Eighteen
Frances’s first point of business in Houston was to withdraw a sizable amount of cash. The next was to see Dr. Jackson. And the third, a visit to Amani Rachid.
Amani was the palliative care assistant that Dr. Jackson had assigned to her.
“What’s the matter, Doc? Are you afraid I won’t die right?
” Frances had asked with a forced chuckle.
There was nothing funny about it and the referral had annoyed her.
She did not need to be reminded she was going to die, and she damn sure didn’t need an assistant to do it.
“I’m afraid you’ll be in pain,” Dr. Jackson had said evenly. “Amani will help you be comfortable.”
Frances had reluctantly made the call. She could already feel her travels thus far had taken a toll on her body. She would need help getting through the next two weeks.
Amani was a young woman in a purple head scarf. She had coal-black eyes that seemed to bore right through Frances. She took Frances’s vitals and recorded them on a tablet.
“Dr. Jackson said you’re going to help me be comfortable.”
“That’s right,” Amani said.
“Then maybe get rid of these rock-hard chairs.”
“Sorry about that,” Amani said, sounding not sorry at all, still focused on her device.
Frances thought everyone younger than fifty never looked up anymore.
There was an entire world out there they were missing.
Things happening right under their noses they never saw because they were too intent on a tiny screen.
“You’re taking a trip, you said?” Amani asked. “Something fun, I hope?”
Frances figured this was as good a time as any to test the theory that no one gave a shit what older women did. “Yep. I’m going to help a friend with some genealogy. She’s researching her ancestors. She can trace them all the way back to the Neanderthal era.”
“Interesting,” Amani said without looking up from her tablet.
Amani proved Frances’s theory: she did not give a shit. And Frances, being testy and in her seventies on the bullet train to six feet under, tested her theory even further. “And then we’re going to knock off a casino.”
Amani looked up and smiled. “Okay. Just be careful not to overdo things.”
“Well, I’m not the one cracking the safe. I’ll probably just be on lookout.”
Amani smiled. “I’m going to prescribe more pain medicine, laxatives, and anti-nausea.”
It turned out that taking cancer medicine wreaked havoc on the functioning parts of the body, and then you had to take medicine for that.
“And some antianxiety medication,” she added.
That was unexpected. “Why?”
“Some patients tend to experience anxiety as symptoms increase. Since you will be traveling for a couple of weeks, I’d like you to have some on hand.
You don’t have to take it, but if you’d like, follow the directions on the label.
Be very careful with this one, however. It’s to help you sleep.
You don’t want to take it and then try to go about your day. You’d be a little woozy.”
Frances hated woozy. “What about energy? I’d rather have more energy. Can you give me a super dose of B vitamins or something?”
“I would advise you to rest.”
“Riiight,” Frances drawled. “Seeing as how I’ll get plenty of rest when I’m dead, I would like more energy while I’m not dead. What else you got?”
Amani looked at the tablet again. “I could give you a low dose of steroids. Temporarily.”
“Sold,” Frances said.
“I’d like to see you back here in two weeks,” Amani said. “Sooner, if you need it.”
“You bet.” Frances stood up. The sooner she was out of here, the sooner she’d stop thinking about dying. No offense to Amani, but she was a huge downer.
“Before you go, Mrs. Deluca, may I put you in touch with one of our social workers?”
Frances frowned. “Excuse me?”
“A social worker to assist you in thinking about next steps.”
Frances didn’t need any assistance; she’d thought about next steps. She was going to do this last heist and go out with a bang, and she didn’t want to think about anything past that right now. Anything past that was too depressing. Too real. Too … final. “I’m good,” she said.
“It’s strongly recommended that you—”
“I’m good,” Frances said, a little more curtly.
Amani pressed her lips together in a thin line. “It’s also important for next of kin,” she said. “Your family will need—”
“I know what my family needs.” Irrational anger was surging in her. What Amani was saying made perfect sense, but it would ruin Frances’s life. And the last time she checked, she was still alive and in charge of her destiny. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go now.”
“Please do call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
Frances walked to the door. But she hesitated—where had all her manners gone? She glanced back at Amani. “See you in a couple of weeks,” she conceded, and went out.
On the way to the pharmacy, she decided that dying was not as straightforward as one might expect until one was in the throes of it. There were any number of people who were around to put rules on it.
As she waited on her prescriptions to be filled, she called her son.
“Hey, Mom.” Aaron sounded like he was in a cave. “I tried to call you twice last week, but you never pick up. You have to pick up. When you don’t, I worry you’ve fallen again.”
Why did he have to make it sound like she was doddering and ancient? “I never mean to worry you, honey. But you must stop referring to it as a fall. I slipped. I did not fall, at least not in an old person way. Anyway, my phone was off. Too many spam calls.”
“This is what I’m saying, Mom. You can’t have your phone off. What if something happens? I have no way to get hold of you. I can walk you through downloading an app to catch and block spam calls.”
Good God, she was not going to spend her last days on earth trying to follow his instruction over the phone.
“I’m sorry, Aaron.” She was reminded of when he was fourteen and began to hang out with friends.
She worried endlessly about where he was and how she had no way to get hold of him.
How strange to have those roles reversed.
“I’ve been seeing friends. Which reminds me, I’m going to be out of pocket for a couple of weeks or so.
My friends and I are going to do this fun thing. ”
“What fun thing?” He sounded skeptical, like he was preparing himself to disapprove of her plan to skydive or trek across the Arctic Circle.
“We’re going on a genealogy tour!”
“A what?”
“My friend was adopted and recently found out some information about her mother. So, we are going on a little tour of the upstate New York where she was born. You know, visiting some cemeteries and local libraries.”
“Sounds like a rager, Mom,” he said, sounding bored. “Have you made your flight reservations for Thanksgiving yet?”
Frances had forgotten all about her promise to come to Omaha. “I’m looking into that today,” she said, and made a mental note to try at least remembering to look at some flights, so the next time he asked, she would have something to say.
“Will you please? Jackie and I want to take you to see some of the senior homes around here, but we need dates to arrange the tours.”
Ah, yes. The tours of God’s waiting rooms. “Give me a couple of weeks. I’ll know when I get back from my trip.”
He sighed wearily. “Fine,” he said, as if he’d asked her to clean her room multiple times and she was still putting him off. It was so weird turning into the child of your child. She didn’t much care for it.
“Aaron?”
“Yeah?”
She could hear him clicking the top of a ballpoint pen.
Tip in, tip out. He was impatient. He wanted off this call.
Well, that made two of them. But Frances wanted to say …
something. Something that he might harken back to and think, I’m so glad she said that.
Like, she loved him, that she would never intentionally hurt him.
That if everything went south, she was going to be okay, because she’d deliberately chosen this path off the earth.
“Mom? What is it?”
“I love you,” she said. “I love you so much, and I want you to always remember that, no matter what.”
He gave a funny little laugh. “Love you too, Mom. We’ll talk soon. Have fun on your trip to Maine.”
She’d said New York.
Next up was Marjorie.
Frances could not escape a visit to Marjorie after the last couple of weeks and her near-frantic phone calls. After she picked up her meds and took a round of everything to test them out, she headed to Marjorie’s place.
Marjorie answered the door wearing arm garters, skinny jeans, and a green visor with her hair teased above it. “What the hell?” Frances asked.
“It’s Poker Day. I spent the morning at the craps table,” Marjorie said as she ushered her into the tiny living area. “I’m glad you’re here. I made martinis.” She went into the kitchen.
“No, thank you,” Frances called after her. A martini was not going to mix well with the cocktail of meds she’d just taken. “The last time I had an early afternoon cocktail with you, I busted my head open.”
“That was not the fault of my cocktail, it was the fault of you not paying attention.” She came back with two martini glasses filled to the brim.
“Sit,” she commanded Frances, then shoved a martini into her hand.
She took a seat across from her, sipped the drink, winced a little, and put it down.
“Okay, Fran. Who are these friends you’re suddenly so chummy with? ”
“Irene, who I told you about. Joan and Edie.”
“Never heard of them,” Marjorie declared. “Why are you so determined to be friends after all this time? It’s a little strange.”
“Marge.” Frances laughed a little. “This feels like an interrogation.”
“Well, it is. In all the many years we’ve been friends, I’ve never known you to just take off like that. First Florida, now this.”
“It just came up,” Frances said. “It sounds fun. I’ve never been to New England in the fall.” That was another white lie. She’d been plenty of times.
“All four of you are going?”
“Yep. All four, two to a room,” she said, lest Marjorie get any ideas about tagging along. “I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”
“Hmm,” Marjorie said, studying her closely. “Well, I hope you get some sun. You look so pale. Have you been running?”
Frances hadn’t strapped on her running shoes in weeks, not since her diagnosis. “I haven’t had time.” She was afraid to run now. Afraid the exertion might hasten her demise.
Marjorie’s eyes narrowed. She set aside her glass. “Look, Fran … I know what is going on.”
Frances felt a twitch of panic. How could Marjorie possibly know anything? “What are you talking about?”
“The mysterious absences. The not drinking, and you’re thin as a rail. The reluctance to let me come along on your excursions,” she said, putting air quotes around the word excursions. “You’re being awfully secretive.”
Frances’s heart began to pound. Maybe she should have taken one of those antianxiety pills. She couldn’t tell if Marjorie knew she had cancer or was planning a heist, but neither was good. It had to be the cancer—Dr. McPherson must have told her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Marjorie.”
“Don’t you?” Marjorie leaned forward, her eyes locking on Frances’s eyes. “Then I’m going to blow your mind, girlfriend.”
“You may already have,” Frances admitted uneasily.
“I know that you’ve got a new man.”
Frances’s mouth fell open with shock. Of all the things she thought Marjorie might guess, that was nowhere on the list. She was so stunned she couldn’t even think what to say. But Marjorie was so convinced she was right (she always was), that she smugly settled back.
“It makes perfect sense. You want to be thin for him,” she said, holding up one finger.
“You are running around with him, someplace you won’t run into me or anyone else who has known you.
” A second finger went up. “And you don’t want me to know because you think that I will think less of you because you think getting a little action is disrespectful to Nick’s memory.
” She held up a third finger, then wiggled them at Frances.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” she insisted with the supreme confidence of the self-righteous.
Frances was afraid she might laugh. Marjorie had just handed her the alibi to trump all alibis.
“Well?”
“Can’t get anything past you,” Frances said.
“I knew it!” Marjorie crowed, and slapped her knees in triumph. “Can I meet him?”
“No! It’s not the right time. I mean, right now we’re just enjoying each other’s company. Okay? And … and we’re going on a tour of New England.”
“What about after that?” Marjorie pressed. “Can I meet him then?”
“Um …”
“Oh, whatever,” Marjorie said with a flick of her wrist. “Take your time. I’m just so happy you’ve found someone, Franny. What’s his name?”
“His name? Ste … fon.”
“Well, you deserve it. And … if I’m being completely honest, it makes a little easier to tell you that I am seeing someone new.”
New? She’d just ended things with Dan. But Frances seized on the opportunity to turn this conversation around from an interrogation. “Oh? Tell me everything. Here? What’s his name? How did you meet?”
“His name is Ken,” Marjorie said, and settled back to tell her story of meeting the next man who would give her a “forever ring.” If he didn’t die first, that was.