In the Bleak Midwinter

“She was to us,” Clare said. “She never did anything that would make you stand up and take notice. She worked for our parents’ aviation company, secretarial work and bookkeeping. Enough to make minimum payments on her credit cards, she used to say. Mostly, she wanted to get married and have lots of kids. She would have, too. She had guys left, right, and center.” Clare smiled, a small, inward smile. “She volunteered at the local hospital because she wanted to meet a doctor.”

Russ didn’t want to hear more. He hated the dread creeping along the edges of his nerves, knowing how the story ended. He wanted the details left off, so he wouldn’t have to feel the ache under his sternum that had already begun. Aching for Clare, who had dried her eyes and was speaking in a low, thick voice.

“She was four years younger than me. Twenty-five when she—when it happened. She had had this pain on and off in her abdomen, thought it was indigestion or gas. It finally got bad enough for her to have it checked out.” She closed her eyes. “It was colo-rectal cancer, well advanced. She didn’t suspect. No one suspected. No one in our family had ever had cancer. She went in for a checkup in the morning and by that evening she was under a death sentence. In one day.”

He made the left-hand turn onto Main Street, the truck’s rear fishtailing gently before he got it straightened out. The shop lights were almost invisible in the snowy haze.

“I was stationed at Fort Bragg at the time, about four hours from home, so I didn’t ask for compassionate leave. Grace moved back into our parents’ house and I visited them every weekend. For awhile, I really thought she was going to get better. They treated it very, very aggressively, and I thought, she’s twenty-five, she’s under the best medical care possible, she has people all over the country praying for her, writing her letters, of course she can’t die. Of course she can’t die.” She folded her hands and pressed them to her mouth as if she were pushing a prayer back into her throat. “Four months. After four months, ‘she can’t die’ became the problem, not the expectation. Do you know anything about colo-rectal cancer?”

He shook his head.

“She was in agony. She was half-dead from the chemo and the half of her that was alive was suffering every day, all day. The fact that she was young and strong became a . . . a curse, because her body hung on, and hung on . . .” She rested her chin on her tightly clasped hands. “There was an intern she had dated, a friend of hers. Harry Jussawala. He would visit her, sometimes stay with her during treatments in the hospital.” She breathed deeply. “He came for Thanksgiving dinner. My folks always have friends as well as family for Thanksgiving. Their house is always open. I wasn’t there, I was on duty so one of the married guys could be at home with his family. Anyway, while the rest of them were in the kitchen or outside, Harry went into Grace’s room and gave her fifty crushed Valium pills suspended in a solution of cranberry juice and vodka.” She looked at Russ. “Does that sound stiff? That’s how I always think of it, you know, because that’s how I first heard about it from the investigators.” Her mouth quirked. “It was a Cape Codder, get it? Her favorite drink. She died within a half hour. She was dead when my mom went in to check on her.”

He didn’t know what to say. His heart hurt for her. “Oh, Clare. I’m so sorry.”

“Harry was never arrested. They talked about murder, then about manslaughter, but in the end, no one could prove anything except that he had brought the crushed Valium to her room. His medical license was revoked. I still don’t know, to this day, if it was really her idea to kill herself or if he acted out of his own sense of compassion. She didn’t leave a note or anything.” Her face crumpled at last. “I never got to say good-bye to her.” She furiously blinked back tears. “And you know what’s awful? To this day, I don’t know whether to curse him or bless him. She was suffering, I know that, and it was going to end in her death. But she was alive! To be put down like a hurting dog . . .” she shook her head sharply, her lips closing tightly over her grief. She rubbed her face again, hard, and sniffled wetly. “I’m sorry. I never talk about this, I don’t know what got into me.”

He turned onto Church Street, swerving to one side to let a snow plow get by in the other lane. “It’s late and you’re tired,” he said. “Fatigue is like a truth drug, you know. Makes you do and say things you ordinarily wouldn’t consider.” He stopped at a red light and looked at her. “I think with all this stuff about Kristen and her sister, you needed to talk about Grace, and you needed a friend. I like to think I qualify there.”

She wiped a finger under her nose, smiling a little at him. “You do. You surely do. Thanks.”