Chapter 9 Audrey
Audrey
Thursday night, reunion weekend
I answer the questions. I tell them the facts. I keep checking the notes on my phone, something Clay helped me with, because it’s harder to focus when emotions are high.
Seeing the other three—so much older, so much time lost, so much the same—is confusing and overwhelming.
I keep forgetting why they’re old now, then remember that I’m also older.
Micah looks softer and more . . . friendly.
She’s gained weight. How could you not, working in a bakery making all those .
. . The word disappears from my brain, but I can picture sugar and puffiness and the thick stuff on top with the sprinkles.
The sharp angles of her teenage face have softened.
Her eyes are still so blue, so beautiful.
Beck’s hair is cropped, and I keep doing a double take.
Also, she’s not wearing sports stuff, so it’s hard to snap her into place.
She looks cool and successful, like someone I used to know.
I can’t look at her for long, because maybe I loved her best. Jasmine looks great, her skin smooth and hair perfect, but there’s something different about her. Her eyes are greener than I remember.
These were my best friends in the world, the friends-till-the-grave type, and since my grave will be first, I don’t have a lot of time to waste.
The apologies went well, I thought. I feel sorry for Micah because it’s true: I blamed her the most. We all did, including her, it seems.
“So who else knows about your . . . situation?” Micah asks. Lola’s is the heart of the town, so if she hasn’t heard about my diagnosis, my secret has been kept.
“Well, Stephen, of course. And Clay. Mathilda . . . that’s my stepdaughter”—Did I tell them that already? Focus, Audrey—“Mathilda does not. She just knows I’m getting more embarrassing and irritating.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Jasmine murmurs, but in her eyes, I catch a glimpse of . . . that word where someone knows how you feel because they’ve felt it, too.
“You have a daughter, too?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, her eyes bright with tears. “Three.” I think the tears are for me. Probably she told me already about the daughters. I’m fading for the night. Sundowning, they call it.
“How’s Stephen doing with all this?” Beck asks. “He must . . . .” Her voice trails off. “He must be crushed.”
“He is. Crushed. We’re still really close.” My brother is a doctor, but I can’t remember the name of his specialty at the moment. It starts with an A. “He’s obviously sad. He knows about my plan. The only one who does, except for you guys now.”
“Your husband doesn’t know you’re planning on . . . um . . . suicide?” Jasmine asks.
Have we eaten dinner yet? Did I cook anything?
Jasmine’s nose is definitely different. Oh.
They’re waiting for me to answer something.
“Clay?” I asked. “He’s good. Helpful. Kind.
” Even if I’d wanted a divorce. Even if we haven’t had sex in years.
Even if he tries to pretend this isn’t really happening.
Jasmine’s nose . . . I’m sure it’s different. Stay out of the weeds, Audrey.
“Is he on board with your, um . . . plan? To end your life?” Micah asks.
“Oh, sorry. No.” Then the fog clears for no reason other than it does. “He had to watch his first wife die, and I don’t think he could take it again. By the way, he seems to be cursed when it comes to marriage, so don’t make a play for him at my funeral.”
This results in weak smiles.
An image of Clay eyeing another woman at my funeral is all too easy to picture. He and I both know I’ve never measured up to Saintly Wife #1. Also, I found a draft of his dating profile a while back when I mistook his laptop for mine. I should probably be angry, but I don’t really have the energy.
“So . . . what exactly is the plan?” Beck asks. “The cocktail thing? Medical aid in dying is legal here, right?”
“Plus, Stephen’s a doctor, isn’t he?” Micah asks. “He’ll hook you up, right?”
“Is he?” Jasmine asks. “Where did he go to med school?”
“University of Michigan,” I say. How do I know that and not whether or not I’ve made dinner? Dementia is so random.
“Why does that matter, Jasmine?” Beck asks. There’s definitely some friction there. Right. Jasmine married Beck’s boyfriend or something.
“I just . . . I was . . .” Jasmine stammers.
“You’re just status-conscious,” Beck says. “Anyway, Audrey, back to you. Will Stephen be overseeing this? Is he on board?”
“No,” I say. “He’s my brother, and he’s not a neurologist, so he can’t prescribe the drugs. But he’ll be here if I want him. He understands.” My little brother has lost two mothers. I might spare him watching me die, too, though there’s no one on earth I’d rather have with me.
“But you’ll do it legally,” Jasmine says.
“I wish.” I look at my phone again to read the notes I wrote without Clay.
The note is called Things to Tell Core 4 but Not Clay.
I wonder whether he read it anyway. He certainly could have.
I’m not the most subtle creature these days.
“That medical assistance stuff is complicated, and the rules are hard to get around. I’m supposed to be within six months of death and of sound mind, and those things are .
. . what do you call it . . . mutually ex . . .” Shit.
“Mutually exclusive?” Beck suggests.
“Yes. That. So I need to do it while I’m still mostly me.”
I look at them. They’re here. My friends.
The Core Four. I loved them all so much once, but we haven’t spoken to each other for our entire adult lives.
Are they the same people? Do I love them still?
Maybe it’s just the ghost of that love, like muscle memory, but I don’t (and can’t) overthink it.
“I’m planning on doing it soon. Before Christmas, probably. ”
“No!” Micah says, her blue eyes even more brilliant because of the tears. “Audrey, you’re so young!”
“I know. But it’s moving faster now.”
“This is fucking surreal,” Beck mutters.
Jasmine leans forward. “Audrey, you could still have some great times ahead of you. There could be breakthrough drugs. You don’t know that life will be horrible, do you? I mean, it’ll be different, but that might be beautiful in its own way.”
“You go to church,” I say. Do I know this, or am I just discerning it?
“Well . . . yes, I do.”
“If you say, ‘God has a plan’ right now, I’m going to slap you,” Micah says. “Do you think God looked at his calendar one day and said, ‘Right! Time to give Audrey dementia!’”
“I was not thinking that, Micah,” Jasmine says, her voice sharp.
“But when you start deciding who should live and who should die, things get . . . slippery. Do we euthanize old people once they get forgetful or have trouble walking? Are we the ones who decide how much pain is too much? My brother . . .” She doesn’t continue.
“What about your brother, Jasmine?” Beck asks, and her voice is kinder now.
“He died of cancer. And those last weeks were . . .” Her voice thickens.
“Precious. So I know dying is hard. I just don’t think it’s right to decide that a certain condition means your life is meaningless.
I don’t think God gave this to Audrey, Micah, but I do think there’s something to be learned in every situation. Sue me.”
“Maybe I will,” Micah says. “Seems like you’re loaded.”
“How about you two fight later, and we swing back to Audrey?” Beck says.
“I’m sorry about Cash, Jasmine,” I say. I would not have guessed that I could remember her brother’s name.
She looks at me gratefully. “Thanks,” she whispers.
There are more questions. Yes, the diagnosis is certain.
Two years since it’s been official, four since the symptoms started.
Yes, I’m on medications that are supposed to slow things down.
It’s hard to tell whether they’re working.
No, I haven’t told my father anything, because why torture him?
He lives in New York now. Somewhere near the Finger Lakes.
“What about your daughter, Audrey?” Jasmine asks, picking at the cuticle of her thumb. “She’ll be devastated, don’t you think?”
“I think she’ll be relieved.” The lump in my throat surprises me. I should be used to Mathilda’s coldness by now. She’s been nothing if not consistent.
There’s a breather in the conversation, and I’m glad. Beck squeezes my leg. Micah takes a call. Jasmine offers to get me a glass of water, and I accept. I only took a few sips of wine, but I feel it already.
“What’s it like?” Micah asks when we settle back down.
I think a minute. “Today’s a good day. I didn’t recognize you when you pulled up, Micah, but then I did.
It might be the same tomorrow. It’s difficult, not knowing how I’ll be day to day, hour to hour.
And yeah, it’s sad. Mostly it’s frustrating.
I forget words, forget how to do things, and I know I used to be better. ”
“But we all forget things,” Jasmine says. “The other day, Lucy asked me to French-braid her hair, and for a second, I couldn’t remember how.”
“Right,” Beck says. “I missed my subway stop the other day. Heard it announced and it didn’t occur to me to get off. I was just in a fog.”
“Sure,” I say. It’s a common response. You don’t have it because I, too, forget names, go into a room and forget why I came, lose my train of thought . . . and I sure as hell can’t have dementia! “Everyone has those moments. But this goes deeper.”
“How so?” Micah asks.
I glance at my phone. Clay said to give examples.
The folks in my online thingy said the same thing.
It’s not enough that our brains are dissolving; we have to prove it.
“Like, I forgot how to brush my teeth one night. I knew my teeth had to be clean, and I saw the brush and the toothpaste, but I had no idea how to get the job done. My brain can just shut off all of a sudden. One day I forgot how to use scissors. I got stuck in the laundry room the other day because I couldn’t figure out where the door was. ”