Help Me Die

Help me die…help…me…die

I couldn’t get those words out of my mind. They burrowed into my brain as only persistent earworms can the whole way up Highway 101. Not even the majestic redwoods wrapped in their cool, foggy shawls could silence Mom’s manic mantra.

Did I help her?

Let’s get the suspense out of the way right now. Yes, I did. But it took a while.

The last thing on earth I wanted was to say goodbye to the woman who raised me single-handedly on a wing and a prayer and very little else–no thanks to my good-for-nothing father who I never will call Dad even if he somehow suddenly shows up some day.

No wait. Make that the second to last thing on earth I wanted. Cause the very last thing on earth I wanted was to respond to that morbid request.

After her years of sacrifice, of going without so I could walk to school in shoes that didn’t give me blisters or scrunch my toes and sit at my little desk and focus on the multiplication tables without worrying that the kids around me could hear my tummy growl, shouldn’t I honor her every request?

Watching her writhe in pain broke my heart.

I fussed and screamed and yelled until the doctor ordered a morphine IV. How was I to know the cancer cells multiplied faster than the steady, but slow, drip-drip of the drug into her veins?

It got so bad, they offered to induce a coma so she could float out of this world and her life in a twilight trance.

Mommy didn’t want that.

“Why the heck not?” I asked her. I sure would.

She turned to look at me with those deep-set green eyes of hers. She had to gasp for breath between each word to get them all out. “I…want…to…be…awake…when…I…meet…the Lord.”

Damn.

I should have known. Mom was a true believer. I grew up with pictures of Jesus everywhere. He even stared at me with those piercing eyes from the bathroom wall while I sat on the toilet with my little white cotton panties wrapped around my ankles.

So I grew up believing the Lord was a voyeur and probably also a pedophile, even though I didn’t have those words yet. As far as I was concerned, Jesus was a Peeping Tom.

When I asked Mommy why I had to go potty with Jesus staring at me, she said, “He’s not staring, child. He’s blessing you, so thank him.”

Years later my therapist told me my chronic UTIs were psychosomatic, thanks to those blessings.

Speaking of which, when I pulled up at Orr Hot Springs, I had to go, badly. Fortunately, they had restrooms in the Lodge I could use before checking into my yurt.

Yes, I rented a yurt.

Because, why not?

The yurts had skylights so if I couldn’t sleep, which was happening a lot lately, I could at least gaze up at the stars. Or the fog–whichever was visible. And count my blessings.

After checking into my room, I took a quick shower, slid into my new fluffy robe, and headed for the closet hot tub.

It was empty.

Great. Because I’d gained more than a few pounds over the last few years and didn’t want anyone gawking at me. I just wanted to soak myself into oblivion, eat a little something, and catch up on my sleep.

I slipped out of my robe and into the almost-too-hot water with a long sigh. I closed my eyes as the numbing heat overtook my limbs. Please let me relax.

Somehow Mom’s voice followed me way out here and refused to shut up. Help me die…Please…help… me…die.

I clenched my eyes tighter and shook my head. “Leave me alone, damn it!”

When I opened my eyes, I was not alone.

And yet, I heard no footsteps, throat clearing, or splashes. So how did this skinny young man with long hair and blue eyes get in here? And how dare he invade my privacy!

I nodded hello and gazed up at the trees to consider my options.

Yes, I could get up and leave. But that would mean hauling myself out of the water that at least partially hid my rolls of avoir du pois. And sooner or later, he’d see my big behind. I moved my hands hoping to make distorting ripples to the water and hide the obvious.

I know you’re wondering, was he also naked?

Does the bear crap in the woods? This was an old hippie haven after all.

His chest was bare. I could count his ribs. But down below—and I did my best not to be obvious—I saw a swirl of white. Not exactly tidy whities, but drawers of some kind. Good.

I smiled. What could I say that would be civil but not invitational? “Heaven on earth, right?”

He nodded and said simply, Amen, Sister.”

Was he one of those Jesus freaks? Is that why he freakin’ looked like the images of Mom’s savoir? Was he going to try to save me, or mind his damn business? I girded my loins.

But thankfully, he closed his eyes and went into some kind of deep meditation, barely moving, barely even breathing.

That got me taking some deep breaths. And I started to relax.

“Now you’ve done it!”

I startled at the loud voice. The loud intrusive, insensitive, maniacaly, testosteronically crude male voice. Done what? Or was he even talking to me?

My eyes flashed open as a big, burly guy with ruddy skin and in a skimpy red Speedo plopped into the water and let out a long ‘Ahhhh.” He bored his beady eyes right at me and repeated, “Now. You’ve. Done. It.”

I turned beat red and looked down. No way was I going to respond to this maniac. But given my body shame, I didn’t make a move.

The Jesus freak opened his eyes. He also looked at me, but his eyes bathed me with warmth and kindness. “No, Brother,” he said. “She hasn’t.”

“Oh, yes she has.” The scary dude leered at me. “She killed her own mother.”

A shiver slivered its way down my spine. My skin erupted in goose flesh even in that hot water. I wrapped my arms around my torso and avoided his gaze the best I could.

The nice man extended a hand. “Calm yourself, Brother,” he said. “This young lady did a hard, but merciful thing.”

How the hell did he know? Did either of them know my business? What was happening here? But I did manage to give my new friend a nod of appreciation and whisper, “Thank you.” Mommy taught me good manners.

The ugly dude rose out of the water, pointing an accusatory finger right in my face. “Guilty, guilty, guilty!”

Holy shit. I sunk down as low as I could go and still breathe. Of course, he was right. I was guilty. I did the dastardly deed and would probably rot in hell for eternity. But at least I could do it knowing I helped Mommy meet her Maker on her terms.

“That’s not for you to say…” The skinny man’s voice was smooth and silky. I could listen to him all day. Especially since he was on my side. Yet, how the hell did he know?

“Thou Shall not Kill!” This time the monster turned to the nice man. “You said so yourself!”

“You’re getting me mixed up with Moses, Dude.” The man with the bluest of eyes shook his head, laughing. “Do I look that old?”

“No, you don’t,” I found myself saying. “You don’t look a day over thirty.” Wish I could’ve said the same about myself.

“Thank you, Sister,” he said. “Close. I’m guessing about thirty-three.

How could he not know how old he was? But since that was none of my business, I just said, “You’re welcome.”

Our meet cute was brutally interrupted by Brutus. “Still, it’s a commandment. Thou shall not kill.” He thrust his bewhiskered chin at me. “And kill she did!”

My young friend splashed Brutus with water. “Oh, get over yourself and hush. We came here for some peace and quiet. Or didn’t you read the signs?”

Of course. The signs were all over. Please don’t disturb other guests.

And yes, I supposed I could get up and go complain to management, but that would mean exposing myself and my flesh. Besides, I liked how he referred to me as we. I didn’t want to miss any of that action.

But now my curiosity got the better of me. And since Brutus brought it up, I wanted to know if I was damned for eternity or not. At least in my new friend’s kind and alluring eyes. So I asked, “Is he right? Am I going to hell for…” I couldn’t say it.

After all, I didn’t kill her.

Yes, I helped her die. I snuck the pills into hospice. But they were hers. I got them from her medicine cabinet. And she was the one who took them. All I did was hand her more water so she could wash them down.

By that point, swallowing was difficult and she was technically what they call, NPO. That’s Latin for nothing by mouth. Nil per os.

I stood by and watched her choke her way through the self-administration. My throat ached with each pill. I felt them scratch their way down her throat. But she did the deed.

When she’d swallowed the last one, she grabbed my hand, smiled, and said, “Thank you.” Her eyes got big and teary. But her face glowed and she beamed. “See the light, Melanie? See the light?”

The room did seem brighter. But I didn’t see what she saw.

“Here he comes, Darling. With open arms just for me!” And with a final, hallelujah on her lips, Mommy left her achy broken body and I sure hope was carried up to heaven in the arms of her Lord.

Wherever and whoever that is.

“No, my friend, you’re not.”

I opened my eyes and came back to the tub a tois. “Not what?”

More gentle laughter. “Going to hell, of course.” The man took my hand in both of his. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

In spite of my better judgment, I leaned towards him. Which was a mistake cause now my breasts bobbed inches from our hands. Shit.

That didn’t seem to interest or bother him. “The secret is, there’s no such thing as hell.” He let go of my hand and leaned back. Then he turned to Brutus and said, “Whatd’ya think of them apples.”

Brutus shook his head violently and growled at both of us. “Of course, there’s such a thing as hell. It’s where I live.”

“Then go on home,” Mr. Blue Eyes told him. He snapped his fingers and Brutus vanished in a puff of red smoke.

My eyes bugged and my jaw dropped. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?” he asked.

“Make him disappear.”

“I didn’t,” he said.

“Then who did?”

He laughed again. “You did.”

Me? “How?”

“By letting yourself off the hook.” When I responded with a quizzical look, he added, “I helped, but if there’s no hell, you can’t be damned. So you’re off the hook.”

Wow! It couldn’t be that easy. Not with all the holy rolling I grew up hearing. “Don’t I have to at least confess and be saved or something?”

“That’s a given, my child,” he said, winking.

My eyebrows shot up. Sounded like heresy to me. “Does the Pope know this?”

Boyfriend put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. It’s our secret. We won’t tell him.”

“Fine by me.” I didn’t have access anyway. By now I was relishing our new friendship quite fondly. And since my skin was wrinkling and the sun was low, I made my move.

“I’m Melanie, by the way.”

“Jessie.”

We shook hands.

“Are you hungry, Jessie?” He certainly could stand some meat on those bones of his. “I brought a quiche.”

When he screwed up his face, I quickly added, “And some leftover pizza.”

That didn’t seem to ring a bell either. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” he said.

Oh, good grief. What now? “Well, do you like games? The Lodge has backgammon, cards, and Scrabble. We’d have to keep it quiet though,” I teased.

He shook his head. “I have to get going. I’m needed elsewhere.”

I’ve been turned down by lots of guys, using lots of lines, but never that one. “Mind if I ask where?”

“Not at all.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Actually, you may not believe this, but, your mom is calling. She asked me to check on you.”

Holy moley! Mom? I’ve been rebuked by lots of men for lots of reasons, but never so they could go spend time with my mom. My dead mom at that. Familiar tears welled in my eyes and I looked away. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

“I won’t,” Jessie reassured me. Then added, “You did a good thing.”

“Thanks for…nothing…” But when I opened my eyes, he was gone.

So close and yet so far. I’d be alone in paradise, yet again. But at least I could climb out of the tub and wrap up in my fluffy robe with no one gawking at my big butt.

Except the majestic redwood trees clutching their foggy shawls. And they don’t count.