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“Evelyn,” I say. “What are you . . .”
I can’t bring myself to say it or even suggest it. It sounds so absurd, even the thought of it. Evelyn Hugo taking her own life.
I imagine myself saying it out loud and then watching Evelyn laugh at me, at how creative my imagination is, at how silly I can be.
But I also imagine myself saying it and having Evelyn respond with a plain and resigned confirmation.
And I’m not sure I’m ready to stomach either scenario.
“Hm?” Evelyn says, looking at me. She does not seem concerned or disturbed or nervous. She looks as if this is any normal day.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Thank you for coming today,” she says. “I know you were unsure if you would be able to make it, and I . . . I’m just glad that you did.”
I hate Evelyn, but I think I like her very much.
I wish she had never existed, and yet I can’t help but admire her a great deal.
I’m not sure what to do with that. I’m not sure what any of it means.
I turn the front doorknob. All I can manage to squeak out is the very heart of what I mean. “Please take care, Evelyn,” I say.
She reaches out and takes my hand. She squeezes it briefly and then lets go. “You too, Monique. You have an exceptional future ahead of you. You’ll wrangle the very best out of this world. I really do believe that.”
Evelyn looks at me, and for one split second, I can read her expression. It is subtle, and it is fleeting. But it is there. And I know that my suspicions are right.
Evelyn Hugo is saying good-bye.
AS I WALK INTO THE subway tunnel and through the turnstiles, I keep wondering if I should turn back.
Should I knock on her door?
Should I call 911?
Should I stop her?
I can walk right back up the subway steps. I can put one foot in front of the other and make my way back to Evelyn’s and say “Don’t do this.”
I am capable of that.
I just have to decide if I want to do it. If I should do it. If it’s the right thing to do.
She didn’t pick me just because she felt she owed me. She picked me because of my right-to-die piece.
She picked me because I showed a unique understanding of the need for dignity in death.
She picked me because she believes I can see the need for mercy, even when what constitutes mercy is hard to swallow.
She picked me because she trusts me.
And I get the feeling she trusts me now.
My train comes thundering into the station. I need to get on it and meet my mother at the airport.
The doors open. The crowds flow out. The crowds flow in. A teenage boy with a backpack shoulders me out of the way. I do not set foot in the subway car.
The train dings. The doors close. The station empties.
