The Maid's Diary(63)

“No. Just had some tea, thanks. You said on the phone there was a violent incident at a luxury home on the North Shore. But no sign of the occupants or a victim.”

She sips and briefly closes her eyes, swallowing both the wine and a surge of emotion. She sets her glass down, opens the fridge, and takes out leftover lasagna. She dishes some into a bowl. “No sign of a victim yet,” she says as she carries the bowl to the microwave. “We’ve located the couple who were seen in an Audi at the house. But no sign of the homeowners, or their maid, who was reportedly also at the home.” Mal opens the microwave door and her heart sinks. Peter’s bowl of lasagna is still sitting inside—he’s forgotten it. She glances at the time: 11:15 p.m.

“Did you eat, Peter?” she asks casually with her back to him.

Silence.

She turns. He appears confused.

“I was just wondering if you want some more to eat?” she says.

“I—I’m fine. I had dinner.”

She nods, removes his lasagna, and sticks her own food into the microwave. As it warms, she sips more of her wine. Peter’s gaze goes to the fireplace in the living room. He watches the flames, his face blank. And just like that Mal’s man has slipped away from her again, stolen by this strange and baffling disease. She first started noticing little changes in Peter more than seven years ago. Then he suffered a fall, and doctors thought he might have had a small stroke. Then came the bouts of depression. He lost interest in his hobbies, like gardening, and he seemed increasingly forgetful, irritable. Gradually he lost his social filters. He got angry with her more frequently—outbursts, swearing. He experienced some shocking cases of road rage, one of which resulted in police coming round to the house. His work got sloppy. His colleagues and students began complaining. The official diagnosis, however, took a while.

Mal carries her bowl and wine to the table and sits across from Peter. “And how was your day?”

He meets her gaze and considers her question for a moment. “I read in the paper about that seventy-one-year-old senior who’s gone missing, the one with Alzheimer’s.”

“Sylvia Kaplan?”

He nods. “She walked out of her home in East Van and never came back. Her daughter says they’ve been searching for almost two months now. The last sighting was at a bus shelter on Renfrew. They think she got onto a bus and got off somewhere in the night and was totally lost.”

“It’s heartbreaking, I know. It happens far too often.”

“They were talking about how we need an official Silver Alert system in this province. Like the Amber Alert for kids.”

“I agree.” She forks lasagna into her mouth as she studies Peter’s eyes. They’re filling with tears. She sets her fork down and covers his hand. “You all right?”

He inhales and glances away.

“We’ve got this, Peter,” she says. “You and I. In sickness and in health. Okay?”

He refuses to meet her gaze.

“Peter?”

He turns.

“I’m not going to let you wander off.”

“I want to talk to those people,” he says.

“Which people?”

“The Dignity in Death people. About medical assistance in dying.”

Shock washes through Mal’s veins. For an instant words elude her—she had not allowed her mind to go this far. Yet.

“I don’t want to be a vegetable in a seniors’ home,” Peter says angrily. “Just lying in a bed, my skin rotting with bedsores, forgetting how to eat, how to swallow, needing diapers changed. I don’t want to do that to you, Mal, to anyone.”

Mal draws in a slow, deep breath of air. “Okay,” she says quietly. “We’ll talk about it.”

He slams his hand down on the table. Her glass wobbles and she tenses, bracing for another outburst.

“Talk! Always goddamn talk, talk, talk. I want action!” His gaze burns into hers. Tears leak down the side of his face. His hands shake.

“I know, Peter. I understand. As soon as this case is a wrap, we’ll meet with your doctor, okay? We’ll ask him about medical assistance in dying. We’ll discuss all the options.”

He glowers at her for several beats. “It’s not easy to access MAID with dementia. MAID legally requires you to be cognizant right to the end.”

“I know. But there is some case precedent. We’ll work through it.” She forces a smile. “You and I. Deal?”

“I want it down in writing,” he says, jabbing his finger onto the table. “I want it stated that when I no longer recognize you, Mal, or when I no longer remember the names of my family members, from that point I no longer want to live. That’s when I want MAID. I do not want you struggling to change my pants and wipe my butt and the drool from my mouth.”

For a moment Mal can’t speak.

“Okay?” he says.

“Okay,” Mal says. “We’ll go step by step. But how about you sleep on it tonight and see how you feel in the morning?”

“I’ve been sleeping on it for bloody months. One morning I’ll wake up and it’ll be too late.”

Mal finishes her dinner halfheartedly while Peter sits, watching the fire. She then helps her husband up to bed. He seems particularly tired tonight. She drapes a blanket over him, kisses him, and switches off the lights.