"I guess so," I answered. "We didn't really talk."
"You should," she said. "She's actually a very nice person."
"Are you done?" I asked with a halfhearted smile. "How are you feeling, anyway?"
"A lot better than yesterday," she answered. "Which reminds me--can I take London roller skating this weekend?"
"You want to take London roller skating?" My disbelief must have shown, because Marge bristled.
"Believe it or not, I refuse to let all of you keep me cooped up in the house, and I think London will enjoy it. I know I will."
Left unsaid was that it would likely be something that London would remember forever, since it would be her first time. "When was the last time you even went roller skating?"
"What do you care? It's not like I've forgotten how to do it. If you recall, I used to be pretty good."
It's not that, I thought to myself. I'm wondering whether you'll have the strength. I looked away toward the screen, convinced that Marge was in denial. In the freeze-frame image on the television, Julia Roberts was in a bar, confronting her roommate about money. Though I hadn't seen the movie in years, I could still recall the film practically scene by scene. "Okay," I said. "But only if you hit play so we can watch the movie."
"You want to waste your morning watching Pretty Woman? Instead of earning money?"
"It's my life," I said.
"Well, just don't make it a habit, okay? You're welcome to come by after work, but not before. I'll probably start needing my beauty rest."
"Just hit the play button already."
She lifted her eyebrow slightly and pointed the remote. "I just started it a few minutes ago."
"I know."
"We used to watch this together."
"I know," I said again. "Just like I also know you've always had a crush on Julia Roberts."
She laughed as the movie started up again, and for the next couple of hours, my sister and I watched the movie, calling out lines and sharing a running commentary, just like when we were kids.
After the movie, Marge went to the bedroom to take a nap while Liz and I drank coffee in the kitchen.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," Liz admitted, with the expression of someone overtaken by events she can hardly comprehend. "In Costa Rica, she seemed fine. She barely coughed and it was hard for me to keep up with her. I don't understand how she could seem so healthy a month ago, and now..." She shook her head in bewilderment. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I canceled my appointments today and tomorrow, but Marge basically forbade me from taking a leave of absence. She wants me to continue working at least a few days a week, insisting that your mom can fill in as needed. That we should work out a schedule, or whatever." When she raised her eyes, they were full of pain. "It's like she doesn't want me around."
"It's not that," I said, covering her hand with my own. "She loves you. You know that."
"Then why is she essentially telling me to stay away? Why can't she understand that I just want to be with her as much as possible, for as long as possible?"
She squeezed my hand in return as she stared out the window, unseeing.
"She still wants to go to New York next week," she finally added.
"You're not seriously thinking of going, are you?" Roller skating was one thing, but a sightseeing trip to one of the busiest cities in the world?
"I don't know what to do. She asked the doctor about it last night, and he said that if she was feeling up to it, there was no reason for her not to go since it's between chemo sessions. But how can I go and not think to myself, This will be the last time Marge sees this, or, This will be Marge's only chance to do that that?"
She was looking to me for an answer, but I knew there wasn't anything I could say.
Most of her questions, after all, were the same as my own, and I had no answers, either.
On Tuesday morning, the first day of December, I got a text from Marge, asking London and me to dinner that night. It was a subtle way of telling me not to swing by the house before that.
The thought depressed me, and after dropping London off at school, I arranged to meet Emily for coffee. In jeans and a thick turtleneck sweater, she looked as fresh-faced and youthful as a college student.
"You look tired," she observed. "Are you holding up okay?"
"I'm surviving," I answered, pushing a weary hand through my hair. "I'm sorry for not calling the last couple of days."
She raised her hands immediately. "Don't be. I can't imagine what you're going through. I've been worried about you."
For whatever reason, her words were a comfort. "Thanks, Em," I said. "That means a lot to me."
"Do you want to tell me what's going on?" she said, touching my arm.
For the next hour I rambled on, my cup of coffee gradually cooling to room temperature. Listening to myself, I realized that since Emily had come back into my life, I'd been careening from one emotional catastrophe to the next. Even as she held me later, I found myself marveling that she was still willing to put up with me.
For dinner that night, Liz went out of her way to cook something she knew London would enjoy--Shake'N Bake chicken, seasoned potatoes, and a fruit salad.
My mom was just leaving as we arrived, and I walked her out to her car. Before she got in, she paused.
"Marge is refusing to let me give up any of my clubs," my mom said. "In fact, she insisted that I stick to the very same schedule, but Russ..." She frowned in concern. "She doesn't how bad it's going to get. She's going to need help. It's like she's in denial."
I nodded, signaling that I'd been thinking the same thing.
"Do you know what she said to me just now? She wants Dad to come by to fix a few of the railings on the porch because they've got some dry rot. And some of the windows are sticking. And there's a leaking sink in the bathroom. She was so insistent about getting these things fixed. As if that even matters right now." She gave me a baffled look. "Why would she be making such a fuss about a few porch railings? Or the windows?"
Though I didn't respond, it finally dawned on me, what Marge was doing. I suddenly knew why she wanted me to only come by in the evenings; why she was having Liz and my mom split time with her. I knew why she wanted my dad to come over and make repairs on the house, and why she was insisting on taking London roller skating.
Marge, more than anyone, knew that each of us not only wanted private time with her, but were going to need it, before the end.
With the side effects of the initial chemotherapy treatment diminishing over the course of the week, Marge grew steadily stronger. And all of us wanted to believe her treatment was working, because we so desperately craved even a few more months with her.
I know now that only Marge understood on some intuitive level what was really going on inside her body. She bowed to treatment in the first place simply because it was what all of us wanted her to do. In hindsight, I realize that she understood, even as she'd said yes, that it wouldn't slow the progress of the disease at all.
To this day, I still wonder how she knew.
Liz and my mom organized a schedule, such that one of them would always be at the house during the day, once Marge and Liz returned from New York.
The Friday following my dinner at Marge's, my dad took a morning off work and showed up at Marge's with his tool chest and a pile of precut railings in his trunk. He began the slow process of repair and took a break at lunch; Marge and my dad had sandwiches and sweet tea on the back porch, admiring my dad's handiwork to that point and discussing the Braves' prospects for the following year's season.
On Saturday, Marge arrived at my house after art class--the very same art class where unbeknownst to my sister, London had fashioned her Christmas gift--to take London roller skating. Liz and I tagged along with them, watching from the gallery as Marge helped London inch around the rink. London, like most kids, kept trying to walk in the skates rather than glide, and it took a good half an hour before London began to master the motion.
Had it not been for Marge holding both of London's hands--Marge was skating backward--my little girl would have wiped out at least twenty times.
However, by the end of the session they were able to skate side by side, albeit slowly, and London was visibly proud as she finally untied the laces with Liz's help and turned in her skates. I took a seat next to Marge while she bent over and removed her own skates.
"Your arms and back are going to be sore tomorrow," I predicted. To my eyes, she looked tired, but I couldn't tell whether it was because she was sick, or because catching London over and over before she fell was understandably exhausting.
"I'll be fine," she said. "London's not very heavy. But she is a chatty little thing. She talked and talked the whole time. She even grilled me on what my favorite color of fish was. I had no idea what to tell her."
I smiled. "New York will probably seem restful by comparison. You're leaving tomorrow?"
"Yeah--I can't wait," she said, perking up. "I've told Liz that our first stop is the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. I want to get in the spirit of the holidays."
"Text me some pictures," I said.
"I will," she promised. "By the way, I know what I want for Christmas," she said pointedly. "From you."
"Do tell."
"I'll tell you when I get back. But here's a little hint: I want to go somewhere with you."
"Like a trip, you mean?"
"No," she said. "Not a trip."
"Then where?"
"If I told you, you wouldn't be surprised."
"If you don't tell me, then how can I do it?"
"How about you let me figure that part out, okay?"
With her skates off and her shoes back on, I saw her cast a last, wistful look toward the rink. It was getting crowded now, filling with children, groups of raucous teenagers, and a few nostalgic adults. By Marge's expression, I knew she was thinking to herself that she was never going to have the chance to skate again.
Today, I realized, hadn't simply been about teaching London to roller skate, or making a memory that London might hold on to forever; Marge had begun the process of saying goodbye to the things she loved, too.
Marge and Liz were gone for six days. While they were away, I worked long hours, wanting to get as much done on the new ad campaigns as possible, but mostly trying to keep myself from dwelling on my sister. As promised, she'd texted me photos of the Rockefeller Christmas tree: one of her and Liz together, and another shot of her by herself.
I had the pictures Photoshopped, printed, and then framed, with the intention of giving one set to Marge and Liz as a Christmas gift, and keeping another set for myself.
Meanwhile, I was contacted by two more law firms, including a small firm in Atlanta that had stumbled across my recent work on YouTube. As I started to put together the requisite presentations, I found myself reviewing the past six months.
When I'd started my agency, it seemed as though all my worries were business-or money-related, and at the time, I'd found the stress overwhelming. Things, I'd thought, couldn't get much worse, yet I could distinctly remember Marge reassuring me that everything would turn out fine in the end.
She was right, of course.
On the other hand, she couldn't have been more wrong.
The holidays continued to approach.
"What are your plans for Christmas? With London?" Marge asked me. It was Sunday afternoon and she'd just woken from a nap, but still looked tired. We were on her couch, where she'd wrapped herself in a blanket, even though the house felt warm to me. She and Liz had returned from New York the day before, and I wanted to see her before London returned from Atlanta. "Have you and Vivian discussed that yet? Christmas is only two weeks away, you know."
As I stared at my sister, it seemed to me that she'd lost even more weight since I'd seen her at the skating rink. Her eyes had a sunken look about them, and her voice sounded slightly higher and thinner, somehow.
"Not yet," I said. "But again, it's falling on one of her weekends."
"Russ, I know I've said it before, but it's not fair for you not to have any holidays with London."
No, it wasn't. But there wasn't much I could do about it, so I attempted to change the subject.
"How was New York?"
"It was amazing," Marge sighed. "But the crowds... wow. There were lines down the block just to get into some of the stores. The shows were fantastic, and we had some truly unforgettable meals." She mentioned some of the musicals they'd seen and restaurants where they'd eaten.
"It was worth it, then?"
"For sure," she said. "I had the hotel arrange a couple of romantic evenings while we were there, too. Champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries, rose petals trailing to the bed. I'd also brought along some new lingerie to show off my newly svelte figure." She waggled her eyebrows. "I think I blew Liz's socks off."
"Why didn't you want her wearing socks?"
"Really? That's your thought process?"
"When my sister starts talking about her love life, I choose to retreat into naivete," I explained. "It's not like I share details about my love life."
"You don't have a love life with Emily yet. And if you ask me, it's about time you did something about that."
"We're in a good place right now," I insisted. "We talk every night on the phone, see each other for coffee. And we went out on Friday night."
"What did you do?"
"Dinner. And karaoke."
"You did karaoke?" That caught Marge by surprise.
"She did. Then again, it was her idea. She's pretty good, too."
Marge smiled as she burrowed deeper into the couch. "That sounds like fun," she said. "Not really sexy or romantic, but fun. Any bites on your house yet?"
"There have been a few nibbles here and there, but nothing official yet. My Realtor says that December is always slow. She wants to do an open house in January."
"Let me know when. Liz and I will come by as ringers, and talk up the place in front of potential buyers."
"You have better things to do than go to an open house."
"Probably," she conceded. "Then again, you always seem to end up needing my help in one way or another. I've had to take care of you my whole life." She glanced in the direction of the kitchen, where Liz was preparing lunch. "I'm supposed to have more chemo this week. Next Friday, I think. I'm not looking forward to that at all." She sighed, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face. She turned to me. "With that in mind, we should probably do our thing on Thursday."
"What thing?"
"Our trip, remember?" she said. "My Christmas present?"
"You do realize that I still have no idea what you're talking about."
"That's okay. I'll pick you up at seven. Liz can get London ready for bed, if that's all right with you."
"Of course," I said. She stifled a yawn and I knew it was time for me to go. "I guess I should take off. I've got a ton of work I want to get done before London gets home."
"Okay," she said. "I'm looking forward to Thursday night. Make sure you dress warmly."
"I will," I promised. I rose from the couch, hesitated, then leaned back over to kiss my sister on the cheek. Her eyes were closed. "See you later."
She nodded without answering, and by the sound of her breathing, I knew she had fallen asleep again, even before I'd reached the front door.
Vivian delivered London around 7:00 p.m. that evening. While the limousine idled out front and London was in the bath, we spoke briefly in the kitchen.
"About Christmas," she said, cutting to the chase. "I think it would be best if we spend it here. For London, I mean. It'll be her last Christmas in this house. I can just stay in the guest room, if that's all right with you." She reached for her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. "I've already bought some things, but it might be easier if you picked up some of this other stuff, so I don't have to haul everything back here. I made a list. Just save the receipts and we can split it all up at the end."
"Whateve
r's easiest," I agreed, thinking back to what Marge had said about the holidays, knowing she'd be pleased. "I saw Marge today," I said, leaning against the counter.
"How's she doing?"
"She's already beginning to sleep a lot."
Vivian nodded, lowering her gaze. "It's just awful," she said. "I know you think Marge and I didn't get along that well, but I always liked her. And I know she doesn't deserve this. I want you to know that. She's always been a great sister."
"She still is," I said, but even as the words came out, I wondered how much longer I'd be able to say them.
After school on Wednesday, Emily and I planned to take the kids out to a Christmas tree farm, where you could choose and have your own tree cut down. Much of the place was decorated like Santa's village, and kids could meet Santa before visiting his workshop, where hot chocolate and cookies were served. Even better, the farm would deliver and set up the tree in its stand, something I needed since I suspected that my Prius would otherwise be crushed beneath the weight of the tree.
When I mentioned the plan to Marge, she insisted that she and Liz meet us there.
It was nine days until Christmas.
In the gravel parking lot, Marge emerged from the car. When I hugged her, I could feel the sharp ridges of her ribcage, the cancer slowly eating away at her from within. She seemed to have more energy, however, than she had just after she returned from New York.
"And this, I take it, is Bodhi," Marge said, shaking his hand with touching formality. "You're so tall for your age," she remarked, before proceeding to ask about his favorite activities and what he wanted for Christmas. When the kids became visibly antsy, we let them run off toward the farm, where they were quickly lost between evergreen triangles.
Emily and I trailed after them, strolling with Marge and Liz.
"How is your holiday season shaping up, Em?" Marge asked. "Are you going anywhere?"
"No," she said. "We'll just do the family thing like we usually do. See my sister and my parents. Ever since London learned to ride a bike, Bodhi's been begging for one, so I guess I have to get him one--even if I'm not so confident about my ability to teach him to ride."