Despite appearing to care for his ailing wife lovingly and attentively, Calvin resents the burden and longs for it to end.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
I’m not the kind of person who could ever kill someone. No matter what they did, no matter how much I hated them, I couldn’t do it. I don’t have some tremendous moral compass and it’s not because I don’t have any violence inside me – I’d be lying if I said that, and so would anyone else – but because I’m afraid of the consequences. On TV, in movies and books, people spend months planning the perfect murder, and by the end, they’re still caught. I’m not smart enough for elaborate planning, and I’m scared to even think of what would happen if I were caught.
That doesn’t mean, however, that I can’t find satisfaction, or even pleasure, in someone else’s death. There was the bully who terrorized me all through public school; he lost a game of chicken with a train. And there was the co-worker who took credit for my ideas and threatened to get me fired if I complained. He crawled into the wrong woman’s bed and had a fatal encounter with a husband far less consequence-conscious than I am. It’s natural to enjoy your tormentor’s comeuppance and I don’t have a bit of shame for it.
I’ve learned, however, that even the anticipation of another person’s death can bring me pleasure – and that I am very much ashamed of because it’s my own wife and I’ve wished long and hard for her to die.
I’ve never told anyone this dirty little secret; not a friend, not a therapist, and certainly not Margaret. I’ve also never for an instant considered making my wish come true, though I’ve had an opportunity here and there to push circumstances in that direction. It’s the exact opposite in fact; I’ve done everything within my power to make sure Margaret’s life is comfortable and pleasant and worry-free. And why shouldn’t I? Seven years ago, she was diagnosed with Huntington’s disease. It’s incurable, always fatal, wasting and slow. And that’s the trouble: Margaret was taking such a long damned time about getting it over with.
I don’t think there’s a single person in my life, man, woman, or child, who wouldn’t be shocked to hear me say that. I know what they think about me. That I’m selfless, an incredible humanitarian, the most devoted husband they’ve ever known. My male friends grumble among themselves when their wives hold me up as a shining example of husbandhood. For the first few years, it was just embarrassing. Now it irritates and shames me, especially as it hasn’t been true for a long time.
I wonder if any of them suspect that I’ve found elsewhere what I can no longer find at home. Maybe that’s why they keep saying those things to me. Maybe in their own minds they’re saying, “We don’t blame you, Calvin. It must be hard. It must be lonely.” Maybe it’s all in my head. They can’t know after all, even if they do suspect. Even if I’m unfaithful, I’m always discreet.
Margaret and I have been married eleven years and she’s been dying for most of them, though we didn’t realize it for the first several. Huntington’s disease is insidious – it’s something in the brain, something genetic that robs a person of their body and then their mind. Some people live with it for many years, though they aren’t pleasant years. Margaret seemed to be one of them.
For the first year or two, our marriage was very good. We spent as much time together as possible. We had romantic candlelit dinners, we went on picnics in secluded areas. We took day-trips to the beach where we walked on the sand and drank warm champagne and made love in secret places. We worked of course, but we lived for the weekends when our time was ours to explore the world and each other.
Then the stiffness came, first in Margaret’s limbs, then her whole body. The symptoms grew worse very quickly and before long, Margaret was mostly bedridden. For her comfort, we decided to keep her at home. Later, when she became unable to take care of herself, a home-care nurse came during the day while I was at work, and I looked after her myself when I was home, nights and weekends. For several months I spent lunch-breaks reading up on practical nursing and I think I became a good nurse. I gave Margaret comfort and took care of her every need. In some ways we were far more intimate with one another than before the disease.
Despite the pain, Margaret never complained. She knew she was dying, but rather than falling into depression or holding hope of some miracle cure the way other people might, she embraced the fact. She almost seemed to enjoy her illness. Maybe that’s not the right word, but she was always very fond of books and movies that romanticized death, especially those where a young, beautiful woman finds true love right before the end. Without her needing to say so, I knew she saw herself as one of those doomed heroines.
It bothered me when I realized it, but I decided it was harmless. If it helped Margaret cope, it was for the best. For my own part, I played along, letting her know that I would be with her right until the end and that when she was gone, my life would be over just as hers was, if not as literally. I once even told her that I wished I could follow her into whatever world came next and that, if there was a life beyond this one, I would find her when my time came. She cried and held my hand tightly to her thin, wasted chest, but I knew she was enjoying every second of it, playing out her fantasy. It didn’t hurt me – not in those days – and it made her feel better.
Despite the coping mechanisms, we both knew the illusion couldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, the disease would reach its final stage and it would be necessary to put Margaret into a hospice of some sort. When that happened, it would be the end of Margaret’s pretending and it would mean there was no choice but to face the true reality of death, unromantic and final. I didn’t allow myself to think too much about that time, and I’m sure Margaret didn’t either, but we both knew it would happen, however quickly or slowly it came. We lived as actors for more than four years, playing out Margaret’s dream day in and day out. And then, suddenly, there was Meghan.
Meghan was medium height, but short-waisted, making her look more compact than she was. She had mouse-brown hair worn a little messily and heavy glasses that, at a glance, made her seem stuffy. She wasn’t any such thing once you got to know her though; she was bright and full of laughter, intelligent and interested in all sorts of topics. She wasn’t a girl many men would look at twice and it was their loss. Their loss and my gain, just by the simple happenstance of everyday life. Meghan was what I needed, a wonderful, uncomplicated girl.
The fact that I was married bothered Meghan, but she understood the circumstances. It troubled both of us that my responsibilities to Margaret occupied most of my time away from work, but we found ways to meet – lunches, afternoon walks, too-brief visits to her apartment. The time we had together was just enough to keep us, well… together. It was painful, but we both knew that it was temporary, and I think we both hoped that it wouldn’t last long.
But it did. For three long years, the situation persisted in a kind of agonizing status quo. By day I worked and snatched what few moments I could with Meghan and at night, I did everything for Margaret that could possibly need doing. I was living two lives, separate and uneven and completely out of balance. One sustained me, if just barely, while the other drained me. It was because of this that I went from accepting Margaret’s eventual death to actively anticipating it.
Margaret’s illness was killing me more slowly than it was her, but just as surely. Finally though, patience paid off. On a rainy autumn day, after an especially hard few weeks for both of us, Margaret’s doctor decided that the time had come for her to move into the hospice, where she would have professional, around-the-clock care.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kepler.” He put a hand on Margaret’s, so lean now that you could see the blue veins and the delicate bones beneath the papery skin. “I know how hard you’ve fought.” The tears filling Margaret’s eyes began to run artfully down her cheeks, as if they’d been waiting for their cue.
“Will it… be long?” I asked when Margaret was out of earshot.
The doctor shook his head slowly and made a helpless gesture. “A couple of months maybe, if we’re lucky.”
Arrangements were made for Margaret to be moved to the hospice, via private ambulance, the next day. I went into work and told my manager that I needed to take a leave of absence. Everyone knew Margaret was ill and expected this for some time.
“Take as long as you need, Cal,” she told me, a hand on my shoulder that was meant to be comforting.
“I appreciate it,” I said, hoping that I wouldn’t need very much time at all. The giddy feeling inside me was both thrilling and sickening.
From the parking lot I called Meghan. “I need to see you.”
I didn’t have to explain. “I’ll be home in an hour,” she said.
In Meghan’s apartment, we sat close together on her overstuffed couch, hands clasped, thighs pressed together, leaning against one another, enjoying the pressure and the heat of each other’s bodies, not saying a word for some time. There was tea on the coffee table, but neither of us really wanted it.
“We won’t be able to see each other for a while,” I finally said. “Margaret’s going into a hospice tomorrow.”
“Do they know…?” she began, but didn’t finish the thought.
I shook my head. “The doctor didn’t really say, but I got the feeling he was trying to spare us.”
Meghan’s hand fell to my thigh, resting there a moment, before squeezing lightly. Our eyes met. “I’m sorry for her, but…”
“Yeah.” I pulled her into my arms and kissed her.
We broke apart, but not far. Meghan’s face was inches from mine, her eyes slightly magnified by the thick lenses. “Calvin, you’ve been so loyal and devoted to her through all this. It’s not my place to say anything, and maybe it’s weird, but… I love you for it, you know? It shows me who you really are.”
“It wasn’t her fault, or mine, or yours,” I said. “It’s all just circumstances.”
“We’re all just victims, you mean?” A corner of her mouth quirked upwards. Sometimes, she had a strange sense of humor.
“I don’t know about that.” I rose from the couch. “I should go. Margaret will be waiting.”
Meghan took my hand, looking up at me with warm, brown eyes. “You have a little time, don’t you?”
Who was I really? A hypocrite maybe. I swallowed the thought.
Mrs. McHale, the day nurse, tried to hide her tears when I thanked her for all her hard work and care over the last several years, but she couldn’t quite manage.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Kepler,” she told me. “You and Margaret have been so brave this whole time, I just -“
I gave her the sad smile I had so much practice with. “I appreciate it and honestly, we wouldn’t have been able to get this far without you.”
That did it. The older woman’s eyes filled and the tears spilled down her cheeks as she started sobbing. I put an arm around her shoulders and she latched onto me in a hug that I think surprised us both. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kepler, I know I should be professional, but I’ve never had a patient this long and it’s just so, so -”
She couldn’t finish. I let her cry it out. When she was done, she was clearly embarrassed, so we both ignored it. I said, “Well, thank you again, Mrs. McHale.”
She mumbled something, slipped out of the door, and hurried to her car. She was a nice woman, but I would be glad to never see her again.
Margaret lay in bed, eyes closed and death’s paleness in her skin. She was small and withered, the fine bones in her face showing, but she was somehow still beautiful. She practiced for so long that it was no surprise she would make the perfect corpse for any dramatic tragedy.
I sat in the chair at the head of the bed and watched her narrow chest rise and fall with her shallow breathing. Finally, I asked softly, “Mags, are you asleep?”
“No,” she whispered. “I’m awake, Cal. I’m just… so tired. It hurts just to keep my eyes open.”
But she did open them, turning her head slowly and reaching out a skeletal hand for mine. The effort and pain it cost her were plain. I took her hand, feeling like I was holding some dried out leaf or flower it was so light and fragile. It felt like her flesh could break apart, shatter into myriad pieces, at any moment just by coming into contact with mine. I couldn’t help comparing it with Meghan’s hand, so young and strong and vital, pulsing with warmth and life.
“Do you want to take your meds now?” I asked. There were more than a dozen little bottles on her nightstand, each one a different medication she had to take once or twice a day, but she knew I meant the ones that were strictly for easing the pain.
“No,” she told me. “Mrs. McHale already gave me a half tab. It doesn’t hurt right now, I’m just really tired.”
“You should sleep.” I tried to stand, but she held me in her brittle grip.
“No, Cal. I’ll be asleep a long time. I want to stay awake. I want to look at you and talk to you.” Her eyes were slightly glazed, but there was an intensity on her face that surprised me. “Will you get the photo-album?”
“Sure.”
Photography was one of Margaret’s many short-lived hobbies. There was always something new she wanted to try and she never had the patience to get really good at any one thing. But she enjoyed trying them all and that’s what mattered.
During the photography period she took hundreds of photos – of landscapes, of animals, anything that caught her eye really. But mainly she photographed us. Our weekend outings, our daily grind, so much of our time together captured in ones and zeros on a memory card. The sicker she got, the more time she spent looking at those photos, reliving those days, so I bought her a nice photo-printer and a big, old-fashioned album to put the pictures in. We spent dozens of hours going through them, talking about each one, exploring our memories as we once explored the world.
We spent half an hour slowly turning pages, examining photographs already permanently lodged in our memories. Margaret tried to smile as we rehashed those moments, but it was clearly forced and the more she tried, the more painful it looked. Before long she was instead holding back tears.
“That’s enough, okay?” I closed the album and set it on the floor.
“No, I want to remember. I’m just – I’m so sorry, Cal. I’m so sorry to leave you and I know it’s coming now. I can feel it.” The crying exploded into wailing that wracked her ravaged body.
“Shh, shh, shhh.” As gently as possible, I lifted her and put my arms around her, holding her against me. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
“I love you so much, Cal,” she sobbed. “Hold me tighter. Hold me and don’t ever let go.”
“I wish I could hold you forever, Mags.” I kissed the top of her head and slowly rocked her back and forth.
“I wish we could stay like this forever.”
“I know,” I told her, tilting her chin up enough to look into her eyes. “The day you said ‘I do’ was the happiest of my life. I mean it. I was never that happy before and I don’t think I’ll ever be happy again without you.” It was a lie but it wasn’t a sin, not if it made this poor woman happy. And it did; I could see some of the weight behind her eyes lifting.
“You really mean that?”
“Of course.” I pressed her to my chest, holding her closely. She was so thin, so light, so fragile.
“Cal.” I felt faint pressure of her fingers on my arm and pulled back enough to look down into her face. “Cal, I’m so tired.”
“Go to sleep then, sweetheart.”
She shook her head; the movement was almost invisible, but even so it was obvious how much the effort cost her. She wasn’t ready to give in. “I want one thing first.”
“What’s that?”
Her eyes met mine. “Do you remember how we used to buy the cheapest champagne we could find? How we’d drink it warm because we didn’t know any better?’
“Sure.” I smiled and it wasn’t forced this time. It was a good memory.
“I asked Mrs. McHale for a favor, I asked her to go out and buy us some of that Andrea Brut. You know the kind that gave us both headaches?”
I remembered. It was disgusting stuff. But what can you expect for six dollars a bottle?
“I’d like us to toast together one last time.”
I felt the smile wilt into a frown. “You’re not supposed to mix alcohol with your medications, Mags. You know that.”
She laughed, a sound like autumn wind through dead leaves. “What harm could it possibly do?”
I was embarrassed, felt foolish being concerned over a dying woman’s health. More than that, I decided that it would be cruel to deny her final wish.
“All right. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I went to the kitchen, found the bottle on the counter by the stove, took out the plastic champagne flutes we used to picnic with, and then washed and dried them. I filled both and returned to Margaret’s room. She was laying back against the pillows, her eyes closed, but she tried to sit up as I entered. The attempt sent her into a coughing fit, rattling her chest and making her eyes and nose water. Hurriedly, I set both flutes on the nightstand among the litter of bottles and pillboxes and propped her up, holding her against my shoulder to give her support.
It was almost a minute before she finally stopped coughing.
“Are you all right?”
Margaret’s head tilted in the faintest nod. “I think so. I’m sorry. Could I have a tissue, please?”
I picked up the tissue-box on the nightstand, but it was empty. “One second,” I told her and went to the bathroom down the hall for toilet-paper. When I came back, Margaret was leaning against the pillows, apparently recovered.
“I’m sorry, Cal.” She took the paper and slowly, gently wiped her eyes and under her nose. She seemed somewhat stronger now. “I’m always making you run around for me.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“It’s true,” she insisted, her gaze locked with mine. “You’re so good to me, so kind and loving.” Her eyes began to fill with tears again. “I’m sorry.” She dabbed her eyes with the toilet-paper, and when she spoke, there was strained lightness in her voice. “Will you please hand me my glass, Cal? We have a toast to drink.”
“Sure.” I put one glass in her hand and lifted my own, gently tapping the rim of it against hers.
“To whatever’s next,” Margaret said, surprising me as she drained the entire glass in one long swallow. I drank mine more slowly while she watched, a smile on her lips, and within a few sips it was gone. It was as disgusting as I remembered, warm and bitter. I tried not to let it show.
When I set the glass down, Margaret reached for me, holding out both arms like a small child wanting to be picked up. “Cal, will you hold me?”
I leaned forward, wrapped my arms around her and held her as tightly as I dared. “It’s better this way, Cal,” she said, her breath on my throat. It seemed like a strange thing to say, but I chalked it up to the medication and the alcohol. She hadn’t drank anything in years and it must have gone right to her head.
“It’s better this way,” she said again.
This time, the way she said it sent a vague uneasiness through me. “What’s better?”
“Dying at home, in my own bed, in your arms. The two of us together. Giving up a few weeks or months isn’t anything at all if I can die the way I want to.”
That vague feeling became a surge of panic racing through me. I felt my heart skip a beat and a sudden dizziness spreading through my head. “Mags, what do you mean? What did you do?” I pulled away from her, trying to look her in the eye, searching her face for answers. My heart skipped another beat and then began thumping rapidly.
“I forget what it’s called. I bought it online years ago and I’ve just kept it here on the nightstand, like insurance. Just knowing I could leave any time I wanted made it better somehow. I already took my dose and I just gave you the rest of it.” She pressed my hand against her chest. I was astonished at the strength she seemed to have, but then I realized it wasn’t that she was stronger – I was simply becoming weaker.
“I love you so much, Cal. I don’t want to leave you, and when you told me you felt the same, I knew this was the best thing for both of us.”
I tried to ask what she gave me, but all that came from my mouth was a strangled gurgling sound. My throat was tight and it was becoming difficult to breathe, let alone speak. The terror that filled me was worse than anything else I’ve ever experienced. All the lies I told, about how my life was over when Margaret’s was, were coming true. Maybe she knew about Meghan, maybe this was her way of getting the upper hand at last. Whether she knew or not though, she was making sure I kept those promises that I made.
Margaret pulled me closer, put her arm around my neck and held me to her chest. “You’ve been holding me so long, my darling, being my strength and my comfort. Let me hold you this last time. For our last moments in this world, let me be the one to hold you.”
Gathering all of my willpower, I tried to stand. If I could only get to my cellphone I could dial 9-1-1, and there’d still be a chance… but just forcing my legs to move used up the last of my strength and instead of standing, I slipped forward, falling face down against Margaret’s lap. The life I lived with Margaret and the life I dreamed of with Meghan chased each other through my thoughts.
“Go to sleep,” she said, her voice soft and syrupy, heavy with pain and exhaustion. “And whenever they find us, they’ll know… they’ll know how much we loved each other and how badly you wanted once last time to just hold me.”
