Chapter One

                                                               June

     Laura wanted Mickey to die.

     Now.

     Tonight.

     She had it all planned. They’d relax on the couch in front of a roaring fire, wrapped together in her grandmother’s handmade green and white quilt. He’d empty a bottle of tiny white pills into a glass of Chivas Regal, his favorite. They’d enjoy their last hour together, her head on his shoulder, watching the flames dance and crackle. Then a final toast. He would drink the whiskey from his favorite cocktail glass, the one with the etched Orioles logo.

     Then a last kiss. Goodbye my darl—

     “Mother?”

     Laura’s eyes sprang open. She must’ve dozed off.

     “You were mumbling in your sleep. Something about pills and the Orioles.”

     What was Brooke talking about? Orioles? She couldn’t remember.

     Gracie said, “Laura, why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

     “Don’t need sleep. Sleep’s overrated.” She yawned, and glanced over at the man in the bed. Her Mickey. So many twisting tubes and wires—a monster from an old black and white horror flick—barely recognizable. Her eyes caught the old Baltimore Orioles baseball pennant hanging over his bed.

     Brooke hung it there during her last visit. Orioles logo ... whiskey glass ... white pills ... Suddenly her dream flashed before her eyes. White pills ...

     “You okay?” Gracie asked.

     Oh my God. She could not, she would not permit her mind to visit that awful place ever again.

     Gracie pressed. “Laura?”

     “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

     Gracie responded with a skeptical expression, and on the other side of the bed, Brooke returned her attention to the phone screen. She shifted, trying to find comfort in the battered metal chair, but her tapping thumbs didn’t miss a beat.

        Gracie leaned back against the peeling, vomit-green wall and fumbled through the tote bag on her lap. The walls had deteriorated further since Laura last served on the hospital volunteer auxiliary. She remembered those years fondly, especially the time spent talking with seriously ill elderly patients. Actually, more listening than talking. Over time, she and the head floor nurse, Haddie Smith, became friends. Haddie—short, wide, African-American, fifties, with a perpetual smile on her face—was meant to be a care-giver, and Laura could think of no occupation more suited to the woman. Haddie explained that older people quietly resented everyone telling them what to do, what to eat, when to sleep, what medicines to take. The last thing a human being needed as their life approached the end was being treated like a child. So finding someone who would actually listen meant the world to them.

     Haddie had already stopped by the room twice to ask how things were going. Laura thought, shitty, that’s how thing were going, but didn’t say that to her friend.

     Gracie pulled a magazine from her bag featuring a very young image of Robert Redford on the cover. Playgirl?

     Laura said, “I thought that magazine’s been out of circulation for decades.”

     “I’m a collector. You can still buy the originals online. Very valuable.”

     Laura shook her head, and took a deep breath of the thick, stifling hospital air. She’d attempted to open the window earlier so Mickey could experience again the soft summer breezes that made June one of the most pleasing months in Annapolis. Yet with mostly oxygen passing through his breathing tube, he wasn’t really able to smell the fresh air. The tubes had been required for the last six weeks to prevent pneumonia. Still, she thought maybe he could at least feel the fresh air on his skin. Unfortunately, the window was cemented shut by paint likely applied decades earlier. The heavy air now smelled of must, of decay. Of death.

     For the millionth time she wondered why God would spare the evil people in the world—dictators and serial killers and murderers and child molesters—while the good man lying next to her faced certain death? She squeezed her eyes tight. If she didn’t force herself to focus on something else, her head would explode.

     Mickey moaned again. After the choking incident at the Golden Crab dinner seven months earlier, Laura had driven him straight to the hospital. The results of the endoscopy showed he had “distant” esophageal cancer, meaning the cancer had spread away from the tumor to lymph nodes and organs. The cancer had been there for some time, undetected, slowly eating away, bite by tiny bite.

     At first it had been hard to think the words—my husband’s dying— much less say them. Now, after witnessing him wither away for the past many months, the vocabulary of death came easily. Hope had arrived early, but departed long ago. What remained was the heartbreak of seeing the man she loved suffer the quiet torture of a lingering death. The doctors were close to useless. The pain medication was never enough. When she begged for more, they furrowed their brows and explained how they were limited by dosage protocols. What BS.

     For the last few weeks, Mickey had been begging her to end his life. She, of course, wouldn’t hear of such a thing. Lately, however, the dreams had come. The Chivas Regal and the pills in the Orioles glass. She loved him so much, and it broke her heart to see him suffer, but she wouldn’t do it. Laura Beckman followed the rules, and the rules were pretty clear that a wife should not murder her husband.

     Okay, what else could she think about? The Symphony Ball. Mickey insisted she continue to chair the event. Most of the time her heart wasn’t in it, but the duties did temporarily divert her mind from her husband’s grim prognosis. She glanced up at the ancient TV, where an attractive girl proclaimed the health benefits of “Garden of Eden” yogurt. Garden of Eden. Not a bad idea for the ball theme. She pictured lush fruit, bright flowers. She had to pick a linen color, that was crucial—oh, no. Brooke just pulled a hip flask from her back pocket.

     Laura lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “What do you think you’re doing? This is a hospital, and your father’s lying here barely alive.”

     Brooke ignored her, took a drink, then passed the flask to Gracie. After raising it toward Mickey in a silent toast, Gracie helped herself to a healthy swallow.

     Laura closed her eyes and tried to control her emotions. She didn’t need this stress, not now. She heard a gurgle from the bed; he was awake. She stood quickly. “I’m here, sweetie.”

     Mickey’s eyes fluttered. He tried to talk, but with the breathing tubes, all that came out was a pathetic rasp. He made a writing motion with his right hand. Laura grabbed the note pad and pen from the table and set the tablet in front of him. A number of pages had been turned over. She placed the pen in his right hand and wrapped his fingers around it. She’d bought him a cheap Bic down in the gift shop since the ridges made it easier for him to grip with the IV stuck into the back of his hand. Mickey carefully formed the letter, “O.”

     Laura was perplexed. “I don’t understand, honey.”

     Brooke grabbed the tablet. “The Orioles, he’s asking about the Orioles.” She bent down close to her father. “They won, Daddy. Beat the Yanks. Morales pitched a three-hitter, and Crush Cameron hit a dinger with two on in the eighth.”

     Mickey attempted a weak smile, then his eyes found Laura. He lifted a corner of the blanket and made dabbing motions in the air.

     “What’s he doing?” Brooke asked.

     Laura smiled to herself, and her mind drifted back almost thirty years ...

     At the beginning of the semester, Laura, like almost all of the students at Bollen except for maybe the engineering majors, tried to schedule her classes so Friday afternoons were clear. An early December snow dump left no uncertainty about how that afternoon would be spent. She, her best friend, Megan, and three other girls strapped their skis and snowboards on top of Megan’s old Ford Explorer, and they drove north to Massanutten for a few hours of night skiing.

     On the first run of the night down Rebel Yell she caught an edge and twisted her ankle. Despite Laura’s strong opposition, Megan decided to stay with her at the lodge bar while the others skied. The bar was crowded and maneuvering between tables difficult. Laura had taped an ice bag around her ankle, and propped it up on a chair while she and Megan enjoyed their hot-buttered rums.

      A good-looking guy with thick, curly black hair, attempted to squeeze by.Someone bumped him from behind, and he spilled beer down the front of Laura’s sweater.

      “Oh, shit!” He grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser and attempted to blot the beer from her sweater. A moment later, he realized he was dabbing her breasts and froze. “Sorry, I’ll be happy to pay for the cleaning.” Their eyes locked and the attraction was instant. “How about you let me join you and I’ll buy you ladies another drink.”

       Laura smiled. “Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.”

      He offered a goofy grin, and held up his pinky finger. “Pinky swear.” After letting him twist in the wind for a few moments, she hooked her pinky fingers into his. At that very moment he was bumped again, and this time spilled beer down the front of his ski jacket. Laura pulled more napkins from the dispenser and dabbed the beer from his jacket.

      Megan laughed. “You two are the Dabbers.”

      Laura rode back to college with him, and they became inseparable. From then on, throughout their dating and married life, before going to sleep each night they’d hook pinkies and say, “Love you, Dabber.” One of those private little moments in a marriage that only has meaning to the husband and wife, something anyone else would consider plain silly ...

     Laura rose from the chipped metal hospital chair and stroked her husband’s hand. Almost all of the flesh had been replaced by scabs from the IVs. She hooked pinkies with him, then peered deeply into his eyes, and whispered so only he could hear. “Love you, Dabber.” He nodded, and slipped back into a restless sleep.

      Brooke headed for the door. “I need a cigarette.”

     “Great idea, your lungs will love it.”

     Brooke ignored her and walked out.

     Laura sighed and settled back down. Truth be told, she felt relieved without Brooke in the room. Her daughter created tension and that was the last thing Laura needed now. Her life had been defined by stress since Mickey’s diagnosis. Seemed like seven years, not seven months. Second opinions and third opinions and tests and treatments and, in the end, the inevitability. She lightly rubbed her husband’s arm and wondered where all the time had gone. They’d married young, both still in college, and their life together had been good. Not great she supposed, but good. More than good. The few bumps along the way had mostly been caused by her rebellious eldest daughter.

     Laura mumbled, “Why does she have to be so damn headstrong? If I say up, she says down. If I say, black, she says, white.”

     Gracie paused for a long moment, then said, “Sounds like her mother.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     Gracie held her gaze, sending a chill down Laura’s spine.

     Disjointed images flashed through Laura’s mind—

     Help ... Laura, please don’t leave me ...! Broken concrete stairs, a twisted Redskins blanket ... smelly socks... grape punch ... the jock humping hard ... unable to move, unable to think ... gonna puke, gonna puke right now ...

     The heavy hospital air seemed to thicken further, making it difficult for Laura to breathe. She squeezed her eyes shut, and with the force of will pushed the door in her brain—that door—closed.

     A series of deep breaths slowly brought her back. The first thing that registered was the distant sound from the machines keeping her husband alive. The noise reminded her of the drippy tub faucet pinging the drain—a discordant note broadcast from the master bath into the bedroom at the precise frequency necessary to pierce the edges of her brain just as she was about to fall asleep. The pings grew louder. She opened her eyes.

     Gracie hadn’t shifted her gaze.

     Laura’s voice came out in ragged pieces. “That was ... that was a long time ago.”

     “Part of you, part of her. That’s all I’m saying.” She stood, stretched, then rolled up the magazine. “Think I’ll visit the ladies room.”

     “You’re taking that trash with you?”

     Gracie grinned, and carried the magazine with her out the door.

     Another deep breath. The pings seemed louder with only her and her husband in the room. She would ask the nurses to turn down the volume. They monitored everything at the nurses’ station, so she saw no reason why they needed to have the damn thing driving people nuts in the patient’s room as well.

     Mickey’s eyes opened again and found Laura. He made the familiar hand motion.

     She stood and gently wrapped his fingers around the pen. He struggled to write, and the pen fell out of his hands. She patiently replaced it back in his fingers, and he wrote the word, “please,” in half cursive, half print. The handwriting of a young child. He locked eyes with Laura, then jerked his head toward the wall next to the bed. Laura’s eyes followed his gesture and fell upon the control panel for the ventilator equipment barely keeping him alive.

     Laura studied the panel as she’d done countless times. Several switches, including the one controlling power to the machines. The Magic Switch. One flick of that …

     “Can’t, sweetie.” She stroked his head. The baldness still felt strange. He’d kept a full head of hair until he became ill, and dyed it to maintain the dark color. Mickey’s hair was one of his few vanities, and she knew he secretly gloated because two of his golfing buddies, both years younger, were bald as eggs. Over the weeks and months she’d watched his skin change from a healthy tan to a pale, almost translucent parchment.

     Mickey’s hand struggled to form an image on the paper pad, a crude heart that more resembled a lima bean. To Laura, that lima bean was the most beautifully drawn heart in the world.

     “It’s lovely.”

     The thick plastic tubes turned his attempted smile into a snarl. He convulsed and emitted a ragged cry that ripped across Laura’s heart.

     Laura found the pump that allowed a patient to self-administer pain-relieving morphine into his veins and thumbed the button down hard. She’d already used the pump twice this visit, and it provided temporary relief. The light on the pump flashed red.

     Empty. She snatched the call button and pounded it repeatedly with her fist. He needed more pain meds and he needed them now.

     Mickey’s eyes pleaded with her. In frustration he flipped the tablet back and forth.

     Laura didn’t need to be reminded what had been written all over the previous pages—the single word, “please.”

      What he was requesting had been asked of her before. Agnes Levindowski, two doors down the hall, room 114. Agnes was eighty-nine, no family, and terminal. Of all the patients Laura comforted, Agnes was her favorite. Sometimes they’d spend up to an hour talking about Agnes’s life—her happy childhood living on her family’s farm in South County, her college sweetheart who left her at the alter, and her many years as an English teacher in the county school system. Agnes suffered in horrible pain, and despite Laura and Haddie lobbying hard for more meds, there was never enough, and those administered barely helped. Agnes pushed Laura almost daily to help her die, but of course Laura couldn’t do it. Agnes continued to argue, “My life, my choice.” Watching Agnes suffer was the principal reason Laura ended her volunteer work.

     Mickey moaned. How much more could he take? Desperate, Laura’s gaze returned to the ventilator’s control panel. She saw the manufacturer’s identification plate. RxTron, Eden Prairie, Minnesota. Eden Prairie. There’s that word “Eden” again. Sounded so peaceful. Flip the Magic Switch, and you’ll float away to Eden. No. She couldn’t.

     She stared at the door, waiting for help. Where were they? She turned back to her husband, and his beseeching eyes locked with hers. She gasped and bit her lip.

     His life, his choice.

     Enough.

     She reached across the bed and for a long moment her finger hovered over the switch. Then with a soft keening wail she flipped the switch down hard into the “off” position. Immediately, a muted alarm sounded in the hallway outside the door. She carefully removed the breathing tube, just as she’d seen the nurses do many times before. His smile finally was able to reach his eyes. For the first time in months, she kissed her husband full on the lips, oblivious to the clanging.

     Mickey rasped, “Love … you, Dabber.”

     Her tears dropped softly onto his dry cheek. “Good-bye, my darling,” she whispered. She hooked his pinkie. “I love you, too, Dabber.” He smiled once more. Laura kissed him again, two lovers, life partners sharing a long, final tender moment in their own private ...

     The door burst open. A young doctor with Haddie Smith trailing behind roughly pulled Laura out of the way. Behind them, Brooke filled the doorway, her eyes wide with shock.      

     “Jesus, Mother.”

      The doctor restarted the equipment. Haddie momentarily locked eyes with Laura— An expression of sympathy?—and inserted the breathing tube down Mickey’s throat. He attempted to protest, but all that came out was a ragged caw.

     The alarm stopped. The beeping resumed. The doctor turned to Laura. “Listen here, Mrs. Becker—”

    “It’s Beckman. Your patient’s name is Beckman, not Becker. Michael George Beckman, Mickey to his friends. And I am proud to say I’m Mrs. Mickey Beckman.”

      “I’m sorry, Mrs. Beckman,” the doctor responded, “we have so many patients—”

      Laura barely heard him. “My Mickey owned Beckman’s Furniture at the bottom of Main Street for over twenty years, worked six days a week, few vacations. Loved his family, his friends, his country, and the Baltimore Orioles. A good man, doctor, a very good man.”

     “I’m sure he is, Mrs. Beckman, and that’s why we need to do everything we can to—”           

    “He’s dying, for God’s sake,” Laura pleaded. “He’s been dying for six months.           

     The young doctor thumbed through his chart. “There’s no record of a living will, so I’m sorry, but I’m not permitted—”

     Mickey gasped; the muscles in his face involuntarily twitched. His limbs spasmed.

     “The morphine pump’s not working. Can’t you at least give him something for his pain?”

     Haddie added, “We have seen an uptick in pain, doctor.”

     The doctor again checked the chart. “He’s already at the max, but I’ll see what I can do. It can be very dangerous if we don’t strictly limit the amount of drugs that can be self-administered. Any more now might kill him.”

     “Then kill him!” Laura collapsed into a chair.

     The doctor’s voice remained controlled, the young professional. “What you attempted here, Mrs. Beckman, was not only wrong, but criminal.”

     Brooke stood shoulder to shoulder with the doctor. “How could you?”

     “Don’t mind her, she’s drunk,” Laura mumbled, the fight quickly sapping out of her.

     Brooke’s eyes flared. “What Mrs. Mickey Beckman didn’t tell you, Doctor, is that my daddy busted his butt six days a week so Mrs. Mickey Beckman could spend all her time playing country club queen with her vapid friends.”

     Laura felt her face flush.

The doctor said, “I’m afraid I have an obligation to contact the police.”

     Haddie didn’t try to hide the alarm in her voice. “Mrs. Beckman served as a valued member of our auxiliary volunteer group, and I can personally vouch for her. I’m sure this incident was a one-time thing, and won’t happen again.”

     The doctor paused for several moments. “Very well. Based on Ms. Smith’s endorsement I’ll refrain from calling the authorities. But under the circumstances, Mrs. Beckman, I’m afraid your visiting hours will have to be significantly reduced.”   

     “Please, you can’t do that.”

     The doctor turned to Haddie. “See that Mrs. Beckman is never left alone with the patient.”

     “But he’s my husband—”

     “Either that or I call the police.” He checked his watch and left, Brooke following behind.

    Haddie squeezed Laura’s hand. “So sorry.”

     Laura struggled to keep her sobs quiet. The result was a long, irregular series of smothered gasps and tiny squeals that suddenly increased in volume when she saw the man she loved, his eyes brimming with tears and his face twisted tight with pain, use a corner or the sheet to make rapid dabbing motions in the air.