Two by Two(87)

Marge, she told me, had been admitted to the hospital.

She'd been coughing up blood for an hour.





CHAPTER 23





No


When Marge was eleven, she and my mom were involved in a car accident.

Back then, my mom was still driving one of those huge, wood-paneled  station wagons. Because they were from a different generation, my  parents weren't accustomed to wearing seatbelts, and as a family we  rarely did.

Marge liked seatbelts even less than I did. Whereas I simply forgot to  put mine on when I hopped in the car-I was still young, remember-Marge  deliberately chose not to wear them, because it allowed her more freedom  to punch or pinch me whenever the mood struck. Which, I might add, was  way too often.

I wasn't in the car that day, and though I'm not sure how accurate my  recollections are, it seems the accident was no fault of my mom's. She  wasn't speeding, the road wasn't busy, and she was passing through an  intersection while the light was green. Meanwhile, a teenager-probably  fiddling with the radio or scarfing down McDonald's French fries-blew  through the red light and broadsided the rear of the station wagon.

While my mom was a little banged up, it was Marge whom everyone was most  worried about. The momentum from the crash had thrown her into the side  windows, shattering the glass. While she wasn't unconscious when she  arrived at the hospital, she was bleeding and bruised, and had sustained  a broken collarbone.

When I entered Marge's hospital room with my dad, the sight of my sister  scared me. At six years old, I didn't know much about death, or even  hospitals. My dad stood over her bed, his expression flat, but I could  tell by his posture that he was frightened, which scared me even more.  Looking down at my stricken face, he frowned.

"Come see your sister, Russ."

"I don't want to," I can remember saying.

"I don't care what you want," he said. "I told you to come here, and you're going to do what I tell you."

His tone brooked no argument and I inched toward the bed. Marge's face  was grossly swollen, with deep bruises and multiple stitches, like she'd  been sewn back together. She didn't look like my sister; she didn't  look like anyone. She looked like a monster in a scary movie and the  sight of her caused me to burst into tears.

To this day, I wish I hadn't cried. My dad thought I was crying for  Marge and I felt him lay a comforting hand on my shoulder, which made me  cry even harder.

But I wasn't crying for Marge. I was crying for myself, because I was  afraid, and over time, I came to despise myself for my reaction.

Some people have courage.

On that day, I learned that I wasn't one of them.





The doctors didn't know what was wrong with Marge. Nurses took samples  of blood and X-rayed her chest. That was followed by a CAT scan. Three  different doctors came to examine her. I watched as a needle was  inserted into Marge's lungs to remove tissue for further examination.

Throughout it all, Marge was the only one who didn't seem worried. Part  of that had to do with the fact that since she'd arrived at the  hospital, her coughing had abated. She joked with the doctors and nurses  while Liz and my parents looked on with grim concern, and I thought  again about how effective my sister was at hiding her fears, even from  those who loved her. Meanwhile, in another part of the hospital, tests  were being run. I heard the doctor whispering words like pathology and  radiology. Biopsy. Oncology.

Liz was clearly worried, but not yet panicked. My parents sat like  stones, barely holding it together. And I was upset, because Marge  didn't look good. Her skin had a grayish pallor, which accentuated her  weight loss, and I found myself replaying all that I'd seen and the  things she'd said over the last few months. The racking cough that never  seemed to go away, the soreness in her legs. How exhausted she'd been  after her vacation.

My parents and I, Liz and the doctors, were all thinking about the same thing.

The cancer.

But it couldn't be cancer. Marge couldn't be that sick. She was my  sister and she was only forty years old. A little more than a week ago,  she'd gone to a specialist because she wanted to have a baby. She was  looking forward to being pregnant. She had her entire life ahead of her.         

     



 

Marge couldn't be sick. She didn't have the cancer.

No.

No, no, no, no, no …





I was thankful that Vivian had taken London to Atlanta, because I don't  know what I would have done with her all day. I spent hours drifting in  and out of Marge's hospital room. When I couldn't take it anymore, I  would pace the parking lot or have coffee in the cafeteria. I called  Emily and shared what was going on; I asked her not to come by, but she  came anyway.

Marge and Emily had a short but sweet reunion  a little before noon,  and in the hallway afterward, Emily held me as I shook with fear. She  told me that she wanted to see me later, if I was up to it, and I  promised that I'd call.

Finally, I called Vivian. When I told her what was going on, she gave a  strangled gasp and immediately offered to fly back with London right  away. I explained that London was probably better off with her, at least  through the weekend. Vivian understood.

"Oh, Russ," she said quietly, sounding nothing like her usual brisk self. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry yet," I said, "we don't know anything for sure."

I was lying to myself, and both Vivian and I knew it. She was well aware  of the history on my mother's side of the family. As I spoke again, I  could hear my voice cracking.

"Do me a favor and don't say anything to London yet, okay?"

"Of course not. Is there anything I can do? What do you need?"

"Nothing for now," I said. "Thanks." Words were becoming hard to form, my thoughts beginning to scatter. "I'll let you know."

"Keep me informed, okay?"

"I will," I promised, and I knew that I would. After all, we were still married.





In the afternoon, while my parents and Liz were visiting the cafeteria, I  stayed with Marge. She asked about my work, and at her insistence, I  described the ad campaigns I was crafting for my clients. I think she  remembered that day in the hospital so long ago, after the auto  accident, and could tell how frightened I was. She knew I could speak  about work on autopilot, so she kept asking questions, to distract me.

As had become her habit, she asked about Emily and I finally admitted  that I'd fallen in love, but wasn't ready to tell our parents yet. At  that, she cracked a grin.

"Too late. Mom and Dad already know."

"How? I haven't said anything to them."

"You didn't have to," she said. "When you called Emily on Thanksgiving,  the way you felt about her was plain as day. Mom raised her eyebrows  while Dad turned to me and said, ‘Already? He's not even divorced yet.'"

Despite everything, I laughed. That was my dad, all right. "I didn't realize it was so obvious."

"Uh-huh," she said, nodding. "I just wish you hadn't waited until today  to bring her by. I look like hell. You should have had us meet right  after Costa Rica, when I was still tan."

I nodded, struck by how normal Marge sounded.

"My bad."

"I'd like to meet Bodhi, too. Since I've heard so much about him."

"I'm sure you'll have a chance."

She twisted the hospital sheet, winding it tight and letting it unfurl.  "I've been thinking about baby names," she said. "I bought one of those  books, you know? At work, whenever I'm bored, I look through it. I even  started highlighting some of them."

Baby names? Was she really talking about baby names? I could feel  pressure behind my eyes and I struggled to get the words out without my  voice cracking. "Any favorites?"

"If it's a boy, I like Josiah. Elliot. Carter. If it's a girl, I like  Meredith and Alexis. Of course, Liz is going to have her own ideas, but I  haven't spoken to her about it yet. It's still pretty early in the  process, so we have plenty of time to make a decision."

Plenty of time.

Marge must have heard herself because she looked first toward the clock,  then the door of the room, which was propped open. Nurses hurried past,  going about their duties as if today were no different than any other  day. "I wonder when they're going to finally let me out of here," she  said. "What's taking them so long? I've been here for hours already.  Don't they know I have things to do?"

When I had no answer to that, Marge sighed. "You know I'm going to be  okay, right? I mean, I'm not ignoring what happened this morning, but I  don't feel all that bad. I feel a lot better than I did before I left  for Costa Rica, in fact. I probably just picked up some parasite while I  was down there. Lord only knows what the sanitary standards are like in  those kitchens."         

     



 

"We'll see what the doctors say," I murmured.

"If you see them, tell them to hurry up. I'd rather not waste my whole weekend here."