Two by Two(89)

     



 

Before going outside, Liz helped Marge stand so she could slip on the  jacket. She winced and wobbled, but kept her balance. Liz and my parents  set out for the parking lot together, then veered in opposite  directions to find their cars.

"I hate hospitals," Marge said to me. "The only time I've ever been in a good mood in a hospital was when London was born."

"I'm with you," I said. "That's it in my book, as well."

She pulled at her jacket, pinching it closed around her neck. "So roll me outside, would you? Let's get out of here."

I did as she asked, feeling a brisk wind nip at my cheeks as soon as we  exited the building. The few trees in the parking lot were barren of  leaves and the sky was an iron gray.

When Marge spoke again, her voice was so soft I almost missed it. "I'm afraid, Russ," she whispered.

"I know," I said. "I am, too."

"It's not fair. I never smoked, I hardly ever drank, I ate right. I exercised." For a moment, she looked like a child again.

I squatted down so I could be at eye level. "You're right. It's not fair."

She met my gaze, then, and barked out a resigned laugh. "This is all  Mom's fault, you know," she said. "Her and the family genes. Not that  I'd ever say that to her. And not that really I blame her. Because I  don't."

I'd had the identical thought, but hadn't spoken the words aloud. I knew  that my mom was tormented by the same idea, and it was one of the  reasons she'd barely spoken while at the hospital. I reached over and  took Marge's hand.

"I feel like crap," Marge said. "I've already decided that I hate  chemotherapy. I've thrown up four times this morning and now, I don't  feel like I have enough strength to get to the bathroom on my own."

"I'll help you," I said. "I promise."

"No," she said, "you won't."

"What are you talking about? Of course I will."

I'd never seen Marge look so sad-Marge, who shrugged off even the  biggest losses with pragmatic insouciance. "I know that's what you think  you should do. And I know that you'll want to." She gripped my hand.  "But I have Liz. And you have London, and your business, and Emily."

"I could care less about work right now. Emily will understand. And London is in school most of the time."

Marge didn't answer right away. When she spoke, it was as if she were  returning to a conversation I didn't know we were having. "Do you know  what I admire about you? Among other things?" she said.

"I have no idea."

"I admire your strength. And your courage."

"I'm not strong," I protested. "And I'm not brave."

"But you are," she said. "When I look back at the past year, and all  you've gone through, I'm not sure how you made it. I watched you become  the father I always knew you could be. I saw you at your very lowest  after Vivian left. And I watched you pull yourself back up. All while  launching a business and the struggles that entailed. Not many people  could have handled the past six months the way you did. I know for a  fact that I couldn't have."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, uncomprehending.

"Because I'm not going to let you stop doing what you need to do, just because of me. That would break my heart."

"I'm going to be here for you," I said. "You can't talk me out of it."

"I'm not asking you to abandon me. I'm asking that you continue to live  your life. I'm asking you to be strong and brave again. Because London's  not the only one who's going to need you. Liz is going to need you. Mom  and Dad, too. One of you has to be the rock. And while you might not  believe it, I know in my heart that you've always been the strongest of  us all."





CHAPTER 24





December


When I think back on Marge as a teenager, two things come to mind:  roller skating, and horror films. In the late eighties and early  nineties, roller skating was giving way to Rollerblading; but Marge  stayed true to the old-fashioned skates that she had owned as a child-I  think she had a soft spot for the disco roller rinks of her early  childhood. Weekends during her teenage years were spent almost entirely  on skates, usually with her Walkman and headphones on …  even, remarkably,  after she got her driver's license. There were few things she loved  more than roller skating-unless it was a good horror film.         

     



 

Although Marge loved romantic comedies like I did, her favorite genre  was horror, and she never missed seeing the latest horror movie in its  first week of release. It didn't matter to her if the film had been  panned by critics and the public alike; she would happily watch it alone  if she couldn't find a fellow enthusiast, as devoted to the genre as a  groupie to her favorite band. From Nightmare on Elm Street to Candyman  to Amityville 4: The Evil Escapes, Marge was a true aficionado of  horror, highbrow and low.

When I asked her why she loved horror movies so much, she merely shrugged and said that sometimes she liked to be scared.

I didn't get it, any more than I did the allure of rolling around with  wheels on your feet. Why would someone want to be scared? Weren't there  more than enough scary things in real life to keep us awake at night?

Now, though, I think I understand.

Marge liked those films precisely because they weren't real. Any fright  she felt in the course of the film was quantifiable; it would begin, and  then it would end, and she would leave the theater, emotionally spent  yet relieved that all was well in the world.

At the same time, she'd been able to confront-albeit temporarily-one of  the hardwired emotions of life, the root of our universal instinct  toward fight or flight. By willing herself to stay put despite her fear,  I think Marge felt that she would emerge stronger and better equipped  to face down whatever actual terrors life had in store for her.

In retrospect, I think that Marge might have been onto something.





Vivian had returned with London on Sunday evening. Before she left, she  hugged me, a longer hug than I'd expected. In it, I could sense her  concern, but strangely, her body no longer felt familiar to me.

London had enjoyed her visit, but this time she mentioned that she had  missed both her fish and Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles. As soon as she got  home, we went up to her room, where she told me that she'd had  Thanksgiving dinner in a mansion. I guessed that Vivian had introduced  our daughter to Spannerman in reaction to seeing London hug Emily at the  art studio. To Vivian's mind, no doubt, I'd violated the taboo first,  which gave her the right to do so as well.

I suppose I should have cared more, but in that moment, I didn't. I was  worn out, and I'd known that London would meet Spannerman sooner or  later anyway. What did it matter if it was this weekend, or the next  time she was in Atlanta?

What did anything matter anymore?

While London was occupied with the fish, I decided to clean the hamster  cage, since I'd let it slide while London was gone. By then, I was  accustomed to it, and it took no time at all. I ran the mess to the  outdoor garbage can, washed up, then went back upstairs, where London  was holding Mr. Sprinkles.

"Are you hungry, sweetie?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Mommy and me ate on the plane."

"Just making sure," I said. I took a seat on the bed, watching her, but  mainly thinking about Marge. My sister wanted me to keep living my life,  to act as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed and I  felt hollowed out, as empty as a junked oil drum. I wasn't sure I was  capable of doing as Marge asked, and wasn't sure I even wanted to.

"Guess what?" London said, looking up.

"What, sweetheart?"

"For Christmas, I'm going to make Auntie Marge and Auntie Liz a vase,  like I did for Mommy. But this time, I want to paint fishes on it."

"I'm sure they'll love that."

For a moment, London seemed to study me, her gaze unaccountably serious. "Are you okay, Daddy?"

"Yeah," I answered. "I'm okay."

"You seem sad."

I am, I thought. It's all I can do not to fall to pieces.

"I just missed you," I said.

She smiled and came toward me, still holding the hamster.

"Would you like to hold Mr. Sprinkles?"

"Sure," I said, as she gently placed him in my hand. The hamster was  soft and light, but I could feel his tiny claws scramble for purchase as  he shifted into place. His whiskers twitched and he began to sniff my  hand.

"Guess what?" London asked again. I summoned an inquisitive look. "I can read now."

"Yeah?"

"I read Two by Two all by myself. I read it to Mommy."

I wondered if it wasn't so much reading, as reciting from memory-after  all, we had read it a hundred times together. But again, what did it  matter?

"Maybe you could show me later?"

"Okay," she agreed. She put her arms around me and squeezed. "I love you, Daddy."

I caught the scent of the baby shampoo she still used and felt another ache in my heart.