The Life of Oliver
One month after arriving in Vancouver
After listening to the doctor’s explanation, Oliver Payne stared ahead and then said, “You mean, I’m going to die.”
Schlaenhagen’s head drooped slightly and he crossed his legs before sighing his answer. “Not for several years, but there are medications we can prescribe to make your life easier. For instance, we can begin a regime of …”
Payne cut him off.
“How long do I have?” Payne’s face was expressionless, taut.
The doctor shifted in his chair causing the cushions to squeak, introducing an air of ridiculousness to the moment. He said it slowly. “Longer than you would think, but your condition is unpredictable. Best case scenario, you may live twenty or twenty-five years, worst case, maybe five to seven.” He smiled and then added wryly, “I wouldn’t go out and order your casket yet. You have some living to do.”
Payne sat in silence for a minute. He thought about his plans, clicking them off in his mind like he was knocking off a grocery list. His schedule needn’t change…yet, at least. But thoughts of fleeting time passing him by before he had a chance to make up for the terrible crimes he had committed several years earlier gnawed at him. Not enough time. There will neverbe enough time.
His eyebrows tensed, his forehead furrowed, Schlaenhagen studied Payne. He saw a sixtyish man, a little portly with thinning wisps of hair struggling to cover the forefront of his head. He was nattily dressed in a stylish gray suit with vest, tie, lavender shirt, and handkerchief neatly folded and tucked in the breast pocket. He was intelligent, strong, and in good shape; indeed, his lab numbers for a man of his age were remarkable: cholesterol 142, blood pressure 123/65, and glucose under100. His impression was: this man will cope well!
Parkinson’s, what a shame, he thought.
Payne stood and gazed out the window.Rain, again. It had been a wet October in Vancouver, B.C. It seemed appropriate for the doctor’s pronouncement on his health.
Schlaenhagen allowed Payne to linger at the window for a minute longer and then checked his watch. He had already delayed his next appointment by fifteen minutes. Bad news required time to sink in and he knew his patient needed space and… a moment.
After thanking the doctor, Payne turned to leave, almost, but not quite shuffling from the office.
Bypassing the elevator, he took the stairs. Better for me, he thought.
Stepping down quickly, Payne made it to the first floor in just under a minute. From there he escaped the moribund lobby and passed through automatic doors that led to the street.
The pattering rain had softened, reminding him of a slow moving drumbeat from a poetry reading in an old retro café he used to frequent in St. Paul. His lips twisted as he remembered the downcast readings expressed by the budding poets; all synched to the beat of bongo drums. He wished he could remember something a little more upbeat right now. He needed it.
He moved ahead; one foot in front of the other, he told himself. “You’ll make it through this,” he said out loud. His room at the Sunset Inn and Suites was four blocks away from the clinic so his walk didn’t take long.
Lucille had given him the use of nearly unlimited funds to provide him with everything he would need. He had chosen an executive suite at the Sunset Inn with one bedroom, small living room, bath, and a kitchen. He didn’t need anything more.
Payne unlocked the door, entered and collapsed onto the nearby sofa.
Alone. I’ve never felt so totally alone before. Very few times in his life had he considered the inevitability of death. The last time had been at the Devil’s Kettle Falls when he tackled Peter Karonen, sending both of them over a drop off and into the frothing cauldron below. He survived. Peter Karonen did not. With the help of Sheila Cadotte and Cassie Bandleson he made it out, evaded the police, and travelled to Vancouver.
This was different; a slow, debilitating death awaited him. From the corner of his eye he noticed the bottle of wine on the counter. Struggling a little, he moved to his feet, fetched the wine, and uncharacteristically, poured a full glass. Damn etiquette. I deserve it.
He brought the glass to his lips, tipped the edge of it slightly inward, and then inhaled the velvety scent of the Cigar Cabernet from the Coonawarra region of Australia. Dark color, rich, jammy, with chocolate infused dark fruit, stewed plums, peppery spice, long supple tobacco finish.
This was his heaven. A small sip, which he held as it filled the cavities around the tip of his tongue almost made him forget the news he had just been given by the doctor. The sapidness lingered. Finally, he rolled it over the back of his tongue and swallowed.
Placing the glass on a coaster, he sat, relaxed, and let a slow breath escape his lips. For a while tonight he would give in to the self-pity: the depression. Later he would think. Tomorrow, he would implement a plan.
He awoke fresh and full of energy. The dark hours he spent hashing everything out in his mind the evening before had been beneficial. Darkness had turned to light, and in turn, his ruminations formed a blueprint, which he intended to put into action today.
Oliver started singing a Queen song from the seventies:
We are the champions, my friends
And we’ll keep on fighting till the end
We are the champions; we are the champions
No time for losers
‘Cause we are the champions of the world
It wasn’t like him to suddenly burst into song, but this was Oliver today, the way he felt; this disease was not going to deter him from redeeming himself and affirming his life.
His voice trailed off. He looked down. A slight tremble captured his left hand.
