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Jessica never thought the decision to take a life would be placed in her hands. But this week, she'd found herself faced with that decision not once, but twice. The first time was when she pulled that ceramic dagger out of her purse, The Carousel Killer's voice in her ear telling her it was her ex-husband's life or an innocent's life she had to choose between-- and again when the doctors spoke to her about Martin's coma.
Today, the decision to pull the plug was entirely in her hands.
Before, it had been a no-brainer. Before, she thought she had the strength to do it.
To kill him.
Because the alternative was allowing some poor girl to die at the hands of another deranged psychopath, and Jessica could never allow that.
But now, there was no incentive to do it. To kill him. Now, there was no consequence if she didn't do it. Now, there was only her, a clipboard in her lap, and her ex-husband in that hospital bed hooked up to those steadily-beeping machines. It seemed now, the ceramic dagger had been replaced with a ballpoint pen.
Jessica Whitly sighed and moved the blank documents aside, unable to bring herself to sign anything that would authorize the ending of his artificially-supported life. She'd read through the papers five times by now, and the decision she should make wasn't any clearer. Rubbing her temples, she briefly worried about her appearance, fearing she looked hideous with her hair flat and her makeup smudged and faded.
She hadn't slept much since that night in The Surgeon's cell, when her son had taken on the responsibility to stab Martin and satisfy the Carousel Killer's wishes --only to arrest him the next morning during Martin's surgery. Gil's team recovered the nurse who'd been kidnapped, and everything was back to normal now.
Everything, except...
Hesitantly, Jessica looked up at that door again. It was not a red, high security, cell door. It was a white, harmless, hospital room door.
She feared passing through it all the same.
She feared seeing him, asleep, with that tube in his nose and a silly polka dot hospital gown over his chest. She feared seeing the peace on his face and hearing his rare silence.
When asked what she thought, Ainsley had been indifferent. "Do whatever," she'd said. Jessica could tell she'd shut down and closed off. Jessica didn't blame her daughter for distancing herself. This was all so much, so crazy, so surreal. Their family had been through a lot of mental turmoil lately. She contemplated if her daughter needed some therapy to help her cope with it all.
But Ainsley wasn't particularly close with Martin. She never had been. Malcolm, on the other hand...
Jessica was desperate to talk to Malcolm about what they should decide, but Malcolm was busy at work handling another case, escaping in his own way. Like an ostrich, he'd plunged his head in the sand to avoid this decision. There was no telling when he'd pop back up again, ready to face the emotionally difficult situation. He'd rather face physical challenges, and dilemmas that weren’t of familial nature. Needless to say, the profiler hadn't been all that available to answer his mother's calls the past couple days. Surely, he was dealing with his own conflicted guilt, having been the one who directly put his father in this predicament (thought it wasn't his fault,) and didn’t want to think about the things Jessica was currently forced to think about.
Oh, how she worried about that boy.
Gil had said, "I can't make this decision for you. But I will support whatever you choose," which was sweet, but not very helpful. Bless his heart. Gil had been so good to her over the years. A true family friend, despite everything. A rock to lean against when she felt she was too weak to stand.
Jessica didn’t know what to do. Maybe she just didn't want the sole responsibility of this decision. Maybe she wanted it to be in someone else’s hands, so she didn’t have to hold its unbearable weight.
What if she signed those papers, silenced those machines’ beeping, and then her children both resented her for her choice? Jessica wouldn’t be able to bear that. She would forever worry that she’d made the wrong decision, and that her children would think less of her for it, or secretly hate her for it. It was not a fear that was new to her.
She couldn’t avoid this. She had to face it. The only way through this was through it. Not around it. Not over it. Not under it. Through it.
Through that door.
Finally, she accumulated enough courage to stand up and slip into that hospital room.
It was quieter in the room than in the hall. The only sounds that existed were the steady beeps of the monitors and the constant, low hissing of the oxygen supply. The walls felt soundproof, the ceiling padded. It was like a meditation room. It was no wonder Martin was so deeply asleep.
Jessica stood by the door for a while, tense with something akin to fear, or anticipation. She expected him to wake up. She expected his eyes to open, heavy with sleep. She expected him to take in a deep breath and shift on the pillow, like he did on occasion when he’d lied beside her in bed all those years ago. More than all that, she expected him to give her a sudden jump scare and then laugh at her piercing shriek, the bastard. He’d always been one for pranks.
But nothing of the sort happened. He was not faking his slumber, nor lying in wait to spring a humorous trap. He wasn’t even technically asleep, by definition. He was something far more unreachable. Something deeper, and less alive. He was totally absent from the world, and that wasn't feigned either. He was practically already dead. Already gone. A shell of himself in a precursor to a casket, already having found a distant peace.
She was more frightened here, seeing him like this, than she’d ever been in Claremont, seeing him in cuffs.
She heard the memory of Ainsley’s question.
‘You still love him?’
She remembered her answer.
‘What? No! Heavens, no!’
She remembered their laughter.
Her heart ached.
Jessica swallowed, debated leaving, then stood there for a while longer. She didn’t know how long. Eventually, she carefully approached the bed, and the visitor’s chair beside it. Gingerly taking a seat, she stared at his face, no longer waiting for him to wake up, but willing it.
He did not wake up.
He made no jokes. No excuses. No innocent claims or condescending snides. He did not attempt to sway her decision one way or another. He did not convince her to wait, or charm her into loving him again, so she couldn't bring herself to pull the plug. He only lied there on his back, dormant. His heart beat and his lungs breathed, but that was all he could do. That was all he might ever be able to do from that point onward, the doctors had told her.
Despite his gossamer presence, she was completely alone in that room, with no guidance, and nothing to help her make up her mind. All he was was the embodiment of her decision, lying there, waiting for her to make her choice, waiting for her to take action, or fail to take action, for an undetermined amount of time.
How long could she hold off making her decision? A few weeks? Months? A year? Multiple years? How long would he lie there, taking up space that someone else might need, someone with a better chance of survival, who was a better person than him?
Martin had always been a stubborn mule of a man. She feared he’d stubbornly lie there forever if she let him.
Or maybe he’d be just stubborn enough to break through his coma, and spare her from making this decision.
“Martin,” she whispered. Her voice was terribly weak, and it embarrassed her. She was glad he hadn’t heard her. After clearing her throat, she spoke up again with slightly more strength in her tone. “Martin, you need to wake up,” she ordered.
He still did not wake up.
Jessica sat in silence for a moment, feeling desperately alone in more ways than one. Her only company was her own storming thoughts of misery and despair. She wished Malcolm or Ainsley were there with her. She worried for them both. Worried for their futures, for their mental health and the emotional scars over their hearts. She knew that she would be trying to heal her babies’ scars for the rest of her life, and she would be taking on the arduous task alone. Martin had left her to care for their children on her own. Not only physically, but mentally and emotionally, too.
"You need to wake up,” she repeated. “Because….” She took in a shaky breath. “Because I can't do this without you."
After hesitating, she reached out to him and laid her hand over his forearm. Even after twenty years, it still felt familiar to her. It still felt like the arm of the man she once knew, long, long ago.
He really was a corpse. A corpse of the man she used to love.
She wanted that man back. Not the man who had murdered all those people, but the man she believed he once was. A man who was a good father, and a good husband.
Her husband.
But the man she once believed he was... would never wake up.