Families and Other Nonreturnable Gifts (23 page)

Tom and I clear our dishes together. In the kitchen, he asks in a low voice how much longer we have to stick around.

“I haven’t seen my sister in ages,” I say. “What’s the rush?”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Take your time.”

But he’s clearly not having fun, and I feel bad about that, so when Tom and I retake our seats in the living room, I interrupt Hopkins to ask Dad if he’s ready to get on with the business of the day, whatever that may be.

“I guess now is as good a time as any to have the conversation.” His eyes are much sharper now than they were when he was ill. They flit from face to face, surveying us all under his fly-away eyebrows. “I suppose you’re all wondering why I asked you here tonight,” he says jovially.

“Please tell me it’s not to solve a murder,” I say.

“Solve one? No. But possibly to commit one.” He chuckles, pleased with some private joke. “Let me explain. We’re here to talk about my death—or more accurately, my living will. Recent events have convinced me it’s wise to put my affairs in order.”

Tom says, “You don’t need to worry about any of that, Larry. You look great—right back on track.”

I cringe inwardly. My father hates glib reassurances.

Sure enough: “Thank you,” my father says coldly. “I appreciate the sentiment. However, I still hold the belief that I will die some time in the not-terribly-distant future. Do you disagree with that supposition, Tom?”

My boyfriend fidgets uncomfortably and glances desperately at me like he needs some help. “Well, I’m sure it won’t be soon.”

“Your certainty on the matter is invaluable.” Dad’s contemptuous of anyone who skirts the subject of the inevitability of death. Like most people, Tom knows on some level that everyone dies, but he doesn’t particularly like to acknowledge that fact. My family revels in acknowledging that fact. My parents think it shows a sophisticated intellect to discuss your own mortality—and that of your loved ones—calmly and rationally.

I flash a smile at Tom that’s meant to be reassuring. He gives me a weary shrug that says,
I get points for trying, right?

“You already have a living will, Larry,” my mother says, her brow furrowed with confusion. “We made them together.”

“I know. And if you remember, you’re my health care proxy.”

“And you’re mine.”

He settles back in his chair and eyes her. “All things considered, perhaps it makes sense to update them?”

“Worried she’ll be too eager to pull the plug, Dad?” Hopkins asks with a short hoot of laughter.

“I had my chance,” Mom says calmly. “And I encouraged those nice doctors to keep him alive.”

“I’m not the slightest bit concerned that the plug might get pulled too soon,” Dad says with a shake of his head. “My fears all run in the opposite direction.” He turns back to my mother. “Your life, Eloise, will soon be diverging from mine in ways that lead me to believe it might make sense for us to find other proxies. I don’t want you ever to have to come rushing back from wherever you might happen to be—and whomever you might happen to be with—because a decision has to be made about my health.”

Mom opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, then closes it again. She reaches out and gently touches his hand with hers. “Thank you,” she says. “In all honesty, I would be relieved not to have to make that kind of decision.”

“Let’s save you some energy for dancing on my grave, shall we?” Dad says with a painful jocularity. He surveys the rest of us. “That means someone else will have to step up to the plate. By not being here, Milton forfeits the honor, which I’m sure will come as a huge disappointment to him. Jacob, I’m including you because—” His voice actually falters a tiny bit. Is my father getting emotional? He clears his throat and goes on perfectly steadily so I’m not sure, “—because you’ve proven during these last few weeks something I’ve suspected for quite some time, that you are far more than an assistant to me, more even than a friend. I can trust you—quite literally—with my life.”

Crammed onto the sofa between Hopkins and my mom, I feel safe enough to dart a glance at Jacob to see his reaction.

He flushes. But all he says is a simple “I’m honored.”

A satisfied nod from Lawrence Sedlak. “That leaves me with three people who could potentially take on this responsibility.” Three? That means Tom isn’t even in consideration, which I guess isn’t a surprise, but it feels like a slap in his face, given that he’s sitting right here with us and is more closely connected to Dad than Jacob is—he’ll be his son-in-law one day.

I pat Tom’s hand. He meets my eyes and surreptitiously raises his watch wrist. He’s not hurt, just bored.

Dad’s gaze flickers back and forth between me and Hopkins and Jacob. “So who would like to volunteer to make the final, crucial decisions about my health care and possibly the length of my life?”

“Are your wishes laid out pretty clearly in your living will?” Hopkins asks. “Have you defined what
quality of life
means to you?”

“As clearly as I can. None of this is simple, as you know better than anyone. I can say to you, ‘I don’t want to be kept alive if I’m not cognizant,’ but it’s still up to you to define cognizance.”

“Hopkins is a neurologist,” Jacob points out. “It seems to me if any of us can come close to figuring out whether a mind is active or not—”

“Hopkins is the obvious choice,” Dad agrees. “But she’s also a busy professional who lives in another city. Whereas—” He stops and everyone looks at me.

“I’m a loser who’s always around,” I supply brightly. “I can’t say I
want
the job, Dad, but someone’s got to do it, and I’m willing to.”

He studies me thoughtfully. “My only question for
you
, Keats, is do you really have it in you to call an end to my life? Could you be ruthless enough? Because I’d much rather die too soon than linger on in some vegetative state.”

“Leave me all your money, and I’ll promise to kill you whenever you want. Today even.” I try to sound lighthearted but I’m hurt. This is the second time in an hour that he’s made it clear he trusts Hopkins much more than me.

“I’m serious about this. While you have many fine qualities, Keats, I’m not convinced ruthlessness is one of them.”

“I’m ruthless!” Hopkins says cheerfully.

“Ruthless, yes, but seldom around, which brings me to you.” Dad nods at Jacob. “Do you think you could say enough is enough on my behalf?”

Before Jacob can answer, I cut in. “Dad, this could all happen a decade or two from now. We don’t know where Jacob might be by then.”

“He’s told me he intends to stay in the area.”

“But there aren’t all that many jobs opening up these days, and every academic in the world wants to live in the Boston area. Realistically he might just not be able to get work nearby. He’ll have to follow the job. And it’s not fair—and probably not realistic—to expect him to come back if you get sick.” The truth is, the idea of having Jacob permanently connected to my family because of something like this freaks me out. A week ago, I think I would have been fine with it—relieved even because this isn’t a job I want. But back then, Jacob’s presence wasn’t an embarrassment and a rebuke to me the way it is now.

 “I’m getting the sense you’d rather the choice stayed in the family,” my father says to me.

“It just makes more sense, doesn’t it?” I toss a quick “no offense” in Jacob’s general direction without meeting his eyes.

Hopkins flings up her hands. “This is stupid. I’ll do it. It’s not like there aren’t telephones and airplanes. Wherever I am, I’ll either get here or tell Keats what to do.”

Dad says, “And if I’m alive but not capable of coherent thought?”

Hopkins grins at him and draws her finger slowly across her neck with a
kkkkkkk
sound.

“Excellent,” my father says with real satisfaction. “Jacob? Call my lawyer tomorrow and tell him to change my proxy.”

15.

Y
our family’s sick,” Tom says when we’re out in the hallway. “The way you all talk about your dad dying like it’s a joke. It’s not normal.”

“I know. But Dad’s right to take care of this.”

“My dad could never talk about his own death that calmly. Then again, my father’s a lot younger and healthier than yours, so he doesn’t have to.”

“He’ll have to someday.”

“Well, if he does, I’m not going to be making jokes about finishing him off, that’s for sure. It’s not funny. And I forgot how weird your sister is. She’s impossible to talk to.”

“You don’t talk to Hopkins,” I say. “You listen to her.”

“I don’t want to do either. I don’t even know what she’s talking about half the time. And she treats me like I’m a moron. I’m not crazy about the way she treats you, either.”

“I’m her little sister. You know how that is. You’re not always that nice to
your
little sister. But you love her.”

“My little sister is a jerk. You’re great. Hopkins doesn’t appreciate you enough.” The elevator pings and the doors open. “Meet me downstairs in ten minutes, okay?”

“Thanks for getting the car.” We had to park a few blocks away.

“No problem—I’m happy to give you a few more minutes with your family.” He steps inside the elevator.

“You mean, you’re happy to have an excuse to escape early.”

The doors close before he has a chance to deny that. Not that he would.

Right as I’m turning around, Jacob emerges from my dad’s apartment, a bag of garbage in each hand. “Oh,” he says and looks like he’s almost ready to retreat back inside, but then he just says, “Garbage chute,” and keeps going.

“I think it’s behind that door.” I point.

“Yeah, I know.”

Of course, he does. He’s spent more time here than anyone except Dad. And I’m sure he’s taken out the garbage many more times than Dad has. In fact, I doubt Dad ever has, probably just lets it pile up until Jacob or the cleaning lady takes care of it.

I could wiggle past him and go back into the apartment, but both of his hands are full, and the door to the utility room is closed.

 And in all honesty, I’m a little bit curious about what he’s feeling toward me right now. I mean, the last time we were together, we were…together. We haven’t seen each other since then, unless you count the miserable conversation we had right after. He hasn’t looked at me or spoken directly to me once this evening. Some part of me wants to know if it’s anger or circumspection or frustrated desire—or all of the above. This is probably my only chance to be alone with him to find out.

So instead of returning to the apartment, I open the utility room door for him. A light comes on, triggered by the door, and illuminates the tiny room. I follow Jacob inside and pull open the garbage chute for him. The door closes behind us.

He tosses in the bags, one after the other. I keep the chute open so we can hear them rolling all the way down. It takes a while. “That never grows old,” I say.

“It is oddly satisfying.”

“We don’t have one in our building. We just put the trash out in the back hallway, and someone collects it.”

“Sounds like luxury. The only one taking the garbage out to the street at my place is me.”

So. We’ve made conversation. I’m encouraged by this and try to think of something else to say. I need him to know I’m ready to get back to our old footing, where we were simply pals. So I say—oh so casually and good-naturedly—“Hey, did my friend Cathy e-mail you about getting together? She told me she might.” I figure this way he’ll know I’m cool with his seeing someone, that whatever happened between us can and should be ignored.

His face darkens. He says in a low, vicious voice, “I’m not going to discuss my romantic life with you, Keats. Not now. Not ever.”

I take a step back. “I thought you said we were still friends.”

“In retrospect, that might have been an exaggeration.” He pushes past me, opens the door, and leaves. The door swings shut again. I’m alone in the garbage room. And I’m stunned.

I could always bully and tease Jacob into doing what I wanted—and into forgiving me when I pushed him too far—but apparently I’ve lost that ability.

* * *

I follow him back to my Dad’s apartment. He doesn’t hold the door for me. I catch it before it’s completely swung shut, just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it.

Got the car. Be there in 2 mins.

I put it back in my pocket.

The others are still sitting around the coffee table. Someone’s put out a box of chocolates, probably a leftover gift from when Dad was in the hospital. Hopkins is talking, and Mom and Dad are leaning forward like they don’t want to miss a single word. So is Jacob, who’s sitting next to Hopkins. I can only see his face from the side, but it looks intent and interested—no trace of the angry man who stalked away from me a minute earlier.

I move closer, curious to hear what’s keeping everyone so enthralled.

“So this guy sits down every day at the same table in the rec room and writes. Pages and pages. He fills up one notebook, then another, then another. He barely moves, except to eat or when we make him get some exercise. But he always closes the journals when he’s done and writes ‘private’ all over them. We want to respect his privacy, but we’re dying to see what he’s writing. Maybe he’s the next Anthony Trollope, right? Of course, it could also be pornography. Or random words. And then his shrink decides, well, maybe we should have a peek, just to make sure that—” Hopkins stops because of the ringing.

Ringing that’s coming from the phone in my pocket. Everyone turns to look at me. I hold up a finger, mutter “excuse me,” and move away to answer it.

Tom says, “Did you get my text? I’m pulling up in front. I’ll have to circle around if you don’t come out soon.”

“I’m coming.” I hang up and tell the others I have to go.

Hopkins gets up. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning, so I probably won’t see you again on this trip,” she says. I can feel her phone vibrating in her hand as we hug briefly.

“I wish we’d had more time together,” I say.

She agrees as she looks down at her cell.