She was appalled that the doctor didn’t know. “About ten years,” she said.
The doctor was quiet for a moment and then said in a serious but far too casual tone. “Ten years is a good long run for Parkinson’s.”
She looked at Finch to see if he had understood the doctor’s meaning. His masked face was difficult to read. Zee could feel the anger rising up in her. She wanted to tell the doctor what she thought of him. She wanted to call him a son of a bitch. How dare he talk to a patient like this? Disclosure was one thing. Zee believed in the right to know. But to dismiss a life so casually was beyond cruel.
However, anything she could have said on the spot would only make things worse. She hoped that Finch had missed the doctor’s meaning. She remembered the words Mattei often used to describe neurologists: The geeks of the doctor world. No bedside manner. Little princes. She wanted to kill him. To literally rip his smug face off.
Instead she helped Finch from the office, his steps agonizingly slow as he tried to maneuver the walker out of the office and down the hall.
The warm air in the parking lot calmed her slightly. Maybe Finch hadn’t heard what the doctor said, or hadn’t caught his meaning.
She unlocked the car door and helped Finch in. He was stiff, the pill overdue. She put the walker in the trunk. Then she got into the driver’s side of the car, reaching into her purse for the water and the box of pills labeled with the times of day. She pulled out his three-o’clock dose, undid the water bottle, and passed it to him. He swallowed the pill dutifully. Then she reached across and buckled his seat belt, which she had forgotten to do. As she pulled her hand back, she lingered on Finch’s arm. “I love you,” she said. He smiled weakly.
As she pulled the Volvo out of the parking lot, Finch finally spoke, his voice so weak from needing the meds that it was barely audible. “So what he was saying is that I’m going to die soon.”
She pulled the car over on Mass Avenue.
“That doctor is a son of a bitch,” she said. She was about to tell him they would never go back, that neurologists were a dime a dozen in Boston, and that she’d have a new one for him by morning. But Finch spoke before she could form the words.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I want to die.”
37
ZEE CALLED MELVILLE AND left a message. Then she called Mattei.
“I’m really worried,” she said. “He’s clearly depressed.”
“You want me to prescribe something?”
“I know he needs something, but I don’t want to interfere with the meds he’s already on,” Zee said.
“I can come out there if you like,” Mattei offered.
It wasn’t something Zee would have asked of Mattei, but she felt relief at the prospect of seeing her and getting her opinion. “I’d really appreciate it.”
“I can’t come tomorrow, but I can be there on Saturday,” Mattei said.
“Thanks,” Zee said.
She doled out Finch’s meds to Jessina, then took the pill bottles upstairs, locking the door when she came back down. She could tell that Jessina was curious, but she didn’t offer any explanation.
SHE FINALLY FOUND MELVILLE AT the Athenaeum. He seemed happily surprised to see her there, but the expression on her face told him this wasn’t a social visit.
“What’s going on?”
“Is there someplace we can talk for a minute?”
He led her into the stacks of the membership library and down a flight of metal stairs to the basement. It was close quarters, but it was quiet. The stacks extended three floors deep. Today there were no visiting scholars, no one asking to see the voyage and travel collections or the books that Hawthorne read in the days he had spent at the Athenaeum. For the moment they could be alone here to talk. Someone entering on any of the three skeletal floors would be clearly visible.
Melville led her to a small table where he’d been cataloging some old maps and travelogues.
Zee handed him the survey she’d gotten from the doctor. “I know what’s been going on in the last month,” Zee said. “But I couldn’t fill in the progression of his disease.”
Melville looked at the paper. There were sixteen questions, all having to do with Finch’s memory and how it had changed in the last ten years. The answers ranged from “much improved” to “much worse.” It was an easy questionnaire to fill in, though he knew that there would be nothing encouraging in his answers. He went through the questions carefully, aware that Zee was watching him. When he was finished, he slid the paper back across the table to her.
Zee read it over, looking at the answers Melville had circled. Most were labeled “much worse” or “a bit worse.” Nothing indicated any improvement.
“I don’t understand how you were keeping this from me,” Zee said.
“We’ve had this conversation before,” Melville said. “It’s what he wanted.”
“The doctor basically told Finch he was going to die,” she said, shaking her head.
Melville looked at her.
“And Finch said that’s what he wants.”
Melville reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“But not surprised,” she said.
He thought about lying, but there was no point now. “No.”
“God,” she said. “This is terrible.”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
“I’m afraid he might be suicidal,” she said.
He understood. He knew that Finch didn’t want to live with the progression of the disease. But in all their conversations about the future, they had both been keenly aware of the effect any such disclosure might have on Zee.
Melville’s lack of surprise shocked her. “You’re not okay with it?”
“Of course I’m not okay with it. But we’ve talked about the eventuality. He doesn’t want to live with end-stage Parkinson’s,” Melville said to her. “He doesn’t want to wind up in a nursing home in the fetal position for the next ten years.”
Zee sat silently for a few minutes. “Well, he’s not going to kill himself,” she said finally. “Not on my watch.”
38
ZEE HAD CALLED EARLIER and told Hawk she couldn’t see him today. It was his day off, and they had planned to take his boat out to Baker’s Island.
“There’s something going on with Finch,” she said. “I have to stick around.”
“You still want me to come by tonight?” he asked.
“Maybe not this time,” she said.
He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said.
HAWK WASN’T IN THE BEST of moods. He’d been looking forward to spending time with Zee. Not knowing what else to do with himself, he drove the van to his place in Marblehead to pick up his mail. As he climbed the steps, a police cruiser that had been circling pulled up.
“Been away on vacation?” the cop asked.
“No.”
“Your mail and papers have been piling up.”
Hawk retrieved the mail, thinking the cop’s question strange.
“So where have you been?” the cop asked.
“Working,” Hawk said.
“Not in town.”
“In Salem.”
“You working for one of the construction crews over there?”
Hawk knew the officer, though not well enough to call him by name. He had often seen him on his beat. Though his tone was friendly, the cop wasn’t as a general rule someone known to stop and make small talk.
“Do you have a real question you’d like to ask me, or are we just shooting the shit here?”
“Only trying to be friendly,” the officer said.
“I’m working on the Friendship.”
The cop looked at him blankly, clearly having no idea what Hawk meant by his last remark.
“It’s a boat,” Hawk said. “In Salem Harbor.”
It had always amazed Hawk that the towns of Marblehead and Salem shared not only a border but a harbor, yet few people he met knew what was going on from one town to the next.