Dying Wishes (17 page)

“I
should talk with Sister Marguerite about all this,” I told myself sleepily, and
that was my last coherent thought before tumbling into slumber on the couch.

When
I awoke, it was to find that the fire had all but died, and Jasmine had taken
herself back to her bed. Armando sat in the double recliner with Gracie, eating
his belated dinner. If she stared at his plate long enough, he obliged her with
a bite of chicken.

“Have
a good nap?” he grinned, and I dislodged Gracie to snuggle in next to him. It
still amazed me, every time he returned from a business trip, how glad I was to
have him home again. After years of living on my own following my divorce from
Michael, I had settled so far into enjoyable solitude that I didn’t think I
could adjust to having a man around the house again. Armando, having been on
his own for many years as well, felt much the same, but to our amazement, we
had settled down together very well. I still enjoyed time to myself, but I was
always glad to have him back.

I
had planned to fill him in on all the latest developments, but instead, we sat
in companionable silence while he finished his dinner. Then I patted his
whiskery cheek and took myself to bed, leaving him to his customary late-night
television viewing. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Thirteen

Thursday
morning dawned gray and dismal. The previous night’s wind had snatched most of
the remaining leaves from the trees, and the denuded branches foretold the
month of November, nobody’s favorite. No wonder most people looked forward to
the holidays. They needed something cheerful to anticipate in the midst of this
climactic gloom. At least ours was sporadic in New England. Why anyone
voluntary lives in Seattle, where it rains so much, was a mystery to me.

After
his travels Armando had trouble getting out of bed, and I left him stumbling
toward his shower with a mug of coffee in his hand. I was no more eager than he
was to get to the office, and my mood didn’t improve when I pulled into the Law
Barn’s small parking lot next to Margo’s Acura. I was surprised to see her
still sitting behind the wheel with Rhett Butler beside her in the passenger seat.
I assumed she was making a cell phone call, but when I drew up next to her, she
just pointed.

STAY
OUT OF IT was painted in red across the double doors at the entrance to the
converted barn. The color contrasted shockingly with the weathered gray of the
wood. In my befuddled state I thought at first it was a warning not to enter
the building, as if it had been condemned. Then my coffee kicked in, and I
realized it was we who were being condemned, not the Law Barn. It wasn’t the
first time it had happened, but it was the most visible.

Margo
lowered her
window,
and Rhett woofed a greeting. “I
preferred it when the crazies sent their messages through the mail,” she
observed. “At least we didn’t have to hire someone to power wash them off the
building.”

“If
we’re lucky and they used latex paint,” I added. “If
it’s
oil based, we’re talking about sandblasting.” We sat for another minute,
contemplating the vandalism. “Why now? What’s happened in the last few days to
whoop someone up to this extent?”

I
was more annoyed than frightened. At least this time no one was stalking
me—that I knew of, at any rate. I peered into the shrubbery that separated the
Law Barn from the neighboring structures.

Margo
drummed her fingers on her steering wheel. “Well, I can’t picture Janet and
Bitsy, or either of those fastidious husbands of theirs, out here in the middle
of the night with a can of paint.” She drummed some more.

“Tommy
Garcia?” I suggested weakly, although I knew what her reaction would be. I
braced myself, but her response was mild.

“Not Tommy, no.
It has to
be someone we don’t know about yet, someone connected to Margaret or the Grants
or the
MacRaes
or the CCD …”

“…
or all of the above,” I finished for her. What she said made sense, but I
wasn’t happy about it. Up until now I could tell myself that we had been
sticking our noses into what was an incredibly delicate and private matter, and
anyone with any sense or compassion would simply butt out. But this … this was
personal.

“Have
you called John yet?”

Margo
looked uncomfortable.
“No, not yet.
It’s just a case
of vandalism. I’m sure he has more
pressin
’ business
to attend to.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t see you
rushin
’ to tell your hubby.”

“Armando
is not a member of the Wethersfield Police Department, so what would he be able
to do about it?” I huffed. “Besides, he’s probably still in the shower.”
Armando tended to stand under the spray until the hot water ran out.

We
exchanged complicit looks.

“We’ll
have to call the landlord, though,” Margo said finally.

I
volunteered to handle that particular unpleasantness. “He’ll probably be
grateful that it doesn’t involve a fire and major renovations this time,” I
sighed. That had happened before.

On
that note, we climbed out of our cars and trudged inside to begin our day.

~

By
noon the sun had reappeared, and I climbed back into my
Jetta
and headed for Asylum Hill in Hartford. The power washer was blasting away at
the front doors, and it was impossible to concentrate on paperwork anyway, so I
was glad to have an excuse to leave for a while. I was on my way to pick up
Sister Marguerite, the CEO of Unified Christian Charities. She is one of the
smartest women I know, as well as one of the most compassionate, and I trusted
her judgment. Notwithstanding the fact that I haven’t seen the inside of a
church in more than a decade, she and I have worked together on several
charitable endeavors over the years and become firm friends in the process. She
is unlike any other nun I have ever met, and her lack of sanctimony and earthy
sense of humor have seen me through more than a few dreary fundraising dinners.

I
had helped the good sister out with a major fundraiser at Hartford’s Wadsworth
Atheneum
nearly a year ago, when her longtime assistant was
expecting a baby, and we had bonded even more strongly despite my atheism. When
I pulled up to the rear door of the UCC offices on Asylum Avenue, located
conveniently in the shadow of The Cathedral of St. Joseph and a stone’s throw
from three of the city’s oldest Protestant churches, just the sight of her
coming out the door gave me pleasure.

“Katie,
my girl, it’s so good to see your face,” she exclaimed with genuine warmth as
she settled herself in the passenger seat and pulled the door shut.

“I
was just thinking the very same thing about you,” I smiled, “but where’s
Aloysius? Isn’t he joining us for our walk in the park?” Aloysius was Sister
Marguerite’s fat, aged poodle and her constant companion. She even had a bed
for him in her office.

“Gone
to meet his maker, I’m afraid,” she replied calmly as I turned left out of the
lot and drove toward Elizabeth Park. “I know I should be happy for my old
friend to be released from his pain. His arthritis had become that bad, you
see. But speaking quite selfishly, I miss him very much, especially on my
little walks.”

Her
news took me by surprise, and I fought back tears as I maneuvered the car into
a tight parking space near the pond.
 
We
got out and walked the few paces to the grassy bank near the footbridge, where
Sister gazed at the ducks on the water, the joggers thumping past on the road
above, and a child throwing a Frisbee for a large, mixed-breed mutt who
galloped happily in pursuit. “Aloysius would have enjoyed this, that he would.”

“How
long has he been gone?” I managed to ask.

“I
had to ask the vet to send him to his final rest just two weeks ago. It was a
hard day.” She produced a snowy handkerchief from a capacious pocket and wiped
her eyes.

“I
know all about that day. I’ve had to face it many times before, and now it’s
looming again.” I explained about Jasmine’s advanced age and progressive kidney
disease.

She
patted my arm consolingly. “
’Tis
a difficult
decision, to be sure, but we can’t allow such good friends to suffer
needlessly. It wouldn’t be kind.”

The
expression on my face must have conveyed the inner turmoil her innocent remarks
had triggered. “What is it, Katie? What’s got my favorite nonbeliever so tied
up in knots that she would seek out an old nun for comfort? Put yourself right
here and tell me all about it.” She led the way to a nearby bench and lowered
herself onto it carefully, patting the space beside her. Obediently, I sat.

“I
know you didn’t mean to, Sister, but you really hit a nerve with that needless
suffering comment,” I told her. Warmed by her kindly attention, I blurted it
all out—the deaths at Vista View, Ginny’s dark suspicions, our half-hearted
investigation, and now a threat that, while intended to frighten us off, had
only intensified our determination to discover whether something illegal or
immoral was happening around us. I told her about the CCD and its controversial
stand on a person’s right to end his or her suffering when confronted with a
terminal illness. Then I told her about Ginny’s and my conflicting views.

“It’s
the illegal or immoral part that’s the sticking point, Sister. I’m willing to
turn over evidence of illegal activity, if we find any, but I’m not willing to
make a moral judgment about suicide, assisted or not. To me that’s an intensely
private matter between patients and their medical advisors, but Ginny doesn’t
feel that way about it. She’s been a devout Catholic her whole
life,
and I need to understand where she’s coming from. Can
you help me out here?”

I
finally wound down and slumped against the back of the bench. It was a relief
to be able to share my quandary with someone who was both experienced and
compassionate and who would not, I felt certain, judge me or my doubts harshly.
She never had in the past.

“We
Catholics have our wishy-washy moments too, don’t you know,” she smiled,
“though in this area the debate centers
around
sustaining life through artificial means, feeding tubes and the like. Until
just a few years ago the doctrine of proportionality was our guideline. Were
the benefits to the patient resulting from such artificial devices greater than
the burdens they created? But then the late Pope John Paul II stated flatly
that the removal of feeding tubes, even from patients who have been unconscious
for more than a year, would be a mortal sin. He called it euthanasia by
omission.”

She
paused to consider her next words, knowing how important they would be to me.
“However, that’s not what you’re asking, is it, my dear? You want to know where
the Church stands on suicide, assisted or unassisted, even when the intention
is a good one, to end or prevent unbearable suffering. Is that about the size
of it?”

I
nodded gratefully. “I need to know why my friend can’t let this go,” I
confirmed, “not that I’m even certain that’s what happened here.”

The
look in her eyes was kindly, almost regretful, but she spoke without
hesitation. “As I’ve said, prolonging life through artificial means is one
thing, and that debate will continue long after I’m gone; but deliberately
ending a life, even for the best of intentions, such as the merciful deliverance
from suffering, is wrong in the eyes of the Church. It’s murder, a mortal sin.
In very extreme circumstances, the Church has granted forgiveness for the
taking of one’s own life, but to those assisting in such an act?
Never.”

I
felt as rebellious as I had as a teenager when our
Luteran
pastor had delivered what I considered to be an arbitrary, unilateral
pronouncement to me and the other members of our Saturday morning confirmation
preparation class.

“So
it’s okay to help our pets out by ending their pain and suffering but not our
fellow human beings,” I concluded sourly.

“
’Tis
a matter of the immortal soul,” she said gently. “Our
existence here is merely a passageway to a glorious afterlife, and only God may
decide when the door between here and there shall open.”

In
other words, some things must be taken on blind faith, I thought but did not
say, and that’s something I simply cannot do. If I have, in fact, been created
by a supreme being, it has equipped me with the power of reason, which is not
something I can suspend at will. Thanks to that power, along with pragmatic
parents and a liberal arts education, I am capable of thinking things through
to a logical conclusion, and that’s what I intend to do.

I
kept all of this to myself, however. “Thank you for your time, Sister,” I told
her sincerely. “You have really helped me clarify my feelings about all this.”

“Good
gracious,” she responded. “Don’t tell me that after all this time, I’ve finally
succeeded in bringing you over to our side.”

I
laughed and shook my head. “I’m afraid not, Sister. Let’s just say that even
people who disagree should make it a point to hear the other guy’s point of
view.”