Page 78 of The Mother-in-Law

Nettie’s eyes open, but her gaze remains lowered.

‘I’m sorry. I’ve thought about this before, in a philosophical way, and . . . I just couldn’t do it. After all, it would be my child—’

‘Half your child,’ she corrects.

‘But there’s no such thing as half-children, is there? It would be mine as much as Archie and Harriet and Edie are mine. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t conceive a child, carry it to term and then give it away. I just couldn’t. Even for you.’

‘You won’t even think about it? For a few days? Sleep on it?’

‘I could,’ I say. ‘But my answer would be the same.’

Nettie rises to her feet, pushing her chair back hard enough to hit the rail of the deck. ‘Nettie,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry.’

Patrick puts a hand to his face, smoothing it across his forehead. I can’t tell if it’s a gesture of sadness or relief. I can tell what the expression on Nettie’s face is though, without a shadow of a doubt.

Hatred.

48

DIANA

The past . . .

Ending your own life, peacefully and painlessly.

I type the words into the Google browser and hit ‘enter’. I can’t remember the last time I used this darn computer, but it must have been a while ago because the mouse has run out of batteries. Now I have to use the darn pad on the laptop and it’s highly irritating. I finally manage to get the cursor to hover over the first link, a website called Lifeline Australia, a suicide prevention organisation. It’s not what I’m looking for, but I suppose it’s quite prudent. Most people doing the same kind of Google search as me need to find Lifeline and call the number. But not me. I am an old lady. I’ve lived a good life, been married, had my children.

I need help to die, not help to live.

I fiddle with the mouse again and refine my search.Voluntary euthanasia, Australia. Google tells me some things that I know, such as the fact that euthanasia is illegal in Australia even though it happens routinely in hospitals for the terminally ill in their final days. Google also tells me things Idon’tknow, such as the fact that it’s incredibly difficult to purchase the drugs or equipment to euthanise yourself in a humane fashion. I won’t qualify to go to Dignitas in Switzerland without being terminally ill, and the medical evidence they require is exhaustive and impossible to fake. Which leaves me, as far as I can see, with the internet.

I’ve been taking the antidepressant medication that Dr Paisley prescribed for nearly six months now and I think it’s been effective. My sleep has been better. I’m getting more enjoyment out of things. I’m managing to get dressed, feed myself and do a bit of work. But Tom’s still dead. There isn’t a pill that will change that.

I find a link to an organisation called Voluntary Euthanasia International (VEI). The print that pops up under the link saysVEI PHILOSOPHY: That all adults of sound mind should have the right to end their life in a manner that is reliable, peaceful and at a time of their choosing. VEI believes control over one’s life & death to be a fundamental civil right from which no one of sound mind should be excluded. VEI MISSION: To inform members & support them in their end-of-life decision-making.

I click on the link. And keep reading.

49

LUCY

The present . . .

Idrive myself to the police station. Ollie offered to come with me, but I told him not to be silly, that someone has to stay with the kids. I didn’t tell him the real reason I don’t want him to come. That I can’t bear to see his face when he finds out what I’ve done.

I go to the desk to announce my arrival, but before I’ve even had a chance to say my name, Jones appears.

‘Lucy. Come on up.’

In the elevator she apologises for calling me this late, and I tell her it’s fine, no problem, happy to help, but my voice sounds funny because I’m abuzz with nerves. Ollie must have been in this elevator not more than an hour ago. Nettie and Patrick have been in here. Eamon too, apparently. A joke comes to mind. How many people does it take to kill a rich old lady?

I only wish I knew.

We shuffle down the hallway and into a different interview room that smells of cheap perfume and cigarettes. I take a seat and so does Jones. Several beats pass and she doesn’t speak.

‘You had some . . . questions?’ I ask finally.

‘We’re just waiting for Housseini.’