“All right, missus. ’Ow are you today?” he says in that voice people reserve for the old and infirm. Eudora is used to this but detests it all the same.
“What do you want?” she demands with as much fierceness as she can muster. She feels emboldened by the safety chain.
The young man frowns but plows on with his pitch. “My name’s Josh and I’m part of a scheme to help young offenders reintegrate into the community.” He speaks as if reading a script and holds up a card, which Eudora can’t read. For all she knows it could be a library card. Although she doubts it.
“What do you want?” she repeats. She longs to shut the door on him but is too afraid.
Josh unzips his bag and holds up a dishcloth. “I’m selling these. Best cloths out there. Five quid a pack.”
“I do not require any dishcloths.”
Josh is undeterred. “’Ow about tea towels then? ’Free for a fiver?”
“No. I don’t want to buy anything. Please leave.”
He stares at her for a second, all traces of friendly patter replaced with glinting menace. “Silly old bitch,” he growls before hauling the bag onto his back and stomping down the path. He pauses at the gate, staring back at her with contempt. “’Ope you die soon,” he adds before clearing his throat and spitting on the ground.
“That makes two of us,” says Eudora, shutting the door with trembling relief and turning the deadlock.
Fear often spurs people into action, forcing them to make a clear choice between fight or flight. Eudora doesn’t have the strength or ability to fight anymore but she senses that her own unique version of flight is the right one to follow. A one-way flight and an end to all this.
The world is too much for Eudora, and it isn’t even hooligans like Josh who are the worst. Everyone is selfish and caught up with themselves these days. They have no time to notice her or others like her. They consume news or food as if they’re trying to eat the whole world; they watch and judge and spit out their opinions as if they’re the only ones worth listening to. Eudora is invisible to these people, but she has stopped noticing them too. They’re welcome to their “post-Brexit, Donald Trump, condemn everyone, be kind to no one” world. There is no helping them now. Soon enough, she won’t be around to witness their continuous decline into moral torpor. Good riddance and good night.
Back in the living room, her hands are shaking as she reaches for the phone. Eudora puts on her reading glasses, finds the number on the back of the booklet, and carefully stabs the buttons.
“Klinik Lebenswahl. Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” Eudora is surprised to hear German. A reflex part of her brain considers ending the call, such is her long-held loathing of Germans. Other people may have forgiven what happened in the war, but she never will. In the nick of time she remembers that this clinic is Swiss-German. There is nothing to fear.
“Do you speak English?”
The woman’s voice is soft and soothing. Eudora is immediately reassured. “Yes, of course. How can I help you?”
Eudora opens the booklet. She wants to get the terminology right. “I would like to book myself in for a voluntary assisted death,” she says firmly. The rush of adrenaline at finally uttering these words out loud is dizzying.
“I see. And is this the first time you have called us?”
“No. I telephoned to request a booklet after I read about your organization.” She decides not to mention Elsie. This is her decision. The ending to her story. “Thank you for posting it to me,” she continues. “I have now read the booklet from cover to cover and made my decision. I would therefore like to book myself in. Please.”
Manners, Eudora, even when discussing your death.
“I see,” repeats the woman. “Well, as you may know, we have a protocol to follow.”
“What protocol?” demands Eudora.
“We must be sure that you have thought about everything properly and fully, that you understand all the implications, that you have discussed it with those close to you, and that you are absolutely sure this is the only option available to you.”
Eudora clears her throat. She has had enough of this woman’s honeyed tones. “I am eighty-five years old. I am old and tired and alone. I have nothing I want to do and no one I want to see. I am not depressed, merely done with life. I don’t want to end up dribbling in an old people’s home, wearing adult nappies in front of a shouting television. I want to leave this world with dignity and respect. Now, can you help me or not?”
There is a moment’s pause. “Yes. We can help you but there are procedures to be followed. If you are sure, I can send you the forms, which will start the process and we will take it from there. Is that what you would like?”
“Yes. Please,” replies Eudora, her voice wavering as she realizes that finally someone somewhere is listening. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” She hesitates before continuing. “This is an unusual situation for me. Forgive me, but I do understand what you are asking. My grandmother felt the same as you. She wanted to be as good at dying as she’d been at living.”
“Did she manage it?” asks Eudora, her curiosity aroused.
“She did. It’s how I ended up working here.”
Her honesty gives Eudora courage. “What’s your name?”
“Petra.”
“Thank you, Petra. So, will you send me the forms?”
“Of course. I am thinking that you are not able to travel to us so we will be conducting this process by telephone?”
“Will that be a problem?”
“It shouldn’t be, but you will need to provide various forms and have detailed conversations with Doctor Liebermann. Do you know about the costs?”
“I can pay.”
“That’s fine. Forgive me for asking. So, if you would be kind enough to give me a few details, please.”
Eudora does as she asks. “And can you tell me how long it takes?” She doesn’t feel that she needs to add the obvious words, to die.
“It depends. But I would say between three and four months from when you sign. You can change your mind at any time of course.”
I won’t, thinks Eudora, feeling relieved that she’ll be gone by Christmas—the loneliest, unhappiest time of the year.
“I will be your contact for the whole process,” Petra tells her. “Please call me at any time with questions or concerns. I am here to help.”
“Thank you, Petra.” Eudora hopes the woman can hear how grateful and relieved she is, how much this means to her. She hangs up a short while later with a mixture of euphoria and exhaustion. The die is cast. Eudora hobbles to the kitchen. Standing before the almost blank calendar, she counts forward four months and writes one word in a shaky, spidery script.
Freedom.
Eudora smiles. She is in control for the first time in years. She won’t be defeated by old age; she will defy it, cast it aside like an unwanted skin. The end will be on her terms and her terms alone.
She is roused from her reverie by a knock at the door. At first she fears it’s that hateful young man returning to terrorize her, but the knock is gentler and more considered. She takes a while to reach the door, leaving the chain on as she answers. She peers with a frown into the face of a little girl who wears a blank expression but who, on seeing Eudora, changes it to a frown, mirroring the old woman’s.