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“Tell Thane and Isobel I said hello.”
“I will.”
* * *
I’m consumed by my father-in-law’s request. It’s all I’ve thought about all day.
Harry isn’t simply dying. He’s a victim of a slow, agonizing death. The end is in sight, almost within his reach, yet so far away.
I hate what Harry’s experiencing but how can I possibly kill my father-in-law? I can’t. It isn’t right. Even I know that.
Bleu opens the bathroom door and the scent of her shower gel invades the bedroom. She stands in the doorway giving me a view of how she looks in one of her new satin gowns. “Like?”
“Love. You look beautiful.”
She comes to bed and crawls over me. Her mouth roams my neck. And chest. And stomach. It’s making its way below my waistband. “Mmm … I love my hot, Scottish husband.”
She stops when I don’t lift up for her to pull down my sleep pants. “What’s wrong?”
How do I say this without alerting her to how poor her father’s prognosis is? “Nothing is wrong. It was a long day with Harry and I’m having a difficult time getting him off my mind. It sort of makes it impossible to get it up when your father is in my head.”
She rolls off me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the mood.”
“It’s okay. His condition is a lot to take. Trust me. I get it.”
“How much longer do you think he has?”
“It’s getting close,” she says quietly.
“How do you know?”
“I went through this with Julia, my adoptive mom. I recognize the signs but he’s hiding them from us.”
Does she know? “What do you mean?”
“He’s in pain. I can tell. But he isn’t admitting it because he thinks he’s protecting us.” She’s crying. “I don’t want him to suffer. I’d do anything to take it away for him but there’s nothing I can do.”
She’s sobbing. I usually tell her to stop because I can’t stand it but it seems a selfish thing to say right now. This isn’t about me. If she needs a good cry, then she just does.
I pull her into my arms. “Cry all you want. Kick if you need to. Scream as much and as loud as you like. Do whatever you need to do. No one is here but us.”
“It feels like there’s an elephant sitting on my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t catch my breath.” She’s sobbing harder. She scoots away and I feel her leave the bed.
I get up and turn on the bedroom light. She’s standing in the corner of the room with that same wild look in her eye—like a scared animal ready to flee. “You’re breathing fine. You just need to slow it down so you don’t hyperventilate.”
She’s frantically fanning her face with her hands. “I’m burning up. I can’t breathe when I’m hot.”
I grab the closest thing I can find and use it to fan her.
“My hands are tingling. I think I’m gonna pass out.”
“You’re hyperventilating. Slow your breathing. Do it with me.” I’m afraid touching her might worsen it, so I stand before her and breathe in and out slowly, making the motions with my hands. “Do it with me, Bonny.”
She’s wide-eyed and trembling. She places two fingers against her carotid. “My heart’s beating too fast.”
Shit. What is happening? “Do I need to call for help?”
“No. It’ll pass but I need time.”
It feels like an eternity before she begins to come down from whatever the hell just happened. “It’s going away.”
She moves toward the bed. I sit next to her. “What was that?”
“Panic attack.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“I’ve been having them since I was seven. They started after my mom’s murder.”
“How often?”
“Sometimes I go months without one. But they come more frequently when my anxiety level increases.”
Harry’s illness has her completely stressed but I’ve not seen her do this. “How often are they happening now?”
“That’s the fourth one today.”
“You’re experiencing attacks that bad every day, up to four times?”
“Sometimes five or six.”
“How did I not know this?”
“I hide them.”
How? “There’s no concealing that.”
“When I feel it coming, I go into the bathroom and stay until it’s over.”
I’ve noticed several times she’s slipped away unexpectedly but I didn’t think anything of it. “How does one feel?”
“Like I’m dying. I can’t breathe. It’s like being smothered with a pillow all over again. It’s agonizing and there isn’t a thing I can do to stop it.”
Bonny is stressed to the point it’s affecting her well-being. She doesn’t want her father to suffer. His condition is hurting both him and her.
This changes everything.
* * *
We’re at the hospital by nine, as we have been every morning since we married. It’s certainly not the typical way newlyweds spend their honeymoon. But Bonny wouldn’t have it any other way. She won’t leave her father. And I wouldn’t ask her to.
“Ellison and I are going to Starbucks. ’Tis the season of everything pumpkin. My favorite. Want anything?”
“Aye, you know what I want.”
“Dad? Care for a coffee or pastry?”
“I’ll … pass, girlie.”
I’m glad the two of them are gone. It works out perfectly because I wasn’t sure how I was going to swing being alone with Harry.
“Bleu and I discussed you last night. She told me some things that put all of this into a different perspective.”
Harry perks up.
“You aren’t fooling her. She knows you’re in terrible pain and it’s hurting her. She’d do anything to take it away. It’s killing her to see you suffer.”
“Don’t want … that for her.” Neither do I.
“In the middle of discussing your condition, she became so upset that it triggered one of her episodes.”
“Panic … attack?” Harry’s even more short of breath today. He can hardly put two words together. I can’t see this stretching out much longer by natural means.
“Aye. A bad one. I’ve never seen her like that.” The attack she had in Edinburgh wasn’t like this. This was something entirely different.
“She scared the shit out of me. I thought she was dying.”
“Been like … that since … little girl.”
“It lasted an eternity. When it was over, she admitted she’s been having up to six a day and hiding them from us.”
Harry closes his eyes and barely shakes his head. “Good … Lord.”
“She described how she felt afterward. It made me think about you and what it must be like for you all day long. I was lying in bed last night holding my breath. I wanted some idea about what it must feel like but it’s not the same. So my question is—are you still asking me to assist you in your voluntary euthanasia?”
“Yes.”
Once I consent, there’s no going back. I’ll be agreeing to mercy kill my wife’s father. “All right. I’ll do it. But she can never know.”
He smiles and a most unusual expression comes over his face. I think it’s relief. “Thank … you.”
“When do you want me to do it?”
“Need to … say goodbye … to my … girls first.”
“Of course. Do you want them to be with you when you go?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want Bleu or Ellison to harbor feelings of guilt for not being present when it happens. Do you want to know when?”
“No … I’ll live … every moment … like it’s … the last.”
