look,” he says. “They have mini golf.”



* * *



Outside, Billy asks what I think.

I think it checks all the boxes and then some. I don’t voice my concerns about who I would be here. Identity is so entangled with place. But I have just as many concerns about who I would be while isolated at our house with Billy becoming increasingly confused and dependent.

A chickadee sings as an orderly asks a woman if she wants some company on the way back to her room. The resident nods, and they walk together, chatting. Many of the orderlies, I notice, are around my age.

It would be worse, I decide, not to have this.

The willow rustles its hair over the pond as I answer Billy. “I like it. You?”

“Me too,” he says. “But we don’t need to make a decision today.”

On the way back to the director’s office, we pass a sparkling pool where a man is hitting a beach ball with some children. I imagine Sadie on Billy’s shoulders in that water, and I feel a sense of peace.

We talk to the director and ask more questions. We make no commitments, but we take the paperwork home, where a roast is simmering in the slow cooker.

April greets us with a frown. “That was a long appointment.”

I press the paperwork against my chest because we told her we were going to the doctor. Billy circumvents the interrogation by asking me, “Can I show you something?”

“Sure.”

So April returns to dicing potatoes, and I follow Billy.

He leads me into our bathroom, where he closes the door and says, “I love you.”

Well, this is ominous. His countenance has completely changed since the tour. Maybe he liked it less than he let on, or he has reservations he didn’t want to get into there. I set the paperwork on the counter, waiting for him to say more.

“There are certain decisions we need to make while I can still be part of them. Otherwise, you won’t be able to live with yourself.”

I frown. “What decisions?”

He opens the medicine cabinet and retrieves a large pill bottle. I oversee his Donepezil every day so he doesn’t forget to take it, or forget that he has already taken it. But that’s in the kitchen. This is not Donepezil.

He twists the lid off the bottle to reveal an array of pills, different colors and sizes. There are a lot of them, with a slip of folded paper. His voice drops. “They’re from a credible doctor.”

Fear spreads through me. “For what?”

He sighs like he doesn’t want me to make him say it, but I most certainly will.

“For you to give me if the time comes to end things.” He pulls out the paper and unfolds it: instructions that involve crushing pills and adding the powder to sugar water.

I slap his hand, knocking the paper to the bathroom floor. Dizzy, I drop onto the closed toilet, head in my hands. “How could you think I would want this?”

He picks up the paper, slips it back into the bottle, and screws the lid on. “I know you don’t want it right now. But think about what’s coming for us. I don’t want your life to end just because mine is.”

I stand up and snatch the pill bottle from his hand. “Tell me whether this is for you or for me.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and I shake the bottle at him in emphasis, the sound like a baby’s rattle. “Do you want this option, or do you want me to have this option? Tell me.”

“Debra.”

I can count on one hand the number of times he has called me by my full name.

He continues, “You’re considering moving to assisted living and becoming my caretaker. You’re not even sixty.”

“I know how old I am. Answer my question.”

But I already know his answer: he is doing this for me.

“My answer is that I love you.”

With that confirmation, I open the bottle. The toilet. The very same toilet that saw my morning sickness, my young husband holding back my hair.

He throws forth his hand to stop me. “And I know you love me. So I’m here in my right mind telling you that if it comes to it—this would not diminish your love. The disease could progress for years and years. I don’t want to become a burden.”

My hand is shaking. What if I want this burden? What if keeping him in any condition is less of a burden than actively ending him? How could I get up one day and make the decision to administer his death? If it were to end his suffering, I would do it. But if I’m to suffer, then let me.