As she biked to the nursing home early that evening, Jen thought back over her day and, with a modest yelp of satisfaction, punched her fist into the air. She figured she’d acquitted herself pretty damn well at the Executive Office Building. She hadn’t caved, and she and Chandler had come up with good questions. No, she hadn’t gotten answers to the big ones, but then again, she hadn’t expected to. She’d confirmed that Teena Archambault was there and discovered it was Teko Teko’s lair too. She enjoyed knowing he was worried that she had found out. And now, she sort of had an explanation for why the Secret Service had accompanied Teko Teko to his second visit: he and Archambault might have a link to the vice president or even the president.
She was so preoccupied with running victory laps that she’d barely given a second thought to yet another call from the nursing home. But now, as she rode up the grim driveway, she was flooded yet again with a lifetime of hurt and anger. Six more weeks, she thought. True, over the past few days she’d had her first misgivings about signing the exit papers, but it wasn’t supposed to be an easy moment, was it? No point sugarcoating it. She had tested positive for ROSE; she’d likely be dead within a few years if she didn’t get the modified treatment. And so she convinced herself that signing the papers had nothing to do with her lifelong antipathy toward the monster who claimed to be her mother. It was simply the logical choice that so many parents and their offspring were making.
She was locking her bike when a man’s voice called out, “You again.”
It was the journalist, Gabriel Cohen. And his presence offered a good excuse to delay going inside.
“Hey, Mr. Cohen.”
“Oh, please, it’s Gabe.”
“And I’m Jen.”
He reached out a hand. “Well, nice to officially meet you.”
“I read your article—the one where you go to that secret meeting in the Ethiopian restaurant.”
He smiled. “Those really were the days.”
“One of those people is now my captain. Captain Brooks.”
“My sources will go with me to the grave.”
She nodded—hadn’t she pretty much said the same thing to Teko Teko? “Anyway, I’m glad I read it.”
“And those folks?” Gabe said. “Has their sacrifice and optimism paid off?”
She thought of the spray painter, likely a cop or someone who’d been set up by them, who had given the Ultras an excuse to attack the demonstration. She wondered why the captain had been hauled in that morning. She wondered about Teko Teko’s and Teena Archambault’s ties to the police, the DEA, and the executive branch of the US government.
She said, “Man, are there things I wish I could tell you.”
He smiled tolerantly, as if he’d heard that line before.
“Do you still write?” Jen asked.
“I always imagined I’d have one last great exposé.” He spread his arms to indicate his surroundings. “But unless one of my fellow inmates is hiding the story of the century, I’m guessing that ship has already sailed.”
“Was it a good ship, though?”
Gabe nodded his head. “Pretty good … pretty damn good.” Only now did real sadness creep into his eyes. “Just wish there was one final sailing.”
As always, entering the administrator’s office was like tiptoeing across the brittle surface of a giant crème brûlée: there were just so many sugarcoated objects—darling photographs, precious quotations, pastel-shaded stuffed animals, and colorful porcelain ornaments. One final monthly visit. Another to sign the papers. And a final one to collect her mother’s effects. But, Jen thought, I’ve already collected those effects decades ago. Those effects would have a hard time ever leaving her.
“Jen, it’s, ah, about your …” The administrator blushed, fixed her gaze on a pink angel figurine, and remained silent. She opened her mouth again but quickly shut it.
Jen said, “Maybe I can give you a hand. My mother is hitting on the men again.” It still seemed unbelievable, but dementia can do strange things.
“My goodness, no.”
Jen waited.
“It’s just that—how can I put this—you’ll need to be thinking about whether to sign the exit papers for her.”
An ancient Motown song popped into Jen’s head. “Signed, sealed, delivered with a kiss.”
The administer seemed to assume that Jen’s silence represented inner turmoil.
“There is the matter of her health,” the administrator said.
“What, is she dying?”
The administrator laughed. “Oh, my goodness, absolutely not. Why just yesterday—” She paused. “I misspoke. Just the day before yesterday, one of our nurses said your mother is as strong as a horse. Could live for several years more.”
Jen went upstairs.
She stood at the locked door to the activity room. Stared through the small rectangle of wire glass at the gray-haired but still youthful-looking woman. The one who didn’t know she was Jen’s mother. Who didn’t remember she had been a brutal mother, a mother who’d lock her daughter in a closest, who’d gag her with ice cream. As if that was another person. As if the mother she’d been was already dead and gone. But then who, Jen thought, is that woman romping around the activity room? Joyous. Playful. Ready to talk to everyone. Flirty. Friendly. Someone who might well live another five or ten years, perhaps even more. Someone who didn’t deserve to die.
She parked her bicycle at home. It would take her a half hour to walk to Zach’s, but she needed to walk. She needed to think. And as she did, she wondered who she could talk to about this matter of killing her mother. And the strangest name came to her: Richard O’Neil. She pulled out her phone and called a car.
She of course didn’t know if he was in DC and, if in DC, whether he was at his club, and if he was at his club, when he might leave. But after she sat on the curb across the street for an hour and was getting very close to giving up, who should come out the front door but Richard himself, led by Jaisha and trailed by Rob. For the first time, Jen realized these two were also programmed as bodyguards.
As she crossed the street, the group noticed her. It was as if they were operating from a single brain: Rob moved up to flank Richard; there was steel in Jaisha’s eyes.
Richard was the first to speak. “I thought we agreed that I had seen the last of you, Detective.”
Jen held her palms up and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Another one of life’s mysteries, I guess.” When Richard didn’t reply, Jen said, “Actually, I was hoping to get some advice from you about my mother.”
“Your mother.”
“About exit.”
He stared at her, as if trying to size up what she was trying to pull on him, and then said, “You’re serious.”
Now there was no smile on her face. “Seriously serious.”
He studied her. He nodded, clearly meaning, I’m listening.
Jen’s tone was somber. Her pace was halting, she stumbled, but she managed to explain that, because her mother had dementia, she, Jen, had the last say whether her mother would exit. “And, well, I’ve gotten my test result for ROSE and—”
Her voice caught, and she found herself unable to finish the sentence. She tried again, but the words choked in her throat.
Richard, who until then had been aloof, reached out and cupped his hand around her elbow. As he gently tugged her along, he said, “There’s a bench around the back.”
They were sitting side by side, Richard looking at Jen, she letting her eyes wander: Rob. Jaisha. A large house next door through the trees. Anywhere but at him.
Her story gushed out: Her mother’s abuse, the ROSE test, her mother now with Alzheimer’s. The choice Jen needed to make. Exit. Finally, Jen looked at Richard. His eyes no longer seemed as they had to Chandler, tired of life, but now were deep with understanding. Gentle. And when she stopped, she realized why she had come to talk to him.
“Richard, is it right to play God?”
He laughed, but it was a kind laugh. “We do it every day. Every time a doctor performs surgery or you get a vaccine. Humans are in the business of playing God.”
“And the reverse? To rob someone of their life?”
“Humans have long done that too.”
“But …”
“Yes, definitely a but should come in there.”
“We can’t have everyone living forever,” Jen said. “It isn’t sustainable.”
“Now you’re getting close to home. My home.” It seemed the longest time before he continued. He said, “Yes, it clearly is not sustainable.” He stared at his young hands. “And maybe it isn’t even desirable.”
“But you’ve done it. You’ve chosen that path.”
“And, now, five years later, not a day goes by when I don’t wonder if it was truly the right thing to do.”
That night, she was lying on her stomach in bed, Zach massaging her back. She said, “I don’t know what made her like that. Maybe bad things. Maybe it was just what she grew up with and figured was normal. Maybe she was simply an awful human being. Oh, that feels so good—right there.”
She fell silent, save some soft sighs.
“Your legs?” he asked.
“Mmm.” Eventually, Jen started talking again. “Whatever did happen to her, she shouldn’t have done any of that to me. Mmm, right there.” She sighed again, and for a minute simply enjoyed the pressure of his fingers. “I’m not going to make excuses for her,” she went on, “but …”
She thought of the terror her mother had inflicted on her. And the simple and nice woman her mother had become. It was as if her mother had waited all these years to be happy. Jen thought it strange. Maybe for the first time since her mother had been a little girl, she was happy, although she no longer had her mind. No, she was likely this way precisely because she had lost her mind. What right did Jen have to condemn her to death?
Much later, after Zach had drifted off to sleep, Jennifer whispered out loud, “I can’t do it. I can’t put her down.”