He stood before the machine, studying the chrome switch marked ON/OFF, mustering the courage to end his son’s life.
The boy lay on the bed, the once-adorable face obscured by thick white bandages, just a nose and tiny mouth visible, blue lips clutching an oxygen feed. Only the respirator, standing before him, allowed the child’s six-year-old lungs to accept each breath.
The brain was gone.
That was what the doctor had said yesterday. She’d tried to be gentle, knowing the situation, but how do you gently tell a man that his only child had no chance? At least Kristen had died instantly, spared the agony of having her body kept alive when no semblance of life remained. Only three days had passed since their new Navigator, driven by Kristen, careened off Highway 16 into an oak tree. The air bag deployed but did little to stop the engine from slamming through the passenger compartment, killing her and horribly maiming Marty. The boy’s thin body was burned and battered, nearly every bone broken, yet somehow he’d survived long enough to make it to the hospital so doctors could connect him to the machines.
For seventy-two hours he’d stood beside Marty’s bed, delaying Kristen’s funeral as he anguished. His options had been made clear earlier by a hospital counselor.
What an interesting service.
Someone to help when the plug needed to be pulled.
The wiry older man had offered little advice, simply agreeing with the obvious. The need for such a service was clear—risk containment—since it was bad for business to have grieving families filing lawsuits claiming that overanxious doctors and cost-conscious administrators had rushed them to judgment. The counselor was the patient’s advocate, supposedly speaking only for Marty, urging caution but never discouraging the inevitable.
And that was the problem.
Everything had become painfully obvious.
Marty had, for all intents and purposes, been dead for three days. There’d not been a sign of life, except what the machine forced upon his damaged organs. A finger placed within his tiny palm brought no response. Where before his son had clutched the offering and held on while they crossed the street or found their car in a parking lot, here there was nothing.
He stared down at Marty.
God, he’d miss him.
He was a blessing in every sense, something neither he nor Kristen had expected. She was nearing forty and he was approaching fifty, and they’d tried for decades to have children, without success. The doctors had offered little hope—age and nature were working against them—but they kept trying and, finally, Marty was born. They loved each other, got along wonderfully, even worked together every day. He practiced law and she made sure the office ran smoothly. Clients called her most times instead of him. Everyone loved her. It was hard not to. Friends wondered how they could be together so much.
He’d not even had time to grieve for Kristen yet.
Marty had delayed that.
It seemed he’d bury them together, side by side, in a plot under more oaks near the ocean. The thought wrenched his stomach and he felt his knees weaken.
No time for that.
Marty needed him.
The doctor said that once he switched off the machine the end would come fast, so everyone had retreated to give him privacy. Kristen’s parents stood out in the hall, respectful of his task. His own parents had long been dead. Marty and Kristen were all the family he had. Crying had never come easy for him, and he could not recall the last time a tear had formed in his eyes. Now, suddenly, rivulets started to flow.
Last Christmas they’d taken Marty to see The Nutcracker. Marty had worn a precious new suit bought specially for the occasion and had been enthralled by the spectacle. For days afterward he’d imitated the dancers and hummed the tunes. He was proud that his son appreciated art. Such a bright little boy.
But now…
In a few minutes his son would be dead and a part of him would die, too, just as a different part of him had been extinguished three days ago when he’d been required to identify his wife’s mangled body. After, he’d tried to flush the blood and disfigurement from his thoughts, remembering her as the beautiful woman she’d always been.
The same was now true for Marty.
He wanted to think of him as a blond-haired, violet-eyed little boy with all the energy and enthusiasm life, opportunity, and privilege bestowed. Maybe he would have one day become a lawyer, taking over the practice. Then again, perhaps he would have chosen another career, something that made him happy. Either was fine. He’d given him life, and all he ever wanted was for him to succeed. Now he would give him death.
He stroked the child’s head.
“The best boy in the whole world,” he whispered.
That was what he’d always told him, since Marty was an infant, held in his arms at three in the morning. Or when they’d played together in the backyard—hide-and-seek was Marty’s favorite. Or when the boy had brought home from preschool a picture painted just for Dad. It was never anything recognizable, mostly smears of paint, but to a father they were masterpieces.
He recalled the last time he spoke to his son. Three mornings ago as he headed out the door for work. Marty was finishing off a bowl of Apple Jacks at the kitchen table. Kristen was dressing and would soon follow him to the office, after dropping Marty at school. He’d kissed the child on his forehead and told him they’d do something fun that evening. Maybe ride bikes around the neighborhood. Marty had only recently mastered a two-wheeler with training wheels. He recalled the smile and the words he’d said.
“The best boy—”
“—in the whole world,” Marty finished.
He’d started doing that lately. Accustomed to the phrase. Always smiling back at him when he completed the sentence. It was something between them, special for a father and son.
His gaze stayed locked on his son.
“The best boy in the whole world,” he mouthed again.
He wondered what he’d done to deserve the misery life seemed to have imposed. Four days ago things were good. He was having the best year ever. Money was plentiful, the bills low, they were planning a trip to Disney World in the fall. Every day for the past month, while fighting sleep at night, Marty had scanned the resort’s brochure in his bed.
He turned back to the machine and knew what he had to do. Just a flick of a switch. He tried to imagine what the feeling would be like as he watched Marty die, and the terror of that vision kept his hand frozen at his side. He thought of Kristen and wondered how all this had happened. The police had offered little in the way of explanation. The day was clear, the roadbed dry, their car in good repair. Something must have distracted her, the authorities concluded, and she’d momentarily lost control, enough that the vehicle left the asphalt and found a tree. She knew the road, had driven it hundreds of times. On that day—just a simple errand to the grocery store, on the way home from picking Marty up at school, for some sour cream so she could make stroganoff for dinner. He loved her version. Pink from red wine and always served over rice since he didn’t particularly care for pasta.
The thought of food turned his stomach.
He’d not eaten in two days.
He sucked a breath and steadied himself.
His son did not deserve to die, and he did not deserve for his son to be taken. But circumstances had assumed control. Kristen was gone and Marty was about to be. Was it that they had challenged nature? Become pregnant when they shouldn’t? Was nature striking back? It sure seemed that way. For this case, this trial, he would not walk away with the dispassionate objectivity of a lawyer doing his job. This time the verdict was against him.
And he would pay the price.
He reached for the switch.
A spark of static electricity popped as his fingers touched the metal. The shock caused him to yank his hand back, as if the machine were telling him no, not now, not yet.
But he knew better.
Act before his courage vanished.
He touched the switch again.
No spark this time.
He closed his eyes, bit his lower lip, and with tears streaming down both cheeks he flicked the toggle down.
Ten seconds passed.
Twenty seconds.
Marty’s chest heaved. A groan seeped from the boy’s mouth and for an instant he wanted to reengage the respirator, but the doctor had warned him that the body would labor until it realized there was no brain. Ignore the pleas, he was told, and let nature take its course.
Another moan and his heart pounded.
The chest collapsed. Shivers racked the child’s limbs.
The sight clawed at his heart.
Then, nothing.
Color drained from the skin and a sickening silence signaled Marty was gone.
He bent down and lightly kissed the child’s bandage.
“The best boy…”
But he couldn’t finish.
He turned and stared at the door leading to the hall. Framed in the rectangular window were the tearful faces of Kristen’s mother and father as they watched their grandson die.
The box lay on the table beside the bed. Silver, wrapped with red ribbon and a bow, which he’d brought with him earlier. He slowly tugged on the ribbon, unwrapped the bow, and opened the lid. Wrestling one last burst of courage from his fear, he reached inside and gripped the gun. A semiautomatic, bought years ago for late nights at the office. It had never left the drawer in his desk until today.
He turned back toward the bed, never let his eyes leave the boy, and raised the barrel to his head.
The door of the room swung open and someone screamed No.
But his finger was already pulling the trigger.
And his last thought was a hope.
That God was indeed merciful.