Whisper Me This(9)

The old man’s face remains blank, uncomprehending. He blinks again, then turns away and pats the woman’s hand.

“It’s all right, Leah,” he murmurs. “I won’t let them take you.”

Cara, ten years younger than Tony and new to the job, raises her eyebrows in a question and looks to him for guidance. Tony draws a deep breath and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The room stinks. A laundry hamper by the bed is filled with soiled towels. A trash can overflows with incontinence pads.

“It’s all right,” the old man says again. He runs his free hand through his hair and then over his eyes. “She’s dying. Here. This is where she wants to die.” His words are slow, heavy.

“How long has she been ill?” Tony asks, circling around to the far side of the bed.

The old man follows him with his eyes, lips moving soundlessly, as if counting. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I’ve lost the count. Leah, how many days?”

The woman in the bed is clearly not going to answer. Her rasping breath pauses for a moment, as if she’s listening, waiting, and Tony’s adrenaline flares, ready to start the resuscitation protocol. But then she sighs and begins again, each breath labored and difficult.

“Sir,” Tony says, “is there an advance directive somewhere? Did she write up her wishes of what she wanted?”

The old man’s face clears. For the first time, his eyes focus. “Yes. Yes, that’s it. How could I forget a thing like that? She made it. We both signed it.”

Relief flows through Tony, warm as sunshine. Maybe this woman wasn’t shoved or hit or neglected. Maybe she has cancer or some other incurable disease. If she has written up her end-of-life wishes, then this lost old man is exactly what he seems, the loving guardian of his wife’s last hours.

The relief fades as rapidly as it came.

“I don’t know where she put it,” the old man mutters. “She told me. I don’t remember. I looked and looked . . .”

“I’ll check the fridge,” Cara says, and vanishes down the hall. The refrigerator is a common place for people to leave medical information—advance directives, last wishes, contact numbers. Tony already checked it with his peripheral vision on their way past: fridge magnets, photos. Nothing that looked like an advance directive.

But Cara is right to have a more thorough look. Tony’s grateful—the last thing he wants to do is spend more time in that kitchen.

A siren wails in the distance, coming closer. That will be the cops, and he’s grateful for that, too.

As long as he lives, he will never shake the memory of the time he helped resuscitate a woman only to discover later that she was a hospice patient, dying of terminal cancer. If an advance directive can’t be found for Leah, the cops can be the ones to make the call about whether to take her into protective custody for treatment or not.

“I looked.” The old man’s voice rises in frustration. “I looked in all the places. Nothing.”

“Is there someone we could call? Your daughter, maybe? Maisey, right?”

Reaching out, slowly, so as not to agitate the old man, Tony rests his hand on the woman’s forehead. Her skin is dry and hot with fever.

“Don’t touch her. You’re not supposed to touch her. It’s not in the plan.”

“I’m not taking her anywhere,” Tony soothes. “Just checking on her, okay?”

He slides his hand under the back of the woman’s head, finds the swelling, the cut, the blood-matted hair. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Walter Addington.”

“Well, Walter, I can see that Leah is certainly ill. Why don’t you let us take her to the hospital, give her some fluids—”

Cara’s voice cuts across his words. “No directive. Just the daughter’s phone number.”

Heavy footsteps signal the arrival of an officer. Mendez. He’s a good cop, and Tony’s glad to see him.

“What have we got?”

“Dehydration, a head wound. We’ve been unable to assess and treat, as Mr. Addington here says there’s an advance directive and she wants to die at home.”

He watches Mendez assemble the pieces. The old man, unshaven and lost-looking. The unconscious woman in the bed. The dirty, stinking towels in the hamper. The glass of water with the spoon in it on the bedside table.

“What happened, Mr. Addington? There’s a fair amount of blood in the kitchen. And on you. Old blood. Can you explain that?”

“She fell,” Walter says. “She hit her head. I brought her in here to rest, but she won’t wake up.” He shakes his wife’s shoulder, very gently. “Leah. Wake up. Tell them.”

“I’ve seen enough,” Mendez says. “Take her in. Mr. Addington, come with me, please.”

“No!” Walter protests. “You can’t. She doesn’t want to go.” He leans over on the bed, covering his wife’s body with his own. “I promised.”

Sickness twists in Tony’s belly, a revulsion for this whole mess. Maybe he’ll go back to school, find another job. One that doesn’t expose him to loss and despair on a regular basis.

“Come on, Mr. Addington,” Mendez says, apparently unmoved and matter-of-fact. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”