The Euthanist (2 page)

I was getting close to Leland’s, curving through the octopus-branched oaks in the Mount Diablo foothills. Parched grass the color of camel fur scrambled up the slow grade where the hiking trails picked up. The neighborhood, if you could call it a neighborhood, was a sparse network of small homes buffered by a half mile of wild land. Leland told me wild boar roamed back here. That might have been horseshit, but I believed it.

Leland lived in a tumbledown single-story home with loose brown shingles. The roof slouched, and the sun and rain had wrung out the sides like driftwood. It had the sort of beat-up charm that might attract attention from budding photographers and painters. I thought scientists made a lot of money, but not him. Perhaps he spent it on something else.

I parked alongside his cream sedan, a Chevrolet Monte Carlo from the eighties, which, like the house, must have been perfect three decades ago. Like one of those old refrigerators that kids locked themselves in.
A classic
. Now the mountain’s clay dust streaked the tires and the trunk didn’t close all the way.

The neighborhood had banished noisemaking, unless you counted hawk screeches. So Leland probably heard my engine. He would be expecting me, but I stayed in the car a moment longer to collect myself. This was all part of the preparation. After five years and twenty-seven clients, my nerves still rattled before the final meeting. This was more stressful than my paramedic work. When I charged into buildings in my other job, there was at least a chance I might save someone.

My ritual was similar before every terminus. I used my rental car as a dressing room—a green room, if you will. Any driver who’s spewed hellfire at another motorist can tell you cars offer the delusion of privacy. So in my car I soothed myself, pretending no one was watching. My particular mode of relaxation began by flexing my body. I mean toes to top—every muscle. It sounds stupid, but it works. Flex and release. Flex and release. Loosens up the whole body. Prior to something this important, it also reminded me I was strong. Everyone has a point of pride, and mine was muscles. Mine weren’t so big that they were scary, but notable for a girl.

I adjusted a purple wig so the bangs paralleled my eyebrows and painted lavender liner on my eyelids. My lips darkened to burnt wood. The last patches of makeup came from two dainty ziplock packets in my purse. If it weren’t for the gray coloring, the packets might have looked like flour or cocaine. They were tiny ounces of ash, two bags worth. I dipped a pinky in each, and applied a smidge to each side of my neck. Nothing to alter the overall look of my costume—the smears of ash were added for my own benefit and undetectable to my clients.

This particular outfit matched Leland’s tastes, but I always dressed loud for this work. An old boyfriend once said I had a kitten face. Another boy said my face was too soft to be on a body like mine. I took this to mean that people thought my features looked infantile, or at the very least juvenile, and I didn’t want my clients feeling like some toddler was steering them into the afterlife. The makeup matured me, sharpening my features, so I looked fierce, even lethal. Like a scimitar-wielding death goddess. When I looked in the mirror, the severity of my face now fit the character I adopted for this work. Kali stared sharply back at me.

Rental cars have such sweet air conditioning, and as soon as I stepped outside I started to sweat. Sun scorched the driveway here on the ass-side of the mountain. The wet warmth of the morning foretold a muggy afternoon. I dabbed my forehead with a tissue. I didn’t get two steps out of the car when I saw the black spider running across the walkway. Jesus, they moved fast. And this was a big one, the size of a goldfinch. But being Kali charged me with courage, and I thrummed with epinephrine. Without hesitation, I brought my heel down and crunched it like an ice cream cone, scraping my sole off on the pavement.

When I entered, the fetor almost pillowed me. Leland didn’t smell like other clients. Most smelled like they were dying, but this was worse than death. The air rotted like a summer dumpster. I stifled an involuntary gag, nothing Leland could have seen. According to Dr. Thibeault, a nurse cleaned him every few days, but it didn’t help with the fumes. This suffering man managed to emit a decay that seemed inhuman.

With a compact layout, the main living area was open with oak floors and a window the expanse of a wall. Because the building squatted on the slope of Mount Diablo, the view faced away from the summit toward the minor rolling hills, without any homes to interrupt the scenery. Architects built-in custom cabinets, originally intended for dishware were now taken up by clothing and medical supplies. Outlined by sunlight, Leland lay in bed where I’d left him. Three weeks ago we’d moved the mattress to the living room because it gave him a better view. Now he swaddled himself in white sheets, his head rolled to the side that offered him sun and hills. He reminded me of Winslow Homer’s
The Gulf Stream
, the black sailor on the brink of dehydration among the sharks.

I eased the door shut, but I still woke him.

“Kali.” Leland’s voice trailed by the end of my name. With effort he lifted his arm to wave.

“I’m here.” I went to his bed and kissed him on the forehead. He tasted briny.

Leland was a dark man with a gaunt face and high cheekbones. If I were to guess, I’d say his lineage was Ethiopian or Somali. A descendant of African runway models. I’m tall for a woman, but he had several inches on me. Maybe six two. It was hard to tell since I never saw him standing. Leland Mumm was bedridden by the time I met him. He shuffled to the bathroom and back, but never during my visits. The way he looked now, he seemed like he’d collapse if he tried to stand. His bones stuck out all over. He didn’t keep photos of himself around, so I couldn’t tell how much body mass he might have lost. At this point, he couldn’t have weighed much more than me.

I rumbled a chair across the floor and sat beside the bed, covering his hand with mine. “You’ve got spiders outside.”

“I know,” he rasped. “They’re everywhere.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you have one less.”

He laughed faintly. “Big or small?”

“The size of a volleyball.”

“And you survived.”

“Barely.”

Leland’s wide smile reminded me of Steven Tyler. I’ve heard that teeth are the bellwethers of someone’s overall health, but that’s a load of crap. Leland Mumm was about to die, and his enamel gleamed. Not a filling in there.

He complimented my clothes. “Nice getup.”

Death should feel special, so I always dressed for my final meetings. What, was I going to waltz in with mustard-stained sweats? What I wore completely depended on the person. For Leland I wore a form-fitting white cocktail dress with purple piping to match the wig and the eyeliner. As a self-proclaimed sci-fi geek, Leland wanted me to dress like the kind of expo booth hottie you’d find at Comic-Con. Back when he could walk, he apparently made annual pilgrimages so he could meet Stan Lee. Clients have asked for weirder outfits—one wanted a nun habit, and one wanted me in scrubs so I would seem more like a medical professional.

“That wig. Like the Jetsons.” Leland’s laugh hacked up something. Weak as he was, he still ogled my legs. He didn’t keep photos of his wife out, so I couldn’t tell if I was even his type. But I didn’t mind. If I were in his boat, I’d want something decent to look at on my last day.

“You requested it.”

“You look good. Real good,” he wheezed and squeezed my hand. “Gloves to match.”

Purple satin opera gloves stretched from my fingers to elbows. “As good as latex. I can still handle the delicate stuff.”

“Gloves, like a criminal,” Leland mused. “You feel like a criminal?”

A client had never asked me anything like this, and Leland was usually so playful I would have shrugged it off, but there was something abrasive in his tone. Something in the way he shifted his look from my left eye to my right, possibly trying to detect some guilt in my reaction. I had to catch myself so I didn’t rebuke him. There was that combative streak the doctors always complained about. Like a jack-in-the-box, it sprang out so fast, and took so much more effort to push back down. “So long as there are laws, I’ll feel like a criminal breaking them. But I don’t feel like it’s wrong.” I stripped off the gloves. “We don’t need these.” With bare hands I touched his hair as if primping a floral bouquet.

He wore oversize flannel pajamas with trains on them. Such a sweet nerd of a man.

“You hot in these?”

“I get cold.” He drew his blankets closer to his body, withdrawing his arm under the covers like an eel back into its crevice. He shut his eyes, and I noted the slight tremor of his lids before he opened them and nodded to the nightstand. “It’s all there.”

A stack of documents fanned across the small table. He’d also been reading Dr. Jeffrey Holt’s
The Peaceful End
, marked toward the back with a green plastic book clip shaped like a tongue. Most of my clients had read it, and all of them had heard of it. A handbook for people who want to take control over their own deaths, it covers everything anyone needs to know about assisted suicide and provides a selection of methods. A popular option described is the bag-and-helium method. Basically, a turkey-sized oven bag hooks up to the same kind of tank used to inflate balloons. Many have tried to convince me how quick and painless it is, but I’ve never met someone who really wants to die with a bag over his head. But the book is important in many ways, and Leland Mumm followed many of its recommendations, which included preparing the materials that now lay on his nightstand. In addition to the DVDs, these included a living will and durable power of attorney document. Finally, a sheet of paper with thick red letters: DNR.
Do not resuscitate
. I would leave this on Leland’s chest when I left, in case anyone came afterward and thought to revive him.

I opened one fat envelope with my name on it. Leland had given me a quarter-inch of cash. As I thumbed through it, he noted my confusion. “That’s for you.”

I reminded him, “I don’t take money.”

“It’s a donation.”

“Someone else can have it.”

“Who else?” He spaced out, perhaps remembering his wife.

This wasn’t the first time someone tried to pay me. Some people weren’t comfortable receiving anything unless they gave something in return. “Thank you.” I slid the envelope into my satchel. After this was over, I’d put it back. I wouldn’t take the money, but I wouldn’t insult him by refusing it either.

“How are you feeling?”

“How do you think?” The playful tone ebbed out of his voice. “God awful.”

He seemed afraid, and I pressed my fingers into his palm.

“You’re strong,” he remarked. Then with several breath breaks, he asked, “Can we please do this? The wait is killing me.”

“You’re ready?”

He answered without hesitation. “I was ready weeks ago.”

I unlatched my leather satchel and assembled my equipment. This part was the hardest for me, and I found it difficult to keep from tearing up. Death is sad. Every time. Not even the process of death so much as the frailty that leads to it, the helplessness. It always got to me. Leland Mumm also felt different than other clients, and I’m not just saying that in hindsight. My fellow paramedics—the ones who were parents—were the ones shell-shocked when they saw kids get hurt. Similarly, I thought that since Leland Mumm was roughly the same age my dad would have been, this hit close to home. But Leland didn’t really remind me of my dad. He just didn’t have anyone. Without family and friends to surround him during his quietus, the bleakness of his solitude ate at me.

I wish I’d learned to ape the poker faces I saw on other paramedics and docs, but I never mastered detachment. As I prepped the needle, my stomach churned. It always felt like this, and I always considered it a weakness. No one wanted to see his personal Hindu goddess get all blubbery. To stop my eyes from watering, I practiced a look that made it seem like I was concentrating on my job with laser precision.

“Different kind of needle.”

“It’s called a butterfly syringe.” Also known as a winged infusion set, this was a tool of the trade. Kevorkian himself used these. Most of my clients were on the older side, and the needle was designed to ease into smaller and more brittle veins.

“Walk me through it again,” he said. Under the covers, he wrapped his arms tightly around his trunk, embracing himself. Many clients liked to talk through our final meeting so they could diffuse the fear.

“The first dose puts you to sleep. The second will turn off the lights.”

“How many people have you helped?” He asked.

His tone shifted again, and now he sounded suspicious. It triggered my fiery impulses, sending a hot swell through my blood, and requiring a deep breath to calm down again. “Enough to know what I’m doing.” The answer was twenty-seven.

“You’ll find the vein all right? You’re not going to play darts with my arm?”

“You shouldn’t feel more than a pinch.” I was a trained paramedic, and kept up my accuracy by sticking needles into oranges at home.

He breathed louder, faster. “I’m scared.”

“I know. You know you’re in control.”

“I know that.” He seemed certain on this point.