An Evolutionary Fall

The seasons were changing, and the air was crisp and cool. It had become easier to hear the sound of the traffic on the freeway as the molecules in the air clung together to find warmth. Joining the freeway noise was the sound of dry leaves underfoot and fighting together in the breeze on their way down to the cold ground. This was my favorite time of year. For some reason, I’ve always associated the smell of autumn with childhood.

At this time of year, my mother would open all the windows, letting the clean smell in to mingle with the turkey in the oven. Sage and cinnamon danced in and out of the windows, and the sound of my father raking all the leaves into a pile under the oak tree joined the clanking of pots, pans, and knives in the kitchen. Christmas would be just around the corner. My mother always made Christmas magical. My adrenaline wouldn’t subside until after the New Year.

Autumn was so much simpler when I was a child, before I lost my innocence. Before I made my first kill.

#

I truly believe now that I chose fall for my first murder because it was the happiest time of the year. Summer in the South was too hot, and I tended to get sloppy in August. Plus, decomposition could start in less than twenty-four hours with heat like that. And the irony of passing out from heat stroke while trying to dispose of a body wasn’t lost on me. In October, the temperatures were cooler, but the ground wasn’t hard yet, either. I could take my time and enjoy myself, just like I used to as a child during the holidays.

Admittedly, murder has become my Christmas. Unwrapping the life from a human body can be just as satisfying as the crinkle of wrapping paper peppered with silver stars. 

My own mother helped me with my new Autumn / Christmas tradition. Several years ago, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She had been such a sharp woman - a college professor. It was tragic to see her lose her most valuable asset, and it was horrific for her, as well. There were days when she didn’t recognize her loved ones or thought she was back in her childhood. Then there were days when she was perfectly fine. It was one of those days that she called me.

“I want you to kill me,” she said. It was October 15, 2013. I’ll never forget it. I’d been riding my bike when I returned her missed call - I was training for a triathlon. I always called with trepidation. Sometimes, she thought I was a serviceman coming to repair something. Once, she gave me a very long lecture about why cats don’t belong in the refrigerator (I have to admit, that one was at least good for entertainment value), but usually she just didn’t remember having called me at all. Asking me to kill her was definitely a new one, and I braced myself.

“Mom, I’m not going to kill you.”

“I’m clear today, honey. I know exactly what I’m saying. I can’t live like this anymore. The confusion…it’s like living in hell, Brian.” 

She said my name. She wasn’t completely off. “I can imagine, Mom. But your physical health is fine. There’s a chance you could pull through this.” We both knew that was a lie, but it was a kind lie, and so I said it.

“I’m totally serious. I updated my will a month ago. You’ll get everything - the house, savings, bonds, everything. And my physical health is not fine anymore. We just came from the doctor. I have the beginning of congestive heart failure.” 

This wasn’t good. I wiped sweat off my forehead with the towel that was draped around my neck. “Did the doctor give you any kind of time line, or anything?”

“Yes, yes,” I could almost see her waving me off. “He said I could have another couple of years, but my mind, Brian. I’m going out of my mind. I can’t imagine this foggy headed bullshit while I slowly drown on my own bodily fluids. That just sounds terrifying.” Mom hardly ever cursed when she was lucid. “Please. I want you to at least think about it. I have it all planned out, and I’ll even leave a note indemnifying you if you were to get caught. But if you follow my directions, you shouldn’t.”

“Sounds like you’ve put some thought into this,” I said. Was I actually having this conversation with my own mother? The woman who changed my diaper, nursed me back to health through the flu, and sent me to college?

She scoffed. “Every chance I get, darling. Which is becoming fewer and fewer.”

We talked some more, and I got off the phone. I had promised to consider her strange proposition, but mostly just to humor her.

I took a long, hot, shower. As I stood there, letting the water run over my head, I contemplated what it would be like to commit murder. Honestly, the thought had crossed my mind before - who hadn’t thought about it from time to time? But I’d never considered killing my own family. I loved my mother. Not only that, I liked her. There were too many wonderful memories of the woman for me to want her gone. I felt tears join the hot water on my face.

But if I was honest about her situation, she had been deteriorating at an increasingly alarming rate. Right now, she was living alone with a nurse that came by a couple of times a day to help with errands and doctor’s appointments. Mom had Life Alert, but what happened when she forgot how to use it? It was only a matter of time before I would be her main caretaker. It would mean a complete upheaval to my life. I’d have to start working from home, there would be no more triathlons, no more ladies coming home from the bar with me just to be unceremoniously kicked out before dawn, no more Naked Wednesdays. My freedom would be gone along with my mother’s mind. Maybe liking her was part of it. Maybe, if I really loved my mother, I’d respect her wishes. By the time I turned off the water, I had made a decision.

#

“I’ll do it,” I said when she opened the door the next day.

“Do what?” she asked. “You dirty scumbag. You think you can come to my home and take advantage of me? I don’t have any jewelry or money! Leave me alone!” my mother screamed as she slammed the door in my face.

I could hear her screaming from behind the closed door. It opened a crack again, and the nurse said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Brian. She’s not having a good day?”

“Ya think?” I said as I turned to leave. Alzheimer’s: it teaches you to call ahead before visiting.

#

It was another three days before my Lucid Mother called again. I told her of my decision, and she walked me through the perfect murder. She had made all the preparations and written everything out in case she forgot anything. There was a chance that when I came to perform the deed, she wouldn’t recall the plan, but she’d figured in for that, as well.

The following week, October 28, it was go time. I awoke with a terrible sense of trepidation, anxiety, adrenaline, and excitement. I cried in the shower again, but more for the mother I’d already lost than the one I’d be laying to rest today. I hurriedly got dressed just to sit around and wait. I wanted to call Mom, just in case she was having a good day. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her and appreciated every little thing she’d ever done for me. I wanted to tell her how much I loved when we used to play, “McDonald’s” when I was little. She’d come sit with me in my tree house, and I’d serve her invisible burgers and all the shakes she wanted. I wanted to tell her how I’d cried for her the first time I went away to overnight camp when I was eight. I wanted to tell her just how much she’d meant to me over the years. So many things felt like they were left unsaid, but when it comes to goodbyes, does there ever really feel like there’s enough time?

And so I waited, for our plan was on a schedule. Between 1:00 and 3:00, there was no nurse at the house. This was Mom’s nap time. At 1:20, I stood, grabbed my keys, and locked the door behind me.

I parked my car four blocks away and walked to the house. I let myself in to my childhood home, something I hadn’t been able to do in several years. The Alzheimer’s acted like a temperamental guard dog. Like I said, I’d learned to call ahead. The house was silent. I quietly walked down the hall to my mother’s bedroom. She was breathing deeply under the covers, rolled over on her side. Satisfied that she was asleep, I quickly went to the garage to find the bag of burial supplies my mom had already packed for me. When had she managed to do this? It stunned me again at how much valuable time she’d spent thinking this through. I wondered if this plan of hers had started tumbling around in her mind as soon as she’d begun seeing the signs of dementia. She certainly wasn’t in good enough shape now to have completed this task. I lugged the large bag into the trunk of my mother’s car. I’d be taking it instead of my own to complete the false missing persons report later. I looked at my watch. 1:45. I had just over an hour before the next nurse would arrive, and Mom (along with her car) needed to be gone.

I went back into her room, my hands shaking like a leaf. There was a large syringe of morphine - enough for two lethal doses - in her bedside table. Mom had firmly told me not to ask questions, and I hadn’t. Later, I wished that I would have. I wasn’t a phlebotomist, but I’d been assured that with that much morphine, it could be injected anywhere and would work quickly enough. I jabbed the needle into the fleshy part of her upper arm and injected the medicine. My lack of finesse woke my mother with a startled look. But as soon as she saw it was me, her eyes softened. She reached up her other hand and touched my face. “Thank you, my sweet boy.” Her hand went limp. Before her eyes closed, I saw such a look of clarity and relief, it was like I could see her looking into the eyes of God. It was magical and unlike anything I could have ever imagined. With that assurance, my doubts and guilt dried up, and a feeling of elation washed over me.

I was about to wrap her up in the extra sheet she’d put on the bed when I saw the note she’d written on a napkin on the bedside table.

My love,

You have no concept of the gratitude I hold for you in my heart. 

Please do not waste time with guilt or regret. 

Remember, this was my idea and you have done me the greatest of favors.

I love you to the moon.

I almost started to cry again as I flashed back to the notes she’d left me in my lunch box when I was in elementary school. “I love you to the moon,” was what we said to each other every time we parted, whether it was at bed time or when I went to college. I folded the note and carefully put it in my inside jacket pocket. Then I wrapped my mother up in the spare sheet, lifted her, and carried her to the car. She was still breathing, but it was becoming shallower and shallower. I gently laid her in the backseat of her Mercedes.

We drove for forty miles to a small piece of land she owned outside of town. There was nothing there but a little cabin she used to use for weekend getaways. In truth, I had probably used it more than she did, especially when I was in high school or didn’t want a woman to know where I lived. 

When I pulled off onto the dirt road that would lead to the driveway, the phone rang. It was the nurse. “Hello, Mr. Brian? This is Bianca with Home Health Care? I take care of your mother? I hate to bother you, but I’m at Ms. Marlene’s house, and she’s not here. I wondered if she might be with you?”

I couldn’t understand why some people ended every sentence with that lilting question mark. I looked in the rear view mirror at my mother. She was completely still. “No, she’s not with me. Is her car there?”

“I dunno, let me check. Hold on, please.” I could hear her walking through the house. “No, Mr. Brian, no car here.”

“She’s not supposed to be driving! How could this have happened?” All part of the plan. Make someone feel guilty enough, and you don’t have to worry about them suspecting you.

“I dunno, Mr. Brian. Maybe she went to the store?”

“I’m in a meeting right now, and I can’t leave. You let me know if she isn’t back in an hour. If she’s not, we may need to involve the police.” 

“Oh, Mr. Brian, I’m so sorry! She was having her nap time? No one was scheduled.” Bianca was crying.

“Don’t cry, Bianca, I’m sure she’s fine. Just please keep me posted.”

“Okay,” she said and hung up.

I pulled up to the cabin, and carried my mother’s lifeless body to the couch inside. The look of blissful peace still rested upon her visage. I kissed her cool forehead. I went outside and started the fire.

A Silver Alert was distributed across the state for my mother. In the glove box of her Mercedes was the signed title to the car. The Monday after I scattered my mother’s ashes over her property (mine now), I took the car into a body shop that accepted cash and didn’t ask questions. They painted her white car black, and when I got it back, I sold it on Craig’s List for Blue Book value. Of course, my mother was never found, I was questioned briefly by the police, and six months later, the missing was pronounced dead. I held a funeral with no body, and the will was probated. 

I carried around the note with me in a ziplock baggie that I opened up and smelled at least once a day. I could imagine my mother’s Jergen’s hand cream still lingering on the napkin. 

I also carried around that sense of lightness and goodness that accompanied that final “Thank you.” That feeling of the perfect Christmas gift lasted about nine months. Then it started to shift. If I could do this great thing for my mother, why couldn’t I do it for other elderly women who were suffering? Once the idea dug its claws into my mind, it wouldn’t leave. I began noticing older women in the grocery store, especially if they were accompanied by an obvious nurse. One afternoon, I stopped a woman on a scooter with a younger woman wearing scrubs. “Excuse, me, ma’am. Do you, by any chance, work for Home Healthcare?”

The nurse looked at me suspiciously, “Yes, why?”

“Oh, my mother was in your care a while back, and I just really wanted to thank you for your service. Your company took such special care of her.” I didn’t know why I was doing this yet. I also didn’t mention that they essentially lost my mother.

The lie did the trick. “Well, thank you! I’m glad to hear it. This is Mrs. Lawrence. She’s suffering from dementia.”

I held my hand out to Mrs. Lawrence, “It’s so nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Fuck off,” grumbled the old woman on the scooter.

“I’m so sorry, she’s not having a good day today,” the nurse explained.

“I understand. My mother died of Alzheimer’s. I get it.” We gave each other a conspiratorial look. “Well, it was nice meeting you both.” I walked off toward the pasta aisle.

I saw them again at the store a month later, but I hid until they were finished. I abandoned my cart when they left, and followed them to the parking lot. I made note of the license plate and car make and model and dashed to my car, hoping to make it in time to follow them. As they pulled out of the parking lot, I was on their tail. I followed them home, still not completely sure of my motive. 

When I learned where Mrs. Lawrence lived, I went home and googled everything I could about her. She had been a surgeon. A surgeon! What a waste of a good mind. Such a shame. And that’s when it came to me - I could relive that beautiful release while furnishing it for another victim of this terrible disease. 

And that’s how Mrs. Lawrence became my second victim. Every October 28, I release another elderly, suffering woman into the afterlife. And every Autumn, I get to unopen another Christmas present.