“A what?”
“I’m contracted privately by people who need end-of-life care.”
Another wife nods. “Like nursing?”
“Everythingbutnursing,” I explain. I give a nutshell description.
I can see it, the moment their demeanor changes. Tell someone you work with the dying, and you are suddenly a saint. “It was so hard when my mother passed,” another spouse offers, touching my arm. “You’re an angel.”
Here is what I wish I could say: No, I’m not. It’s important work, but I am much less Mother Teresa than I am a pain in the ass. Just because I get close to something that makes a lot of people uncomfortable doesn’t mean I’m special. It just means I am willing to get close to the things that make people uncomfortable.
Here’s what I do say: “Thanks.”
The fact that I can still censor myself proves I’m not as drunk as I thought I was.
The husband of the economist sways closer, lowering his voice. “Anyone ever ask you to…speed up the process?”
We’ve all heard the stories about so-called mercy killers, upping a morphine dose so that a patient never awakens. The closest I’ve ever come to that was a Catholic client on heart medication. If she stopped taking it, she asked, was it suicide? I told her I didn’t think so—there’s a difference between actively ending your life versus letting a disease progress in a way it would without treatment.
She kept taking her heart medication, and died of a stroke two weeks later.
“My grandmother was hit by a foul ball at Dodger Stadium,” a young woman says. “Dropped like a stone.”
“That must have been incredibly difficult for you and your family,” I say.
“I heard that on Mount Everest, there are bodies that have been frozen so long they’re used as trail markers—”
If you are an expert on dying, people believe you are also an expert on death. Suddenly, Kelsey Hobbs slips her arm through mine, as if we are long-lost friends instead of spouses introduced only a half hour ago. “Dawn,” she says, “I must show you some memento mori I have in the library.”
Death memorabilia. I wouldn’t have taken Kelsey for a collector. But her bright blue eyes widen, and I realize that she’s sending me a message. “Oh, of course,” I reply, letting her unravel me from the knot of people and pull me down a hallway.
I do not expect there to actually be a trinket, but I am wrong. A photograph hangs on the wall across from a massive bookcase, and in it, a couple poses on either side of a young girl. The couple is hazy; the child crystal clear. I know that in Victorian times, photography was a popular way to commemorate the dead. The reason the girl’s parents are blurry is because of the long exposure time. The dead, on the other hand, don’t move.
“Who is she?” I ask politely.
“Who the fuck knows,” Kelsey answers. “She came with the house. For years I thought the parents were ghosts and that’s why they were fuzzy. Then I did a little research.” She reaches into the top drawer of a massive desk and takes out two cigars, offering me one. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks.” I think Kelsey Hobbs may be my favorite person at Harvard.
She lights her cigar and takes a deep drag. “It felt like you needed rescuing. Just a guess, but I’m thinking if you spend the whole day with people who are dying, it’s not your first choice of conversation topic when you’re off the clock.”
“Actually, I don’t mind talking about dying. But there’s a limit to what I know about death, having not experienced it myself.”
“Imagine the business you could start if youhad.” Kelsey narrows her eyes. “Is it depressing?”
“Sometimes,” I answer honestly. “Mostly, it’s humbling.”
She stabs the cigar into an ashtray. “Well, I’m going to die sooner rather than later because of these things. Maybe I’ll hire you.”
I smile. “Maybe you will.”
The door opens, and Brian’s head pokes through, followed by Horace Germaine’s. “There you are,” Horace says to his wife. “You’re doing a terrible job of hosting a party.”
“They’re all horrible people,” Kelsey says. “Besides, I’m hiring Dawn to help me die.”
Brian’s smile freezes on his face.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Horace asks pleasantly.
