Will I ever be able to be truly honest with my sisters? The question badgers me for two days.
By Wednesday, I decide the question can’t be settled with a yes-or-no answer. I can’t know how our weekend will work out until I see Penny and Ginger. My sisters are anything but predictable.
I’m arranging important papers in my desk when I hear the click of Justus’s nails on the wooden floor. I watch, concerned, as my eighteen-year-old Jack Russell terrier crosses the room and bumps into the wall. I’m by his side in an instant, one hand supporting his body as the other soothes his calloused nose.
“Poor baby. Getting old is hard, isn’t it?”
Justus licks my palm, sniffs the bandage over the cut on my hand, and then does his best to scramble up my bent legs to reach my lap. I surrender and sit on the floor, gathering him to me as he covers my chin and cheeks with doggie kisses.
Justus, who has been with me longer than any husband, has never failed to prove himself faithful. My husbands have disappointed me, lied to me, and broken my heart, but the worst thing Justus ever did was chew up a pair of leather sandals.
“Are you gonna be okay?” I lower my head and whisper directly into his ear, because lately I’ve begun to suspect that he’s going deaf as well as blind. “Mama loves you, you know.”
Jussy wriggles out of my grasp and stands on the floor, then, with an effort, pushes himself onto his back legs and waves a front paw at me. His eyes are milky now, but his smile is as wide and engaging as ever.
“Good boy!” I pull a piece of dried beef from my pocket and place it under his nose. “Guess I don’t have to worry about you forgetting any of your tricks.”
Justus takes the square of beef in his jaws and trots over to his pillow, where he settles to crunch his treat. I sigh and return to my desk, then close the gaping drawer. My will and instructions for my funeral are inside, situated beneath a stack of bills. Not so obvious as to be easily noticed, but not impossible to find … when the time comes.
I pull my calendar toward me and stare at the discreetly drawn oblong around Friday, September 2. The 730th day after the effective date of my million-dollar life insurance policy. The day of ultimate release is only two days away.
From across the kitchen, Justus whimpers, drawing my attention. His treat is gone, but I don’t dare give him another even if he does another trick. He can’t keep large amounts of food down, and an inoperable tumor is pressing on his lungs. The vet suggested that the time has come to put Jussy to sleep, but if I can make him comfortable with medication and TLC, I’m gonna keep him with me as long as I can.
I had everything worked out for September third, but Ginger threw a wrench into my plans. Instead of swallowing aspirin on Saturday, I’ll be driving to St. Simons. I’ll meet Ginger and Penny at Grandma’s house. I’ll do my share of the work, and I’ll pretend to be happy and content. I might even ask for one of Gran’s trinkets or a few of the books on her shelves. Later my sisters will remember my requests and assure each other that my death was simply an accident. On a crowded holiday weekend, an accident would be easy to arrange. In a few days Jussy and I can crash into a concrete support together. We’ll go out side by side, the way we’ve lived for so many years.
For my sisters’ sake, for Wort’s sake, isn’t an accident the best way to go? It’s a much cleaner exit than an obvious overdose. Losing someone is hard enough, but since Ginger’s call I’ve begun to realize that the loss will be harder to bear if my family knew I could find no joy in living despite their best efforts to love me.
I’m not out to make anyone suffer after I’m gone. I’ve done enough of that already.
Maybe I won’t open the door on the past and tell my sisters the truth about our relationship. In three days I’ll look them in the eye and smile, though I’m burning to know why they didn’t come to my side on that awful August day two years ago. If I somehow found the courage to ask, Ginger would no doubt say that a miscarriage isn’t the same as losing an actual child, so what possessed me to think she’d drive all the way to Gainesville to mourn a few cells? Penny would never be so blunt; she’d be more likely to remind me that babies are like men—if you miss out on one, another will come along sooner or later.
I swallow the boulder rising in my throat and reach for a pen. Wort would say I’m being too tough on Ginger and Penny, but he doesn’t know them like I do. Maybe I am being hard on them. After all, don’t most people try to avoid situations that might bring them close to soul-searing loss?
So it’s okay. No need for my sisters to know what I’m thinking and what I’ve always thought.
At least I could be honest with Gran.
I circle a new date, lightly sketching an oval around Monday, September fifth. Labor Day. By late afternoon the highway will be streaming with people hurrying home from picnics, family events, and the beach. After our weekend at Grandma’s house, Penny and Ginger will drive home, happily satisfied with whatever treasures they manage to pilfer. Later, they’ll assure Wort that I seemed fine during our time together, that I mentioned being content. (This means I have to say I’m feeling content. I should throw in happy too.) They’ll say I had fun, that I looked like a woman who had everything to live for.
Only Justus and I will know the truth. And that truth will set us both free.