by M.E. Gayton
On the morning of December 26th, Ralph Breckles came to the realization that he wanted to know when he was going to die. By dinner that evening, he had made the appointment to find out.
The following week, Ralph drove to an office building located exactly 9.3 miles from his apartment. The five-story complex shared a parking lot with the market where Ralph bought his groceries every Tuesday after work. He parked in the same spot he always did (near the dumpster) even though the office complex was on the other side of the shopping center. Armed with his wallet, insurance card, and a printed copy of his referral, he made his way over the cracked and sun-bleached tarmac to the sliding glass doors of the brick building.
Once inside, he checked that he had the right location by scanning the directory on the wall next to the elevator. There she was: Dr. Jennifer Flax, Tri-County Mortamancy: Suite number 36. Her name fell between Dr. Jim Connor, Orthodontics and Indentogo Finger Printing Services. The circumference of the silver call button glowed orange as the elevator pinged open and Ralph entered, alone.
As he made his way toward Suite 36, Ralph practiced his speech. It was common knowledge that anyone over the age of thirty-five could walk into a mortamancer’s office and request information, but if they wanted their health insurance to cover the hefty fee, they had to provide a valid reason. And a doctor’s note. It was usually pretty easy to get the latter; however, insurance companies were rather picky about the former.
The waiting room was comfortable although not terribly unique. Ralph recognized the false perkiness of the artificial ferns and eucalyptus in the corners from those he saw at IKEA last week (he had been tempted to buy a “fejka,” but the thought of dusting it stayed his hand). One other person occupied the dimly lit room with him. She made eye contact, but instead of smiling, she shifted her thighs, which made that uncomfortable squeaking noise moist flesh makes against fake leather. She wasn’t terribly old, late thirties or early forties, but she didn’t look well. Probably a cancer patient. If so, she would have no problem procuring coverage.
When Ralph’s name was called by the young man in green scrubs who would record his weight and vitals, he got up and glanced again at the woman he was leaving behind. Her gaze remained locked on the floor.
“I know it’s early, but I’ll wish you a Happy New Year anyway, Mr. Breckles,” the man said as he led Ralph toward the scale. “Please take off your shoes.”
He’d forgotten to wear loafers. Instead, he had to pin down his left heel with his right toe and wriggle out both feet one at a time. When he got on the metal platform, he noticed a hole in his left sock that had allowed his entire pinky toe to escape. It sat there vulnerable and useless, a white stub of flesh against the faded navy sock.
“Doing anything tomorrow night?” the nurse asked.
“Yes?”
“161. Great.” He jotted down the weight. “Yes? You’re doing something? Big party?” He ripped apart the velcro of the blood pressure cuff.
“Sorry,” Ralph replied. “I didn’t quite hear you.” He couldn’t tell if the man was ribbing him. Ralph didn’t look like the kind of guy to go to a New Year’s party.
“So watcha, doin?” The young man smiled and motioned for Ralph to roll up his sleeve.
“Zoom call with family,” he replied slowly.
“Awww . . . that’s nice.”
They continued in silence until the nurse finished and gave Ralph a friendly slap on the shoulder. He started walking down the hallway. “Just this way. Let’s get you situated.”
The nurse brought Ralph to a room with two overstuffed corduroy chairs instead of the traditional examination table. Although he didn’t quite know what to expect, Ralph was startled by the ambiance; he wanted it to feel more like a physical and less like therapy. An unplugged diffuser sat on the window ledge in front of a sheer curtain and a floor lamp dimly lit the space from a far corner. He had no idea which seat to take, so he remained standing as the nurse closed the door behind him. The room smelled faintly of orange essence (a lingering puff from the diffuser, perhaps) and Ralph was contemplating plugging it back in when the mortamancer knocked moments later.
“Hello? Mr. Breckles?”
Still standing, Ralph held out his hand and welcomed the doctor as if she was his guest. When he remembered that he was hers, he motioned to the two chairs and asked which one he should take.
“Either one, please,” she said as she gestured in their direction. Ralph sat in the one he was standing closest to. Once the mortamancer was seated, she tapped the tablet on her lap twice.
Ralph wondered if she had taken a spouse’s name because she looked Italian. Her dark hair and eyes made him think of the word “etruscan.” When she looked up and smiled at him, he thought it looked overly practiced.
“Let’s have you start off by telling me why you’re here,” she said. “According to the surveys you filled out, you seem to be in good health. You’re not overweight, you don’t smoke or drink, and your BP is within range. Have you had any recent diagnoses that aren’t indicated here?”
“Doctor . . .” Ralph licked his lips, but his tongue was dry. He cleared his throat instead.
“For twenty-five years I have battled depression and anxiety. On some days, all I want to do is end it. I get through the work day imagining what I can take that night so that I won’t have to wake up in the morning. Then I spend my evenings staring at the television, too tired to follow through on anything, envisioning, instead, the most dangerous roads I can drive to work the next day. On other days, I can’t leave the house for fear that I’ll have an accident. That I’ll die before I’ve had the chance to travel abroad or start a family. I have tried over thirty different medications in various cocktails and combinations, but I’ve never felt any better. I’m not sure what I want anymore. But knowing when it all may end could help. I’ve gone back and forth for years, and I think I’ve decided.” He handed her the note from his pocket.
Dr. Flax waited a few beats just in case Ralph had more to say then took the referral.
“And you’re,” she looked down at the tablet, “48?”
He nodded.
“Oh, and just recently, too. Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.” Ralph winced.
She sat back in her seat and took a moment to swipe through several more documents in Ralph’s digital file. She periodically tapped the tip of her long violet fingernail against the screen. When she looked back up, Ralph was gazing right back.
“Well, Mr. Breckles, I can sympathize with your plight. We have plenty of cases like yours come through our doors. Let me make a quick call to your insurance company to verify the claim.”
Ralph exhaled loudly and apologized for it, but she was already up and moving.
She left him in a state of trepidatious euphoria. It was out of his hands now.
* * *
Ralph didn’t have to wait long. Within ten minutes, Dr. Flax was back.
“Good news, Mr. Breckles. Your insurance will cover the procedure. Before we begin, I will need you to just sign this document here, which assures us that you will not take any legal action after today. Also sign your copy underneath.”
She handed over the clipboard to Ralph who scribbled his name without reading a single word on either of the one-page documents.
“Now that that’s settled, we can begin. Please lean forward and just relax.”
Ralph scooted his body to the edge of the chair so that the mortamancer could place the palm of her hand on his forehead right over the metaphysical third eye. He could feel her fingernails on the edge of his scalp. Within seconds, his head grew warm as if with fever. He closed his eyes and suppressed a cough. When he opened them again, both the heat and her hand were gone. The process had taken no more than two minutes.
Dr. Flax sat back in her chair and wrote down some numbers on both copies of the signed documents. She then handed him one.
“Well, it appears you have fairly good fortune, Mr. Breckles. Your date of demise is scheduled for sometime between mid to late February forty-three years from now.” She looked at her watch as if it could provide her the hour as well. “Unfortunately, we can’t give you a precise day of the week, but you can trust our overall accuracy.” She stood up and put out her hand. This time, it was clear that Ralph was the departing guest. “You will die a very old man.”
Ralph looked into her old-world eyes and took a breath. He didn’t know if it was the best or worst news he had heard in the last twenty-five years.
Category: Featured, Short Story