Page 80 of The Mother-in-Law

The past . . .

There are protesters out the front of the library, which I hadn’t expected. They are not the silent types. They have placards and crucifixes and are chanting about God being the only one who can choose when a person can die. Clearly not, I think to myself, or they’d have nothing to protest about.

I wish I’d brought a book along. Then I could hold it up and they’d leave me alone.Just returning a book, I’d say. Instead, someone carrying a fluorescent yellow sign with the wordsSuicide is a cry for help, not a request to diecomes up to me with an offer to pray for my soul. I decline, and scurry on. A mother with a pram and a couple of young Asian students with laptops enter at the same time as me and are not approached.

It was relatively easy to book a ticket. The guidelines said you have to be over fifty or seriously ill, with documentation to prove it, and I quite plainly meet the first criteria. I’m not sure what I expected. Some sort of secret handshake and a dingy back room perhaps. But the meeting is taking place in Toorak, of all places—one of, if notthemost affluent area of Melbourne. Leave it to the affluent to want to dictate the circumstances of their own death.

The meeting is in a large room in the basement of the library. A man and a woman stand at the door. The woman holds a clipboard; the man, judging by his size and the fact that he appears to be serving no specific purpose, is a security guard. I haven’t been to the Toorak library before but it seems unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon. I wonder if this meeting is responsible for all the bustle.

I approach the woman with the clipboard. ‘My name is Diana Goodwin. I booked a ticket online.’ I produce my folded ticket, which I printed off this morning, and the woman checks it against her list. Online it said that attendees may be required to present identification, and I have mine ready, but after giving me a long look, she doesn’t ask. Still, she is thorough. As she peers at me, I’m reminded of standing at immigration at the airport, being surveyed, questioned, required to be a convincing version of myself. Eventually I pass the test and I’m allowed in.

The room is underwhelming—mottled blue-grey carpet, black steel chairs with burgundy fabric seats arranged in rows—twenty rows at a guess—six and six with an aisle in between. There’s a whiteboard at the front with markers. I sit in the second row from the back, trying to make myself invisible. A few seats down from me another woman, around my vintage, is clearly trying to do the same. In front of us sits a woman a good deal younger than fifty, alongside an elderly wheelchair-bound man, her father perhaps. He is hooked to a plethora of tubes that meet up to an oxygen tank that sits on the back of his chair like golf clubs on a buggy, and I can’t help thinking of my dear Tom. The rest of the people in the room are in varying levels of health—two wearing oxygen masks, three suspiciously bald. A seventyish man holds the hand of his wife who is clearly suffering some sort of mental condition and is muttering constantly under her breath, and I hear her utter a few of the very worst curses. Only a couple of people sit boldly at the front—they look to be husband and wife, silver-haired but straight-backed. Proud, paid-up members of VEI if ever I saw them. The man wears a shirt with his collar popped up under a navy woollen jumper and he sits back with his arms folded and an ankle balanced on the opposite foot. The woman wears a white blouse, a forest green jumper and a string of pearls, and she is half-turned around, talking to another woman, bizarrely, about herb gardens and the difficulty the other woman is having with her basil. The woman in green seems to know a lot about growing basil. I feel a pang of something looking at her, and I suspect it is to do with the proximity of her husband beside her. To the casual observer he appears to be in fine health, but the casual eye doesn’t see everything: of this I am all too aware.

After five or so minutes, the door closes and the lady with the clipboard comes to the front of the room, leaving the large man stationed outside the door.

‘Good afternoon,’ she says. ‘Thank you all for being here. I see some familiar faces and I see some new ones. My name is Dr Hannah Fischer.’

Dr Fischer is warm, bright, and efficient, and delivers a talk she is clearly familiar with. Indeed, she has dedicated her life’s work to this talk and her belief in assisted suicide and voluntary euthanasia. She talks generally about the history of euthanasia, the current legalities of what we can and cannot do, and preparing a last will and testament. She talks about the importance of being clear about our intentions. ‘If you are going to take your own life,’ she says, ‘you need to be clear that this was your intention. It is important to be as clear as possible to avoid any of your loved ones being held responsible and sent to jail. We recommend writing a letter making your intentions clear and leaving it in a prominent place. In the past we have seen charges brought against family members. If you have a large estate, it might be worth donating it to charity to avoid your loved ones being seen to have a motivation to assist you with your death.’

I think of my estate. There is no doubt it is large. I imagine Ollie and Nettie’s faces if they were to find out they’d been disinherited. It would be slightly less horrifying, I decide, than being found to have a possible motivation for my murder.

We are given a handbook calledThe Serene End, which sets out specific approaches to euthanasia, including how to obtain the required materials through the internet. ‘How do I purchase the drug you have recommended? The . . . Latuben?’ asks the woman sitting next to the man in the wheelchair.

‘We’re going to talk about that in a moment,’ Dr Fischer says. ‘And you’d better have your notepads ready. I can tell you an effective way to end your life, but getting your hands on this drug is going to take some effort and commitment from you.’

I sit forward, my notepad and pen ready. Finally, the information I came for.

51

DIANA

The past . . .

‘Aarash! Put that down.’

The little boy turns around, holding my blue and white vase in his sticky hands. Tom purchased the vase in Paris several years back. Even then, it cost over ten thousand euros. A ridiculous amount of money, though I’ve always been fond of the vase.

‘Just leave him, Ghezala,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

I’m actually rather pleased to see Aarash wandering around my house like he owns the place. His sister, Aziza, looks just as comfortable here. They remind me very much of my own grandchildren, burrowing under furniture and finding little crannies to hide in and fragile things to touch. And why not? What’s it all for if not for children to play with? That’s what Tom would have said anyway.

‘How is Hakem?’ I ask.

‘Working hard,’ Ghezala says. ‘He’s just employed two more people for his project. One of them from Afghanistan, one from Sudan.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ I try for a smile. I’m more comfortable with Ghezala than many other people, but still, smiles don’t come easily these days.

‘We have many friends from Afghanistan here now. Hakem’s sister and her husband are here.’

‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ I say, and now a smile does come, a real one. ‘Are they working?’

‘They’re looking. But they’ve been looking a while.’

‘What kind of work did they do back home?’

‘Different things. Some sales, some IT. Aarash, put that down!’

Aarash is holding the vase again, peering into the hole at the top as if it’s a telescope. But hearing his mother’s voice, he sets it down hard on the floor. It doesn’t break but Ghezala puts her hand to her heart and closes her eyes.