Chapter 3 - The DNR
It happened on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Margaret and I were in the grand living room — she was reading by the fireplace, I was in my leather armchair, supposedly sipping my spiked smoothie.
I let the glass slip from my fingers. It shattered against the Persian rug, splashing green liquid everywhere.
I gasped sharply, clutched my chest, threw myself forward. I hit the floor hard, letting my shoulder take the brunt of the fall, let out a choked groan, and went entirely slack, staring blankly at the pattern in the rug.
Margaret didn't scream. She didn't drop her book in a panic.
I heard the soft rustle of pages closing. Slowly, her footsteps approached. She stood over me, her shadow falling across my face.
"Walter?" she asked, conversational, like she was asking if I wanted more tea.
I didn't blink. I fixed on a loose red thread in the carpet and used a meditation technique I hadn't touched in decades to slow my breathing to almost nothing.
She nudged my ribs with the hard toe of her designer flat. It hurt. I stayed dead weight.
"Wake up, old man," she whispered. The venom in her voice was absolute.
When I didn't move, she sighed, and I heard the rustle of her purse. A moment later something cold and hard pressed just beneath my nostrils — her silver compact mirror, checking for breath condensation. I held the air in my lungs until they burned, letting out only the faintest wisps.
Satisfied, apparently, that I was in catastrophic shape, she knelt beside me. I felt her manicured nails scrape my left hand as she grabbed my gold wedding band — the ring she'd slid onto my finger forty years earlier — and began twisting it violently.
"Better get this off now," she muttered to herself, yanking the gold over my knuckle, tearing skin. "Fingers always swell when the heart stops."
She stood and dialed her phone. "Sabrina? It's done. He's on the floor. Bring the blue binder from the safe. We need the medical power of attorney and the DNR on the table before anyone calls the paramedics."
Fifteen minutes later the front door burst open and heavy footsteps rushed into the room.
"Dad!" Nathaniel dropped to his knees beside me, hands grabbing my shoulders, shaking me. "Oh my god! Mom, what happened? Call 911!"
For a fraction of a second, warmth flooded through my chest. He was terrified. He cared. Blood didn't matter — he was the son I'd raised, and he loved me.
But before Nathaniel could pull out his phone, Sabrina's voice cut through the room. "Don't touch that phone, Nathaniel. Put it down."
He froze. "What are you talking about? He's having a heart attack!"
"He's supposed to be having a heart attack," Margaret corrected coldly, stepping into his line of sight. "He signed a DNR last year, sweetheart. We have to respect his wishes."
I had never signed a DNR in my life.
Nathaniel looked from his mother to his wife, who was calmly laying legal documents out on the coffee table. Something dawned across his face. He looked down at me, eyes wide.
Suddenly my cell phone, resting in my breast pocket, began ringing loudly. The caller ID would clearly show it was Ms. Whitfield.
"Who is that?" Sabrina snapped.
Nathaniel reached into my pocket and pulled out the ringing phone. He stared at the screen. He looked at my lifeless face. He looked at the pile of debt Sabrina had racked up. He looked at the multi-million-dollar estate surrounding him.
He had a choice. Save the man who wiped his tears, taught him to ride a bike, built him an empire — or secure the money.
His thumb moved. He pressed the power button, declining the call, shutting the phone off completely. Then he stood, walked to the antique credenza, and tossed my phone into the bottom drawer.
"Okay," Nathaniel whispered, voice shaking but resolved. "We wait."
Something inside me fractured, violently and permanently. The love I had for that boy evaporated, leaving nothing behind but cold, hardened ash. He wasn't just a victim of a lying mother. He was an active participant in my murder.
They stood around me, a macabre little vigil, coordinating their story for the police. Sabrina opened the binder and pointed to a line. "Nathaniel, you need to date his signature here. Use the blue pen."
I waited until he uncapped it.
Then I took a massive, gasping breath and coughed violently, rolling onto my back.
The silence that followed was deafening. It was the sound of three people realizing exactly which corner of hell they were standing in.
I blinked up at their horrified faces, letting my eyes unfocus slightly, playing the disoriented survivor.
"What… what happened?" I rasped, clutching my chest.
Margaret recovered first, though her face had gone the color of chalk. She threw herself onto the floor, wrapping her arms around my neck. "Oh, thank God! Walter! You collapsed! We were just about to call the ambulance!"
"Of course I'm alive," I grumbled, weakly pushing her off and struggling to sit up. "Takes more than a dizzy spell to put me in the ground. Though I feel like I got hit by a truck."
I let them help me to the sofa, watching their eyes dart frantically to each other. They thought they'd failed. They didn't know I knew.
"This scare," I breathed heavily, looking around at all three of them, "made me realize something. Life is fragile. Too fragile."
"Dad, you should rest," Nathaniel stammered, looking sick.
"No." I raised a hand. "No more resting. Next week is our fortieth anniversary. I was going to keep it a surprise, but — I've rented the grand ballroom at The Fairmont. I'm launching the Ashford Family Foundation." I looked directly into Margaret's panicked eyes. "I want everyone there. The board, the politicians, our friends. Reverend Gordon, of course. I want everyone present when I officially step down and transfer power to the next generation."
May you like
I smiled — a weak, tired, old man's smile. "I want everyone to get exactly what they deserve."
They exhaled. They smiled back. The fools thought they'd won.
