When Albert proposed to Celia, back in 1961, he balanced on his left knee in her parents’ living room, held open a little box from Birks that offered a sparkling diamond ring on midnight blue velvet, and opened his mouth to pop the question. But the words that tried to climb the ladder between his heart and lips never made it — he just looked at her with his deep, chocolate-brown eyes, clearly desperate to speak but too overcome by the moment. And so she knelt in front of him, swung her arms around his neck and whispered, “Yes, of course, I will marry you, you big doofus.”
Sixty-two years later, Albert is pretty much in the same boat. On the bathroom floor and unable to speak. This time, it is not natural shyness or a love too stupendous for words that mute him, but more likely a stroke. Celia sighs from deep within and slowly, ungracefully, lowers herself to sit beside her husband. She lingers the tip of her forefinger on his still plump and shapely lips that have formed themselves around their love language, their laughter, and a gazillion kisses. She bends over to kiss the eyes which have beheld her, with adoration, always, even when she was quite convinced of her own homeliness.
“Mybert,” she says, “you have done it now, haven’t you, dear?”
When she pulls back, she sees her Albert has left already. The man staring at the ceiling with glazed and cloudy eyes is a man no longer, only a mass of instinct with a primal clutch on life. His breath is wet and ragged. His eyes don’t register recognition.
“I’m sorry, my love,” she says, “I’m such a sound sleeper.”
Celia gets awkwardly to her knees, then stands and retrieves her phone from the charger on the kitchen counter. “Call, Astrid,” she says too loud.
“Calling Astrid . . . Rrring. Rrring. Rrring. She sees Albert’s face while she waits. So pale. So without, himself.
“Celia?” Astrid’s voice is quiet and smooth and comforting.
“You better come,” says Celia. “And bring everyone.”
Celia collects bedding, then tucks a pillow under Albert’s head and covers him with the duvet. She gets on the floor and slips under the blanket, puts her head in the space between his shoulder and jawbone, and her hand on his chest.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “The girls are coming, and then we’ll help you.”
“I love you,” she says, after feeling his weak heartbeat under her hand for a while.
*****
She tells him of their life together, scrolls through their decades of ups and downs until a light hand falls on her shoulder.
“Aw, Celia,” she hears Astrid saying. “I am so sorry.”
“I think he had a stroke when he got up to the loo,” Celia says, unfolding herself from her nest next to Albert. “I don’t know how long he was lying here before I found him.”
“Come on then,” Astrid says, in her clear and decisive tone. “Let’s you and I go to the kitchen. We’ll make some coffee.”
Celia keeps her head down as Astrid leads her through her own apartment by the arm. She sees the shoes and legs of the others while crossing the hallway and living room, but doesn’t want to look into their eyes. Not now. She knows them all by their undercarriage, anyway. Georgie with her tiny fat feet crammed into white runners, Samira’s slender ankles in black pumps, Rosie’s always bare feet in sandals (“hippie habit” Astrid had complained on more than one occasion and “Jesus’s feet” Samira had defended her friend), Isabella’s thick-soled Hokas, Ruby’s fringed moccasins, Olivia and Brinda in slippers because they live in this building, too, Gertrude in jeans and Yuki and Elsbeth in their stockings because neither can bear to enter a home with their shoes on. Everyone has come.
Astrid closes the kitchen door firmly and resolutely. They put the kettle on, boil it three times, and prepare a pot of coffee, a pot of black tea, two mugs of herbal tea, and one cup of hot water. They don’t speak and don’t turn the radio on. Celia thinks of Albert, her Mybert, and tears of sorrow wet her cheeks while she completes the tasks Astrid sets her with mechanical indifference. Finally, she grabs a paper towel, blows her runny nose, then sits heavily on her chair.
“It’s a stupid rule, that we can’t do it ourselves,” she sobs. “I should be with him.”
“In a minute,” Astrid answers. “It’ll just be a minute.”
Just then, there is a faint knock on the door, and the women file in. Again, Celia sees only their lower legs and feet as they approach her, one by one, to lay a hand on her shoulder or bend to kiss her head while murmuring.
“I’ve got to go to him.”
She walks through the apartment, looks at the spot where Albert had been lying, then moves forward into the dusky bedroom. She feels him there on the bed more than she can see him. The girls have drawn the curtains tight and left only her small reading lamp on. Celia lets her housecoat slip to the floor, then gets into bed and wiggles across to lie close to Albert. She snuggles as tight as possible, curves her arm above his head to cup his cheek with one hand. She rests the other on his still heart.
“Mybert,” Celia says in their darkened bedroom, kissing his cool cheek. “Thank you for loving me so well all these years.”
*****
The hours of early morning unfold slowly but without hesitation. The women cradle coffee and tea mugs in their hands, sit on the couch, stand by the window, perch on the bed or the one chair in the bedroom. Isabella clatters in the kitchen as she collects ingredients, pots and pans — soon twin aromas of sweet bake and fresh coffee drift through the rooms.
Death creates a vacuum, they agreed a long time ago, and human presence in its wake is essential. Celia’s need to lie with Albert in quiet solitude is respected, but all around her the women carry on with life. Samira and Georgie play hands of cribbage; Yuki washes dishes; Ruby, Elsbeth, and Rosie peruse Celia’s extensive magazine collection and occasionally read interesting tidbits to each other; Brinda slips out and soon returns with her knitting; Gertrude had brought hers along and sits by the reading lamp; Olivia and Astrid quietly converse on the couch and watch the sunrise through the large panorama window.
They have done this many times, this breathing of life into the space left behind by death. Women take naturally to this task — they all agree — being the bearers of life, and having the earth’s and its moon’s rhythms stitched into their very bodies as their menses flowed like tides during the decades of their youth. That they are also adept midwives of death seems a natural consequence, and they have done this, too, many times.
*****
It started almost twenty years ago with Manuel, Astrid’s husband. This sweet and gentle giant of a man whose dad jokes and humorous stories about growing up on the beaches of Costa Rica left everyone in stitches and aching for more. He loved food and drink as much as his petite wife and so developed gout, for which his doctor prescribed Allopurinol. This damaged his liver, and he became lethargic and even bigger. Soon, the joyous and fun-loving centre of everyone’s party grew bedridden with chronic pain and fatigue, subsisted on bland, pureed food, and became severely depressed when his heart, damaged as it was, just wouldn’t quit.
“I want to die, Cara Mia,” he said to Astrid almost daily. “Even though it means leaving you, but this is no life for either of us.”
He was right about that. Astrid wore herself out caring for her mammoth beloved. Even a simple pee could yield pain, sweat, and tears if Manuel misplaced the bed urinal by a fraction; Astrid would have to lever him out of the sheets to clean him thoroughly because his skin was so sensitive, falling off in patches when in contact with sweat and urine-soaked bedding. After a few weeks of Manuel’s slow slide into complete body disintegration, he asked her to kill him.
“No more, Cara,” he pleaded. “I cannot stand another day. And if you put me into a hospital, they will make this misery last for weeks or even months. Please.”
She had never refused him. They devised the how, and he insisted they proceed immediately. Astrid kissed him on his blistered lips and swollen eyelids. When she used her body as a lever to help him turn over in bed, she broke a wrist, heard the crack clearly beneath Manuel’s panting and groaning. She shoved a piece of duvet inside her mouth to muffle her cries. Then, when her husband was face down on his softest pillow, she laid across his head and shoulders.
Two days later, at the funeral home, a tired-looking woman in her sixties touched Astrid on the elbow as she left the director’s consultation room.
“Mrs. Molina, a minute, please. I’m Celia Carlson. You just spoke to my husband Albert about the arrangements. May I walk you out to your car?”
When they stood in the parking lot, the funeral home director’s wife turned to face Astrid.
“Mrs. Molina, I have done this work for almost three decades now. I mean, helping to prepare bodies for burial. I’ve seen every kind of death there is, many times.” She paused, and Astrid felt her stomach clench in anxiety. Bile rose up her throat.
“I know that your husband asked you to help him die, and there’s no way his death could have happened without your help.”
Astrid held her breath in an effort to stop time. What did this mean? Police? Prison? She cradled her left arm, cast from elbow to knuckles, and waited for the woman to continue.
“A man of your husband’s size could never rest or sleep on his stomach. The weight of his bulk would compress his respirations. Nor could you have maneuvered him into that position without his active participation.” The woman smiled and softly touched Astrid’s good hand. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Molina, I’m not accusing you, and I shall not call on the authorities. I just wanted you to know that you are not alone in carrying this burden. I know and understand, and if you ever need a friend to talk with about what happened, I am here for you.”
And so, Astrid and Celia became friends. And because their friendship was based on absolute truth as well as secrecy, they bonded deeply and with utmost affection. They began to meet regularly at a local restaurant and soon included Albert.
“I wonder,” he said one day so quietly, the two women had to lean in, “if you could imagine helping other folks to die? Because I met someone today, someone who needs help.”
Albert, being a funeral director, spent a good part of his day listening to desolate caregivers cataloguing, in strained and toneless voices, the myriad indignities of their loved one’s suffering. He felt true compassion for their plight when he heard the recurring question about what kind of society can euthanize pets compassionately when injury or illness can no longer be contained but also condemn humans to endless anguish. When Brinda and Vihaan Kaur came to his office to enquire about funeral services, they shared with him their distress about a medical doctor who would not allow Vihaan’s ancient mother to die.
“He even talks about a feeding tube, now that she is refusing nourishment. Else, he wants me to feed her with a pipette.” Brinda’s tear-streaked face leaned into her husband’s shoulder. “Amma asks us every day to hold a pillow over her face, and we feel that we must do this for her, for love and respect and dignity. But we risk our and our children’s future because we are only permanent residents, not citizens, and so can be deported if convicted of a crime.”
After recounting this conversation to Celia and Astrid, Albert reached for his wineglass. “I made something up about papers that needed signing tomorrow. Maybe you could meet them at the office if you think you might be able to help?”
The following afternoon Celia went with Brinda to her home, helped to wash, turn and position the skeletal old woman, then promised that she and Astrid would return in the morning. By noon the next day, Mrs. Kaur breathed a last sigh of relief. That evening, Brinda joined Astrid, Celia, and Albert at the Sanctum Café for their weekly dinner. In time, the restaurant reserved their table automatically, and as months turned into years expanded the seating to accommodate the ever-increasing number of regulars.
They never named their group but simply thought of it as “us” and “we.” “We can help.” “We should talk about this.” “We should establish rules.” “We need to be more careful” (after a keen-eyed neighbour of a recently deceased person reported suspicious activity to the police, who luckily never followed up). “We need to ensure that everyone has solid alibis.” “Who would ever suspect us, a handful of crones? “And us two cockatoos,” added Jeremy, one of only a few men who had come and gone over the years. The rules were made up on the go and amended when something went awry, which wasn’t often. A weakened, sick body doesn’t need much of a nudge, pharmaceutical or otherwise, to loosen its hold on life. And it is seldom unexpected when old and sick people or chronically deteriorating younger ones die. Doctors will fill out death certificates ahead of time, citing “cardiac arrest” or “natural death,” and leave such forms with patients so that funeral homes can dispatch transport vans in a timely manner.
*****
A natural death for Gloria, who together with her husband Phil had joined the Christian Scientists in midlife when health bloomed. When undiagnosed breast cancer erupted through her skin as putrid, fungating lesions, the so-called church continued to prohibit medical care and pain medications, and Phil howled with sorrow and remorse in Albert’s office.
A natural death for Samira’s husband Zain, whose loving and dignified persona had changed into something dark and villainous with dementia. When his brain chemistry allowed him to witness his abhorrent behaviour, he threw himself out the window only to break both legs. The hospital kept him in a state of drooling sedation for a month, then sent him home without such a prescription.
A natural death for Pamela, Rosie’s wife, who suffered the cruelty of twin degenerative diseases: Lewy Body dementia and muscular dystrophy. When Rosie toured nursing homes in the city, she learned quickly that none truly welcomed members of the LGTBQ community and that queer seniors face inferior care and discrimination at a time in their lives when they are exceedingly vulnerable. “You could just pretend to be her sister,” a nurse in one of the facilities had recommended, adding that such a camouflage would help to ensure the comfort of the other residents.
“All these people in our midst,” Celia had said to Albert, “are suffering so intensely when kindness should be offered, not cruel and dismissive ignorance.”
And so they laboured, for almost twenty years, to make dying easier for dozens and dozens, and to love and support the grieving.
*****
Eight months after Albert’s death, Celia continues to live in the same apartment, and has changed little of the decor. A few of Albert’s treasures have found their way into collectors’ hands. His clothes were picked up by one charitable organization, many of his books by another. Photographs of Albert are in every room, and Celia gazes into his eyes and answers his generous smile with her own. She is as lively and robust as ever, brimming with a certain joie de vivre and wisdom that herald from eight decades of successful living, and she continues to join her friends on Monday evenings at the Sanctum Café.
Celia steps into the elevator on the tenth floor in a fetching sunhat and with her woven market basket in hand, she greets the new tenant from two floors up.
“Do I remember your name right?” she asks. “Paulette, is it not?”
“Pauli,” the young woman answers in a low tone without looking up. Her hands are clasped around pram handles so tightly that her white knuckles stand proud. Her face is lowered and turned sideways so that her long, brown hair acts like a curtain. This gestic is something Celia has seen a hundred times, a thousand times in her long life, and she suddenly can’t bear it a minute longer.
“What’s the matter?” she asks. “You look as though something horrible has happened.”
Pauli lifts her head in surprise and looks straight at Celia. Her eyes are puffy from crying and her cheeks glisten with tears as she lets out a long, shuddering breath that ends in a sob. Celia digs into her coat pocket and pulls out a pack of tissues, shakes one out, and hands it to the young woman.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Please tell me what happened.”
“I moved in here . . . to get away from him, from Robbie’s father.” She angles her head towards the pram. “He’s a bad guy, bad for us, and so I left.” She blows her nose and lifts her chin. Celia sees dark red blotches all around her neck and gasps involuntarily. Pauli doesn’t seem to notice and continues. “I thought we’d be okay. I don’t have any furniture. Robbie sleeps in the buggy, and I’m on the floor. But I’ve got a job, and a babysitter . . . I know we can make it work.” She pushes the wet tissue into her jeans pocket, holds out her hand for another, and blows her nose again. “Thank you.”
“He followed you here?” Celia asks.
“Yeah, last night. Knocked on the door, nice and quiet. I thought it was a neighbour.” Pauli swallows, takes a deep breath. “He tried sweet talking, you know, joking around. When that didn’t work, be threatened me, used his fists and feet. Told me that I’ll never get away, that I’m his for good, that I have no rights. Said that even if I put him in prison, he’ll send his brothers and cronies to make my life a living hell.”
The elevator door opens, and they both stare into the empty lobby. Sunshine reaches for them through the glass wall of the entrance as dust motes dance in the golden rays like tiny Tinkerbells.
“Do you have to be somewhere?” Celia asks. An idea is forming in her mind and her chest tightens with anticipatory tension.
“I phoned in sick. Am just going for a walk.”
“Come back up to my place,” Celia offers, laying a soft hand on Pauli’s. “I’ll make you breakfast. And you can look at what used to be my husband’s office.” Pauli doesn’t rebuke her, and so Celia pushes the button for the tenth floor. She turns to Pauli and smiles her warmest, friendliest smile.
“You and Robbie can stay with me for the time being, to get you out of harm’s way. And on Monday, I’ll introduce you to my friends. Perhaps we can help you.”
Christine Cosack
