Will’s parents must have decided together that Sandra would be the one to help them die. When living wills first became a thing, Naomi and Mel’s attorney advised them to make a videotape of themselves compos mentis affirming their final wishes. This was to be Sandra’s first assignment.
Naomi and Mel Krasnapol sat next to each other on the custom-made green silk sofa, its curving lines echoed by the coordinated glass-topped coffee table. Naomi crossed her ankles, always ladylike, posture erect, while Mel leaned back, his not yet stiff-jointed lanky arm behind his petite, plump wife; he seemed to inhabit space enough for two. Her parents-in-law were a complementary set, Sandra thought, like the foot-high Lladró nurse and doctor figurines that had been pushed out of the camera’s eye. Naomi was not a nurse, but she had managed Mel’s general practice at home until he became the diet doctor for Boston Brahmins. He then moved his office to Beacon Hill and his family to the Wellesley mansion in whose library they sat for the video. Mel and then Naomi read their identical scripts aloud, clearly and with determination, one after the other. Mel always went first, Sandra thought.
Mel and Naomi looked into Sandra’s soul through the eye of the huge shoulder-held video camera. “I am not afraid to die—I am only afraid of suffering.” How had that conversation gone, she wondered, the one in which they chose her for this intimate encounter? How did they decide that she was the one who’d be able to hold the camera steady?
Mel and Naomi looked into Sandra’s soul through the eye of the huge shoulder-held video camera. “I am not afraid to die—I am only afraid of suffering.” How had that conversation gone, she wondered, the one in which they chose her for this intimate encounter? How did they decide that she was the one who’d be able to hold the camera steady?
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