But yesterday’s last-ditch holiday celebrations drove home the fact that she was one seriously sick woman. She didn’t want more pain, and she didn’t want to sleep eighteen hours a day. There wasn’t enough time for those things. More than anything, she wanted to live normally up until the very end, but she had a growing suspicion that it wasn’t going to be possible.
In the bathroom, she slipped her necklace back on. She pulled a sweater over a set of thermal underwear, and thought about putting on jeans, but what was the point? Pajama bottoms were more comfortable, so she stuck with those. Finally, she donned warm fuzzy slippers and a knit hat. The thermostat was set in the midseventies, but still a little chilly, she plugged in a space heater. There was no reason to care about the electricity bill; it wasn’t as though she had to save for retirement.
She heated a cup of water in the microwave, then wandered to the living room. She sipped at it, thinking about where she’d left off in her story with Mark. Reaching for her phone, she texted him, knowing he would already be at work.
Let’s meet at the gallery at six tomorrow, ok? I’ll tell you the rest of my story and then we can have dinner.
Almost immediately, she saw the dots indicating that he was responding to the text, and his reply popped up in bubble form.
Can’t wait! Take care of yourself. Looking forward to it. All good at work. Busy today.
She waited, seeing if he would add anything else, but he didn’t. Finishing the hot water, she reflected on how her body was choosing to defy her. Sometimes it was easy to imagine that the melanoma was speaking to her in a haunted, creepy voice. I shall take you in the end, but first? I shall make your insides burn and force you to waste away. I’ll take your beauty and steal your hair and deprive you of conscious hours, until there’s nothing left but a skeletal shell…
Maggie gave a morbid chuckle at the thought of that imagined voice. Well, it would be silenced soon enough. Which raised the question…what was she going to do about her funeral?
She’d been thinking about it on and off since her last meeting with Dr. Brodigan. Not frequently, just every now and then when the thought suddenly surfaced, often in the most unexpected moments. Like right now. She’d done her best to ignore it—death still being hypothetical and all—but yesterday’s pain made that impossible.
What was she going to do? She supposed she really didn’t have to do anything. Her parents or Morgan would no doubt take care of it, but she didn’t want them to have to assume that burden. And since it was her funeral, she certainly deserved some say in the matter. But what was it that she wanted?
Not the typical funeral, she knew that much. She had no desire for an open casket, or sappy songs like “Wind Beneath My Wings,” and definitely no long eulogy from a priest who didn’t even know her. That wasn’t her style. But even if it had been—where would the funeral take place? Her parents would want her to be buried in Seattle, not New York, but New York was her home now. She couldn’t imagine forcing her mom and dad to find a local funeral home and cemetery, or to arrange for a Catholic service in a strange city. Nor was she sure her parents could even handle such a thing, and while Morgan was more capable, she was already overwhelmed with young children at home. All of which left only one option.
Maggie had to arrange everything in advance.
Rising from the couch, Maggie found a pad of paper in the kitchen drawer. She made some notes about the kind of service she wanted. It was less depressing than she’d imagined, likely because she rejected outright all the somber stuff. She reviewed what she’d written, and while it wouldn’t make sense to her parents, she was glad she’d thought to express her dying wishes. She made a note to herself to contact her attorney in the new year so it could all be finalized.
Which left only one more thing to do.
*
She needed to get Mark something for Christmas.
Though she’d given him a bonus earlier in December, just as she’d done for Luanne, she felt like something more was warranted, especially after these past few days. But what to get him? Like most young people, especially those who intended to go to graduate school, he’d probably appreciate an additional gift of money more than anything else. Lord knows, when she was in her twenties, that’s what she would have wanted. It would also be easy—all she had to do was write a check—but it didn’t feel right to her. She sensed that his gift for her was something personal, which made her think she should reciprocate in a similar vein.