The Mother-in-Law(73)

“Lucy. Come on up.”

In the elevator, she apologizes for calling me this late, and I tell her it’s fine, no problem, happy to help, but my voice sounds funny because I’m abuzz with nerves. Ollie must have been in this elevator not more than an hour before. Nettie and Patrick have been in here. Eamon too, apparently. A joke comes to mind. How many people does it take to kill a rich old lady?

I only wish I knew.

We shuffle down the hallway and into a different interview room, that smells of cheap perfume and cigarettes. I take a seat and so does Jones. Several beats pass and she doesn’t speak.

“You had some . . . questions?” I ask, finally.

“We’re just waiting for Ahmed.”

“Here I am,” he says at precisely that moment, appearing in the doorway. It’s a small room, and it feels even smaller with three of us in here. It makes me more nervous than I already was. The video recorder is in the corner, and they go through the spiel again, explaining that it is being recorded. Finally, we get down to business.

“As I said on the phone,” Jones says, “the reason we called you in is we have become aware that your mother-in-law was a member of a group of proponents for voluntary euthanasia. This organization holds meetings where they provide information on how a person can humanely end their own life.”

I keep my facial expression carefully blank. “Oh?”

“We have information that your mother-in-law attended one of these meetings and signed up to become a member.”

“She did?”

Jones regards me head-on. “She did.”

“So . . . you think she did kill herself?”

“We think she was thinking about it. It doesn’t explain her death, because she wasn’t found with any poison in her system . . . but it is an interesting development.”

I don’t know what to say to this, and so I say nothing.

“Can you tell me about your professional background, Lucy?” Jones says after nearly a minute’s silence.

I find a hangnail and pick at it. “I’m a stay-at-home mother.”

“And before that?”

“I was a recruiter.”

“A recruiter?” Jones glances at Ahmed and doesn’t try to conceal her smirk. “In which industry?”

I hesitate. “Information technology.”

“And your university degree was in IT and data analytics, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“So if someone asked you about how to encrypt email addresses, you’d know how to do it?” It’s a question, ostensibly, but Jones makes it clear that it’s actually a statement.

“I . . .”

“You could figure it out?” Jones suggests.

“Probably,” I admit.

“Do you know what bitcoins are?” Jones’s questions are coming faster and I wonder if it’s a technique to discombobulate me. If so, it’s working.

“Yes . . . I think so . . . why?”

They stare at me, a knowing look in their eyes.

“Am I under arrest?” I ask, flustered. “Because it’s late. I really need to get home to my kids.”

“Just one more question, Lucy,” Jones says, “and then you can go home. But I want you to think about this one before answering, okay? Really think about it.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Do you know that assisting someone to commit suicide is a crime in Australia? Punishable with up to twenty-five years in prison.”





50: DIANA


THE PAST

There are protesters out in front of the library, which I hadn’t expected. They are not the silent type. They have placards and crucifixes and are chanting about God being the only one who could choose when a person can die. Clearly not, I think to myself, or they’d have nothing to protest about.

I wish I’d brought a book along. Then I could have held it up, and they’d have left me alone. Just returning a book, I’d say. Instead, someone carrying a fluorescent yellow sign with the words SUICIDE IS A CRY FOR HELP, NOT A REQUEST TO DIE comes up to me with an offer to pray for my soul. A mother with a stroller and a couple of young Asian student-types with laptops enter at the same time as me and are not approached.

It was relatively easy to book a ticket. The guidelines said you had to be over age fifty or seriously ill with documentation to prove it, and I quite plainly meet the first criteria. I’m not sure what I expected. Some sort of secret handshake and a dingy back room perhaps. But the meeting is taking place in Toorak, of all places, one of, if not the most affluent area of Melbourne. Leave it to the affluent to want to dictate the circumstances of their own death.

The meeting is in a large room in the basement of the library. A man and a woman stand at the door, the woman holding a clipboard, the man, judging by his size and the fact that he appears to be serving no specific purpose, is a security guard. I haven’t been to the Toorak library before but it seems unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon. I wonder if this meeting is responsible for the bustle.

I approach the woman with the clipboard. “My name is Diana Goodwin. I booked a ticked online.” I produce my folded ticket, which I printed off that morning, and the woman checks it against her list. Online it said that attendees may be required to present identification, and I have mine ready, but after giving me a long look, she doesn’t ask. Still, she is thorough. As she peers at me, I’m reminded of standing at immigration, being surveyed, questioned, required to be a convincing version of exactly who you are. Eventually, I pass the test, and I’m allowed in.