Zoe FitzGerald Carter - imperfect endings

imperfect

endings

a daughters tale of life and death

Zoe FitzGerald Carter

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Copyright 2010 by Zoe FitzGerald Carter

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First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition March 2010

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Manufactured in the United States of America

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Carter, Zoe FitzGerald. Imperfect endings / Zoe Fitzgerald Carter p. cm.

1. Carter, Zoe FitzGeraldFamily. 2. Hemlock Society U.S.A. 3. Suicide United States. 4. Terminally illUnited States. 5. ParentsUnited StatesDeath. 6. Right to dieUnited States. 7. Mothers and daughtersUnited States. 8. Authors, AmericanCaliforniaBiography.

R726.C35 2010

616.85'8445dc22 2009022245

ISBN 978-1-4391-4824-2

ISBN 978-1-4391-5421-2 (ebook)

For Anna and Mira

Everyone in this book has been given a pseudonym, with the exception of a few public figures and myself. In some cases, distinguishing details about these individuals have been changed as well. Furthermore, while I have made a good-faith effort to convey the truth or essence of everything that I recount, certain events and scenes have been compressed in order to better meet the needs of the story. Finally, as is the case in all memoirs, dialogue is by necessity an approximation, especially in scenes from the distant past.

imperfect

endings

Dont leave me alone in the twilight

Twilight is the loneliest time of day

THE BAND

JANUARY 2001

I dont have to answer the phone. On my knees in the bathroom, daughters just settled into the tub, I have the perfect excuse to ignore it. Let the machine pick it up instead. But I push off my knees and head for the door, my brain several steps behind my body as it usually is by this time of day.

Only then do I pause, reluctant to leave the steamy warmth of the bathroom, the giddiness of my naked children who are lolling at one end of the tub, pouring water on each other. At four and eight, Lane and Clara are hardly at risk for drowning, but I remind them to be carefulkeep the water in the tub, hold off on the shampooand step out into the bedroom.

Shading my eyes from the blinding late-day sun, I cross the room, glancing out at the glimmering strip of the San Francisco Bay and, just beyond it, the hazy outline of the Golden Gate. Four years on the West Coast and this view of water and sky still thrills me.

I pick up the phone, annoyed with myself for answering it, sure its someone calling to either sell me something or beg something from me.

Oh, there you are! Have I caught you at a bad time? Its my mother. Her voice sounds cheerful and a little excited, as if she has good news. I was just looking at my calendar and wondering if you could come to D.C. the first weekend of February.

Im not sure. Ill have to check. Whats up? I drop onto the bed, heart beginning to clamor. I know whats up.

Well gosh, honey, Ive been trying to find a good time to end things as you know, and I was hoping that weekend might work for you. I havent called your sisters yet, but of course I want them here too. And your girls if you can bring them. Im still working out the details, but

Jesus, Momma, I hiss, cupping my hand over my mouth so Clara and Lane cant hear me. You make it sound like a family reunion!

Well, theres no reason to get huffy, Zoe, she says. I cant plan anything unless I know you girls are available. Can you just take a quick peek at your calendar?

No, I cant! Im in the middle of giving my kids a bath, I dont have my calendar, and I cant think about this right now.

Fine. Her irritation is palpable and for a moment there is silence. So when can you call me back?

I want to say never. I will never call her back if she insists on talking about killing herself. But I think of her lying alone in her big empty bed, of her dying alone because her daughters werent willing to show up, and my petulance turns to shame.

Ill call you tomorrow.

Okay, sweetie. Her voice is cheerful again. That would be great. Talk to you then!

I stand up and look out the window, the sounds of splashing and laughter faint in the background, as if my daughtersor, for that matter, my entire lifehad just receded into the distance. I watch the last burning rays of sunlight disappear behind Mount Tamalpais, the vast, glorious landscape slowly turning from gold to gray.

MARCH 2001

Despite my assurances that Im perfectly happy to take a cab from Dulles Airport, my mother insists on hiring a car to pick me up. The driver is a slim, good-looking man in a dark suit, so sleek and well groomed that Im immediately conscious of my wrinkled Gap capris and unbrushed hair.

Any bags? he asks, voice as smooth and carefully modulated as his appearance. He glances around the baggage claim, now teeming with fellow passengers from California, most of them as casually dressed and disheveled as I am. Funny how theyd seemed perfectly presentable at the boarding gate in San Francisco, but here at Dulles, under that self-important wave of ceiling, weve all turned to bumpkins.

I indicate my scuffed leather tote overflowing with spare clothes, books, and a large box of Sees assorted nut chocolatesa gift for my motherand to my embarrassment, he takes it from me. Together we make our way out of the terminal.

Sliding into the back of his gleaming black Town Car, I collapse against the thickly cushioned leather seats and close my eyes. Maybe this car service thing was a good idea after all.

So, hows Mrs. Draper? the driver asks, turning to look at me. We havent heard from her for quite a while.

My mother? I sit up, blinking my eyes, which are blurred and sticky from my contact lenses. Uh, about the same, Id say. Just staying a little closer to home these days.

Hmm. He seems to consider my response and I wonder if he thinks Im holding something back, which of course I am. But I cant exactly say, Oh well, you know, my mothers pretty focused on dying right now. She just cant quite figure out how to do it. In the meantime, shes taken to her bed.

The fact is, none of us had taken her very seriously last summer when she first started talking about ending her life. Diagnosed with Parkinsons in her mid-fiftiesalmost twenty years agoshe was tired of the endless drug cycles, the constant revving up and slowing down, the inability to stay in one state long enough to just forget the damn disease. But kill herself? It seemed unlikely. My two sisters and I chalked it up to a mild depression and near-pathological need to be in control.

But then she joined the Hemlock Society and began proposing actual death dates, the most recent being May first. (The previous two were abandoned due to the lack of a good, solid plan.) And this weekend shes arranged to have a volunteer from the Hemlock Societys Caring Friends program fly in from Oklahoma to discuss how they might help her do the deed. Hes due in tomorrow morning.