ARS MORIENDI: THE ART OF DYING, explores the concept of dying intentionally and beautifully. It takes place in the Pacific Northwest in the near future, at the Ars Moriendi Institute for Assisted Death, where wealthy clients go for medical assistance in dying in unique and dramatic end-of-life productions.
The story is told from the point of view of two women:
Lindsay Quick has moved across the country to take a production job at the Institute, trying to control death and make it beautiful. But she's making mistakes and subconsciously trying to stop people from dying.
Sonya Moss is a well-known journalist. She's opposed to medical assistance in dying, which she considers assisted suicide, and is writing an undercover story about the Institute under the pretext of having a terminal illness herself.
Lindsay and Sonya are wary of each other at first, each sensing that the other has a hidden agenda. They soon become combative, struggling to understand and defend their own feelings and beliefs about dying.
Meanwhile, the founder and creative director of the Institute, Toren van Engel, believes that the human species itself is terminally ill and will soon become extinct.
The novel lets readers explore their own feelings about death and dying, on an individual and species level.
Here's a little sample:
The time had come. Lindsay Quick took a deep breath and prepared to kill her client.
An antacid tablet sat uneasily in her stomach as she gulped some water, adjusted the flower in her hair, and wiped her palms on her embroidered skirt. She checked the positions of the crew one last time and pressed the button that would close the audience doors. A straggler, an enormous man who looked like he could be the client's brother, was just getting settled. She gave him another moment, then commenced the death sequence.
Dark became slightly less dark and then almost light as Señor Flores was wheeled out onto the balcony, his considerable bulk spilling over the frame of his wheelchair. On the virtual horizon, the Mexican sun lifted up into the pink and orange sky for a better look.
The big man, wearing a shirt, swimming trunks and an IV, squinted as the rays illuminated his face. Beads of sweat were already forming on his forehead.
“Sunglasses,” he murmured. The attendant, Dr. Lopez, nodded and gestured to someone in the background, and mopped his brow with a towel.
Lindsay Quick cursed under her breath and made a note in the online production log. Another screwup. A few more of these and her career would be as dead as this client was about to be. She was sweaty herself and the stupid flower kept sliding out of her hair and down past her ear.
The morning surf was gentle in the distance, and finches and sparrows dashed from one palm tree to another on a backdrop two storeys high. Footage of resort staff sweeping the patio around the pool, adjusting the teak lounge chairs, and trundling ice out to the bar was crisp and convincing, even at that scale. The air smelled of ocean and juniper, frangipani blooms and fresh linens.
Señor Flores donned sunglasses with shaky hands and took a few deep breaths. Nodded. Smiled. A guitarist began to play.
Within minutes, the sun was mid-sky. Not as hot as it could be, but too hot to lie under it for long. The doctor sprayed sunscreen onto the client's bare legs, as if it were needed.
Lindsay ticked off the items on her list as they occurred: the ambience, the sun, the scent, the music. Roscoe had worked his magic with the lighting and the day seemed to stretch out endlessly. In the viewing area, the audience was silent save for a few nervous coughs. The brother, if that's what he was, looked exceedingly anxious.
“Una margarita por favor, amigo.” The client was sounding nervous.
“Here you go, Señor.” Dr. Lopez placed a frosty glass in his hand.
And now it was evening. The sun slid down the sky and pulled a sheet of turquoise and purple around the hills to the west. Too soon, thought Lindsay. The client looked alarmed and took several large gulps of his drink. Condensation dripped from the bottom of the glass to join the pooled sweat on his shirt. And too hot. Shit.
“It's time, Señor,” murmured the doctor. “This is your time to say goodbye.”
The guitarist hit a flourish of chords and all faces turned as Toren van Engel entered the set, resplendent in a black Mexican charro suit with white embroidery. He held an ornate silver remote control in front of him like a priest would hold a chalice. This was the joystick that would trigger the release of novabarbital.
Señor Flores's eyelids quivered a few times. His eyes were watery and a tear rolled down his puffy cheeks into the folds of his neck.
“No pain whatsoever?” he whispered. “None?”
Dr. Lopez shook his head. “Only relief from pain, my friend,” he murmured.
The man nodded and settled back, an expression of deep peace lending his face a certain beauty.
Toren raised his arms and the assembly became perfectly still. He lowered them and pressed his thumb to a sensor on the joystick. The translucent button glowed green.
“Eduardo Alejandro Flores!” His voice was commanding.
Despite herself, Lindsay shivered, and the skin on the back of her neck tightened. She would never get used to these moments.
Señor Flores shivered too, noticeably, and his eyes widened.
“Eduardo Flores! Are you ready to die happy?”
“I'm ready to die happy.” The joystick recognized the client's voice and the light changed to a pulsing amber.
Señor Flores extended his hand for the box.
Lindsay swallowed hard.
The man smiled, already tasting relief from pain, already feeling happy, and pushed the glowing button with his thumb. It turned red, and three grams of novabarbital entered his IV.
“Adios,” he said. “To God.”
And died.
# # #
Sonya Moss raked both hands through her hair and twisted it into a thick knot with just the right amount of wiggle room. It would be held there by its own weight and texture for some time, looking increasingly and becomingly dishevelled, before suddenly slipping loose to her shoulders. A lover had told her once that he was kept in a state of perpetual distraction by the impending undo of her hairdo, and she had used that to her advantage ever since.
She was using it now, along with her brightest lipstick and most persuasive tone of voice, to pitch her editor a story idea she had been thinking about for weeks. Her handbag dominated the table between them, a trick she had read in a book about gaining control in the workplace. The editor, apparently overcome by her girl power, was resisting, but not successfully.
“I don't get it, Sonya. Your brand is entertainment and lifestyle. This is investigative journalism you're talking about.”
“Pete, that's what makes me perfect for this assignment. I go in there with my scary diagnosis and my little ol' Southern drawl and tell them I want to write about the experience, and they think I'm gonna do a puff piece. Beautiful deaths for beautiful people. Poignant story about my last weeks on earth. I win them over, get the dirt, and we win an armload of awards.”
She could see that register.
“What if there is no dirt? I haven't heard anything sketchy coming out of there.”
“Oh gosh, there's dirt. There's always dirt. They're basically encouraging people to commit suicide. It's just wrong, Pete! You think they don't push people into these multi-million-dollar productions? You think if one of their clients wanted to back out halfway, they'd let them? My pastor has heard things. These people are milking vulnerable clients out of their life savings, and I'm frankly amazed that it's even legal. I'll expose their unethical practices, get some opposing viewpoints, and blow this thing out of the water.”
“What would you tell them is wrong with you?” He was wavering.
“Follicular lymphoma.”
He snorted. “What's that, cancer of the hair?”
“You're so funny. It's some kind of blood cancer – it can go on and on without symptoms, so it'll be perfect. They'll have plenty of time to try to talk me into dying.”
“I don't know. How are you going to fake the medical records?”
Sonya looked at him sideways. “Pete, do you know me at all? Did I not get an interview with the Dalai Lama when nobody else could? And what about labour and delivery with the Duchess – only I could have pulled that off. I have connections, sweetie. Medical records are the least of my worries.”
Her hair tumbled and her editor blinked.
“Pretty please?” Sonya tilted her head and winked playfully at him.
“Alright, do it. Just don't break any laws. Or if you do, don't tell me about it.”
“You're a doll! I'll need lots of time and budget for this…”
“What else is new.”