Callie
I’m with Dad in his garden, picking vegetables for Sunday lunch, a throwback to days gone by. Mum’s left us to it, as she tends to do—I like to think, as she’s watching us from the window, she’s remembering all those days I’d totter about after him in my little splash suit, clutching a plastic bucket and trowel, bullied and buffeted by the wind and rain.
Maybe it’s the sentiment that stems from childhood memories, but I suddenly wonder if I’m being selfish by electing oblivion. Whether I should prepare my parents, forewarn all the people who love me. Perhaps I could even consider one of those living funerals, where everyone gathers and says nice— Oh, no. How morbid. No one should have to experience their own funeral. No one.
“So where’s he gone, then?” Dad’s quizzing me about Joel’s impromptu trip.
“Cornwall.”
“And that’s all right with you, is it?”
“Of course, Dad. We’re not—”
“Joined at the hip? Oh, I know. You kids do things differently these days.”
I smile. I guess, in my dad’s eyes, I’ll always be his little girl.
Joel and I FaceTimed yesterday, then again this morning. He confirmed what he’d already suspected—that Tom’s not his real dad—and said he was staying until Tuesday night to try to figure everything out.Overwhelmed on his behalf, I told him I love him, to stay as long as he needs to get his head straight.
“Dad, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think your patients”—I swallow—“do you think they were grateful for having time to prepare before they died?”
“Sometimes,” he says simply, uprooting a carrot. “Sometimes they were glad to have that time. Sometimes they weren’t.”
“What were their reasons for not wanting it?”
“Well, they varied. People are different. A drawn-out death isn’t everyone’s ideal way to go. People often think they’d rather have time to prepare, but of course they end up spending their last months and weeks paralyzed by sadness, and fear. It’s not always how it seems in the magazine articles.”
“You mean, it’s not all bungee-jumping and touring the States in a Winnebago.”
Dad smiles sadly. “Hardly, sweetheart. Not everyone feels emotionally able to tackle last-chance to-do lists, even if they’re physically capable. I’m sure I wouldn’t.”
We carry on picking for a few moments. The faint churn of farm machinery floats over from nearby fields, as at the garden’s far boundary a quiver of swifts skims the hedge. It’s always so peaceful here—free from shunting traffic and fired horns, the stereophonic rumble of urban living.
“So what would you prefer?” I ask him. “To go quickly, or...”
He looks over at me, a smear of mud on his left cheek that Mum’s bound to tut about later. “Callie, this conversation’s starting to worry me...”
“No need,” I say quickly. “I’m just curious.”
“You’d tell me if—”
“Dad, it’s nothing, honestly. Actually, forget I said anything.” I straighten up, suck in fresh air. “What’s next?”
“Parsley, please,” he says, but like he’s not entirely reassured.
•••
Later, as I’m getting ready to leave, I say, without really intending to, “Dad, how much do you think you should sacrifice for someone you love?”
“That depends on what you’re sacrificing,” Dad says.
“Well, if it’s something that would make the other person happy, but your life a lot worse, should you do it?”
Dad frowns. “I can’t really answer that, Callie, without knowing the circumstances.”
