A Sharp Intake of Breath. Джон Миллер

      “Neglecting to go to bed at the ringing of the retiring bell.”

      He pulled a small booklet out of his back pocket, opened it, and held it away from his face. “Hmph. What about Number Thirty, then?”

      “There is no Offence Number Thirty, sir.”

      The guard laughed. “They couldn’t have given you those rules more than five hours ago. You been sitting in your cell all this time memorizing them?”

      “No, sir, I only read them once.”

      “Well, I’ll be. He sounds like a gibbering idiot but has a few tricks up his sleeve.” My throat tightened with disappointment. “I’ve heard about people like you.” He put away the booklet, then gave a final crack, which sent me to my knees. “Watch out, new boy. I don’t like smart alecs,” he spat, then moved along, back to where he’d left off his inspection.

      an open window

      Ari and I took a walk in the neighbourhood around Baycrest while Bessie slept, Pearl watching over her at the bedside. My sister had not had a good week. Her cancer was progressing painfully, and painfully slowly. Unlike mine, it appeared not to bend to radiation or chemo. A month before, she’d sworn off treatment, opting for palliation, but they weren’t doing a good job at pain management.

      Chronic pain is a fire that can burn up hope, sizzle it to a crisp. The crack of a truncheon to the shins is a mere scalding, producing a temporary blister that will pop and heal, if anger or resentment aren’t allowed to infect the wound. If the pain is severe or prolonged, it slow-cooks us until we’re bereft, until hope is charred, desiccated, and not really hope at all, just its ashen remains, with longing for release rising up like a wisp of smoke.

      Today, Bessie had shifted in her bed uncomfortably, and watching as she tried to hide her suffering from her grandson, watching her try to ignore the pain, was too much to bear, even more because she couldn’t dissemble. I would certainly not end up like that. It confirmed my decision.

      I could see how upset Ari was. I saw his face when we left Bessie’s room; it was as if she’d let him down. He couldn’t possibly blame her for it, and he’d get little comfort from me.

      He didn’t know the half of it.

      “I need you to help me,” I said, as we strolled along the quiet residential street. The words sounded weak, frayed at the edges, betraying my nervousness. I couldn’t delay any longer.

      It was a bright, sunny spring day, one that gave people a sense of possibility after a harsh winter. Splashes of colour glinted in freshly turned flowerbeds. Trees protected red brick houses and newly sprouted leaves rustled from a light breeze. A beautiful cherry had sown a carpet of blossoms before us, making the air fragrant with the perfume of pollination.

      Surrounded by all of this awakening life, I asked Ari to help me end mine.

      After a few moments, he turned away, fighting back tears.

      I put my hand on his shoulder. “Ari, I know I’m asking a lot. I’m sorry.” When he didn’t say anything, I hardened my voice. “Do you really want me to end up like Ellen did? You’ve seen that place.” I pointed back at Baycrest. “Can you honestly say you’d want to live there, slowly waiting to die? Look at your grandma Bessie.”

      He pulled away from me and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “What about Grandma? Who will look in on her?” His tone was accusatory.

      Since his aunt Lil died, Ari had become closer to Bessie than I gauged he’d be comfortable to admit. Closer than a twenty-something man should be to an old lady. I couldn’t blame him; I’d been drawn in by the same qualities, many years before. With Bessie, you didn’t talk about great ideas or concepts like you did with Lil, but she had qualities I’d needed much more than intellect, like loyalty and fairness and humanity. If you were beleaguered and confused, she had a way of slicing cleanly through the nonsense and flicking it to the side. She did this with wit and impatience and yet she didn’t make you feel ashamed. Somehow, you felt she was agreeing with what you would have said, had you gotten it out first. She was more solicitous of Ari than any of us. His parents exacted excellence, pushing him higher and higher but in a hyper-critical manner. I usually followed Lil’s example, trying to rein in his overconfidence. Bessie, while disapproving of the world around her, didn’t care about excellence or worry about self-confidence in her loved ones. She was only concerned with goodness, good manners, and common sense. As a result, we felt no pressure from her, just the sweetness of her praise. When she offered congratulations, she somehow made success seem both expected and surprising all at once. Ari moved in an academic world that was competitive and harsh, and he cherished her support.

      “Your grandma doesn’t need me,” I said. “She has her friend Pearl. And you and your parents.”

      He let my answer hang in the air a few seconds, then asked, “Why me? Why not Mom and Dad?”

      “You told me last year you had a friend who was dying of AIDS and his friends helped him get the drugs he needed to end his life. You said you knew the nurse who got him what he needed.”

      “That friend wasn’t close. And others helped him, not me.”

      “Your parents don’t know who to ask. It would be too risky for them; they’d have to talk to too many people. You already know the right person.”

      “I’m just not sure,” he said, and although he was apparently talking about the drugs, I knew it was more than that. This wasn’t going well and I’d feared as much. “I need a few weeks,” he added.

      “I’m not necessarily planning to do anything right away. I just need a little insurance.”

      “It’s not a question of when. You can’t just ask me something like this and expect me to leap to it. I need time to think things through. I need to consider ... well ... things.”

      “Nobody will ever find out you helped me,” I said.

      He looked doubtful, and I couldn’t blame him. If my life was a cautionary tale, its message was keep your nose clean. Why would I be asking him to break the law? “I’m not making this request lightly,” I offered. “I wouldn’t involve you unless I needed to. I’ll take care of it; if the police get involved—not that they will—you won’t be implicated in any way. I promise.”

      “Yeah? Well, you’ll just have to cling to life a little longer,” he said.

      For the moment, I had to accept his answer, though I felt heavier to hear it. Besides, I shouldn’t have expected him, quickly and easily, to make that kind of leap. I, of all people, should’ve known how difficult it was to sail out an open window, when the ground was far below and the night was dark, dark, dark.

      the key to liberation

      By 1933, when Emma Goldman moved to Toronto, my sister Lil was eighteen years old and in her first year of university. Lil had been encouraged in her schooling by a man named Irv Charney, who had begun to court Bessie the year before. Irv was going into his last year of pharmaceutical studies, and Bessie had taken a job at a local factory. Lil was working part-time in our parents’ store because they were more flexible with her need to study. I still worked in the store too, and hated every moment. I could’ve worked the cash, but Ma had me sweeping, carrying boxes, and wrapping purchases, all the uninteresting jobs. Even though I had proved how useful I might be with the inventory, she put Lil in charge. Meanwhile, Lil also got to talk to customers and make sales.

      When Irv started courting Bessie, she complained to him about Lil’s radicalism, but her pride in her younger sister’s academic accomplishments peeked through, and Irv was shrewd enough to ignore the sibling rivalry. Lil’s success at school was an exciting curiosity in our family. Except for in arithmetic, Bessie’s marks had been mediocre. As for my parents, they never had the chance to go past grade eight. Irv took Lil under his scientific wing and encouraged her academic pursuits, and his encouragement