In the end, I was happy with the letter, and grateful that Marge had made the suggestion. I sealed it in an envelope and was about to put the pad and pen back in the drawer when I suddenly realized that I wasn't yet done.
Working until long past midnight, I wrote Marge a letter as well.
Vivian got in a little past noon the following day, not long after I'd returned from dropping off the gifts at Emily's. With the tree already trimmed, London and I had spent the morning decorating the mantel and hanging the stockings. It was a little late in the season, but London didn't mind at all. She was proud to be old enough to help.
I let Vivian visit with London for a while before signaling my desire to speak with her. Retreating to the kitchen while London watched TV in the living room, I asked her what she wanted to do for Christmas Eve. At my question, she stared at me as though it were obvious.
"Well, aren't we going to your parents' place, like we always do? I know that it might feel a little strange considering what's going on, but it's Marge's last Christmas and I want London to spend time with her and the family, like she always has. That's why I came home in the first place."
Even though we weren't in love anymore, I thought to myself, there were still moments when I was reminded of some of the reasons I'd married Vivian in the first place.
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day unfolded much like they always had.
The atmosphere was a bit stilted on Christmas Eve at first, for obvious reasons. Everyone was polite to each other and there were kisses and hugs all around when Vivian, London, and I showed up at my parents'. But by the time I finished my first glass of wine, it was clear that everyone's sole aim that evening was to make the gathering enjoyable for London's sake--and Marge's.
Vivian appreciated the gifts I'd gotten her; for me, she'd bought some running gear and a Fitbit. Marge and Liz oohed and aahed over the vase that London made for them, especially marveling at the colors of the fish that London had painted. Tears shone in their eyes when they opened the framed photos that had been taken in New York, and my sister took the envelope containing the letter I'd written with a tender smile. London received a bunch of Barbie stuff from pretty much everyone, and after the gifts were opened, we put on the movie It's a Wonderful Life while London played with her new toys.
The only truly notable event of the evening took place after we'd finished opening the gifts. From the corners of my eyes, I watched as Marge and Vivian slipped from the living room, sequestering themselves in the den. The low hum of their voices was barely audible behind the partially closed door.
It was odd to see the two of them speaking so intimately, let alone in private, but I knew exactly what was happening.
Vivian, like all of us, had wanted the chance to say goodbye.
On Christmas Day, once London had opened the rest of her gifts, I left the house so Vivian could have some time alone with London. To that point, we'd been together almost continuously during the previous forty-eight hours, and if I needed a break from her, I was certain that Vivian felt the same way. Cordiality, let alone forced gaiety, in the midst of a divorce and custody dispute, wasn't easy for anyone to maintain.
I texted Emily, asking if I could drop by and received a quick response, urging me to do so. She had a gift for me, she said, and she wanted me to see it.
Even before I got out of my car, she was skipping off the porch toward me. Up close, she threw her arms around me, and we held each other in the pale sunlight of a cool December day.
"Thank you for the letter," she whispered, "it was absolutely beautiful."
I followed Emily inside, picking my way through a maelstrom of new toys and torn wrapping paper, at the center of which stood Bodhi's shiny new bicycle. She led the way toward the Christmas tree, and reaching behind it, pulled out a flat, rectangular package.
"I thought about giving this to you before Christmas, but with Vivian staying at the house, I thought it would be best to give it to you here."
I tugged at the wrapping paper and it came off easily. As soon as I saw what Emily had done, all I could do was stare, the memory coming back to me in a rush. Overwhelmed, I couldn't speak.
"I had it framed, but you can change it to something else," Emily said in a shy voice. "I wasn't sure where you might want to hang it."
"This is incredible," I finally said unable to tear my eyes from the image. Emily had painted the photo of London and me dancing outside the aquarium, but it seemed even more real, more alive than the photo somehow. It was by far the most meaningful gift I'd ever received, and I wrapped my arms around Emily, suddenly understanding why Marge had been so insistent that I write Emily a letter.
She'd known that Emily was giving me a gift from the heart, and Marge wanted to make sure I matched it with one of my own. Once again, Marge had been looking out for me.
The year rolled toward its inevitable conclusion. Vivian went back to Atlanta. I'd closed the office for the week, and spent most of my time with London. I visited with Marge and Liz every day--Marge continued to rebound, rallying our hopes--and saw Emily three times, though twice in the company of the kids. The lone exception was New Year's Eve, when I took her out for a night of dinner and dancing.
At the stroke of midnight, I almost kissed her. She almost kissed me too, and we both laughed about it.
"Soon," I said.
"Yes, soon," she answered.
And yet, as romantic as that moment was, I felt reality beginning to take hold.
In 2015, I thought I'd lost everything.
In 2016, I suspected I'd lose even more.
CHAPTER 25
For Auld Lang Syne
Marge's romantic plans for Liz in New York weren't without precedent. Around the five-year mark of their relationship, Marge had surprised Liz with an elaborate scavenger hunt on Valentine's Day.
When Marge initially revealed her plans to me, I'll admit I was shocked because it seemed so unlike the sister I knew. After all, she was an accountant, and while generalizations might be unfair, she always struck me as more of a smart-alecky pragmatist than a mushy paramour.
While Marge rarely showcased her romantic side, she could clearly hit it out of the ballpark when she chose to do so. Indeed, the scavenger hunt proved to be the work of a master planner. New York was child's play by comparison.
The centerpiece of the Valentine's Day scavenger hunt--which involved locations all over Charlotte--was a series of ten riddles. The riddles were set to verse and led to specific reveals. A sample:
Today, dear Liz, we'll have some fun,
To remind you that you're my only one,
So visit the spot where it's all about you,
On early mornings and late at night, too,
Then look to your left, my darling dear,
And your very first clue will there appear.
Marge had taped the first clue--a small key--next to the bathroom mirror, which led Liz to a post office box that she had to open with the key. Inside the box was another riddle... and so it went. Some of the clues were tougher than others; one required Liz to finish a glass of champagne to find the next clue, which was glued to the bottom of the champagne flute. At the time, I was stunned by the breadth and inventiveness of Marge's scheme.
Looking back, I'm no longer surprised by Marge's elaborate Valentine's Day plans, or her meticulous footwork. I no longer think of it as out of character. Because drawing up blueprints for other people's happiness was what she did best.
My sister, the accountant, always had a plan--especially for those she loved.
My memories of early 2016 are distilled into a series of vivid moments, set against the muted backdrop of my day-by-day existence.
The backdrop consisted of work, where I wrote, filmed, edited, and designed ad campaigns; London's care, before and after school; my daily run; and Emily, whose nightly phone conversations and occasional dates nourished and sustained me. Those routines made up the regular fabric of my days, and also served as temporary
distractions from the peaks and abysses that marked that period of my life. With the passage of time, I'm sure I've forgotten more than I remember. Some things I willed myself to forget.
But other memories will remain with me forever.
About a week into the new year, Marge went in for further tests. While I didn't accompany her to the hospital, my parents and I joined Liz and Marge when it came time to hear the results.
We met the doctor in his office, across the street from the hospital. He faced us across a heavy wooden desk, a handful of family photos arranged next to a large stack of files. On the walls were shelves filled with books, and the usual assortment of framed diplomas, plaques, and citations. The only incongruous element was a large framed poster from the film Patch Adams. I only vaguely remembered the film--it starred Robin Williams as a caring, kind, and funny doctor--and I found myself wondering if Dr. Patel aspired to be a doctor with similar attributes.
Had there ever been anything humorous said in this room? Did any patients ever laugh when talking to their oncologist? Could any joke minimize the horror of what was happening?
To us, Marge appeared to be improving slightly--she'd had more energy since the holidays, and her pain didn't seem quite as acute. Even her breathing seemed less labored. All of that should have pointed to good news. I could see the hopefulness in my parents' expressions; I noted the confident way Liz was holding Marge's hand. We'd shared our secret hopes amongst ourselves during the previous week, trying to draw strength from each other.
Marge, however, didn't look hopeful. There was an air of resignation about her from the moment she took her seat, and I knew right then, with certainty, that Marge would be the only one who wouldn't shed a tear that afternoon. While the rest of us had remained stuck in various stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression--Marge alone had already moved on to acceptance.
Marge knew--even before the doctor said a single word--that the cancer hadn't slowed its progression. In truth, she'd known all along that it had spread even farther.
"Please don't ask me how I'm doing," Marge said. "Mom and Dad just left, and Mom kept asking me that over and over. And Dad keeps asking what else needs to be fixed. I wanted to say me, but didn't think they could handle the joke." We were sitting on Marge's sofa, as had become our custom, staring at the empty space where the Christmas tree had once stood. My dad had removed it a few days earlier, but the furniture hadn't been rearranged yet, leaving a barren space in the corner of the room.
"It's a hard day for them," I said. "They're doing their best."
"I know," Marge said. "And I love that Dad keeps coming around. We've talked more than we have in years, and not just about baseball." She let out a breath before suddenly wincing. A wave of pain--somewhere, everywhere--made her entire body tighten before it finally passed.
"Can I get you something?" I asked, feeling more helpless than ever.
"I just took a pill," she said. "I don't mind the painkillers, other than that they make me sleepy. They don't work as well as I want them to, of course. They blunt the pain a bit, but that's about it. Anyway..." She looked toward the kitchen, where Liz was at the table, coloring with London. Lowering her voice, she said, "I told Liz I'm not doing another round of chemo." Her expression was grim, but resolute. "She was pretty upset about it."
"She's just scared," I said. "But do you really think that's the right decision?"
"You heard the doctor," she countered. "It's not working. And on the downside, it makes me feel even worse. All I do is vomit and sleep, and my hair is starting to fall out. I'm losing whole days after the treatment, and I don't have that many days left."
"Don't say that," I pleaded.
"I'm sorry. I know you don't want to hear it. Nobody does." Marge squeezed her eyes shut, wincing again at another wave of pain that, to me, took far too long to pass. "I'm guessing London doesn't know I'm sick, am I right?"
I shook my head. "She doesn't even know that Vivian and I are getting divorced yet."
Marge opened one eye to peer at me. "It's probably time that you tell her, don't you think?"
I didn't answer, because I didn't even know where to start. There was too much to lay on a six-year-old: divorce and Marge dying and moving--maybe even as far away as Atlanta--leaving her father and her friends behind.
I didn't want London to deal with any of it. I didn't even want to deal with it. As I felt the tears building behind my eyes, Marge reached over and placed her hand on mine. "It's okay," she soothed.
"No, it's not okay. None of this is okay." I could hear my voice begin to crack. "What am I going to do about London? What am I going to do about you?"
She squeezed my hand. "I'll talk to London about me, okay? So don't worry about that. It's something I've been wanting to do. As for everything else, I've already told you what I think."
"What if I can't? What if I let you down?"
"You won't," she said.
"You can't know that."
"Yes, I can. I believe in you."
"Why?"
"Because," she said, "I know you better than anyone. Just like you know me."
The following Friday, in mid-January, Vivian flew into town to pick up London for the weekend. When I broached the idea that it was probably time to tell London about our impending divorce, she suggested that we do it when they got back. After all, she said, she didn't want to ruin London's weekend.
The next morning, my Realtor staged our first open house, and as promised, Marge and Liz were there, loudly talking up the house to each other in front of potential buyers. Afterward, my Realtor called to tell me that she'd detected some genuine interest in the property from one couple in particular, who were relocating with their children from Louisville.
"By the way, your sister missed her calling as an actress," the Realtor remarked.
On Sunday evening, shortly after their return from Atlanta, Vivian and I sat our daughter down at the kitchen table and gently broke the news.
We kept the discussion at a level appropriate for a six-year-old, emphasizing that both of us still loved her and that we would always be her parents. We told her that she had nothing to do with the fact that we could no longer stay married.
As she'd done the first time, Vivian led the discussion. Her demeanor was loving and I felt that she struck the right tone, but London burst into tears nonetheless. Vivian held her and kissed her as she cried.
"I don't want you to get divorced," London pleaded.
"I know it's hard, sweetheart, and we're so sorry."
"Why can't you just be happy with each other?" London said, still sobbing. Her naive incomprehension triggered such a profound wave of guilt that I despised myself.
"Sometimes it just doesn't work," I tried to explain. The words sounded meaningless, even to me.
"Is that why the house is for sale?"
"I'm afraid so, baby girl."
"Where am I going to live?"
At her question, my eyes flashed toward Vivian, silently warning her not to say Atlanta. Her expression was defiant, but she held her tongue.
I put a hand on London's back. "We're still working on that. And I promise that no matter what happens, your mom and I will both be around to take care of you."
Eventually, London calmed down, though she was clearly still confused and shaken. Vivian went upstairs with her and started getting her ready for bed. When she came back down, I intercepted her at the door.
"How is she?" I asked.
"She's upset," Vivian answered, "but according to my counselor, that's normal. In the long run, she'll be fine as long as you don't make the divorce more acrimonious than it has to be. That's when kids suffer the most in these situations, and you don't want to do that to her."
I bit back a retort--I wasn't the one making this acrimonious, after all--knowing it was pointless.
Vivian gathered her things--the limo and the jet were waiting, after all--but she paused in the doorway. "I know it's a bad time, with Marge
and everything," she said, "but we need to get our agreement squared away sooner rather than later. You just need to sign it, so we can be done with all this." And then she was gone.
Swallowing my rage, I started up the steps so I could finish tucking London in.
In bed, her eyes were red and swollen, and she barely looked at me.
Later that night, for the first time in years, she wet the bed.
In the days following our discussion with London, she was noticeably subdued and spent even more time in her bedroom than usual. The bed-wetting continued; not every night, but two more times, and she no longer wanted to read Two by Two before going to sleep. While she let me kiss her goodnight, she no longer reached up to put her arms around my neck for a hug.
On Marge's recommendation, I spoke to her teacher at school about what was going on between Vivian and me. The teacher assured me she hadn't noticed anything amiss, other than a recent incident at the drinking fountain. London had somehow spilled water on her blouse one morning, and immediately burst into tears. She was inconsolable, and resisted both the teacher's and her classmates' attempts to comfort her.
My daughter, in other words, was struggling. After her piano lesson on Thursday, I spontaneously suggested we go out for ice cream, but her reaction was tepid. I finally persuaded her to go, but she barely touched her ice cream on the drive home, oblivious to the mess the melting cone made in the car. Later that evening, as she was playing with her Barbies, I overheard her talking to herself as she leaned young Barbie toward Ken.
"I don't want to live with Mommy in Atlanta," Barbie said to Ken. "I want to live here with Daddy. Daddy is fun and we go on date nights and he lets me cook, too. And I want to play with Bodhi every day and see Nana and Papa and Auntie Marge and Auntie Liz."
That night, I couldn't sleep, replaying the scene that London had enacted over and over in my head. Marge was right, I thought. Emboldened, I called Taglieri the following morning, making it clear to him that I was willing to do whatever it took to ensure that London lived with me.