Two by Two(93)

"She'll still see Liz regularly," I assured her.

"But you're only going to have her on the occasional holiday and every  other weekend, right? Maybe a couple of weeks in the summer?"

I hesitated. "I honestly don't know what's going to happen with London,"  I said. Vivian had been more generous, and less volatile, since  learning about Marge. But then, she was the least predictable person I  knew, and I was leery of making specific promises I couldn't keep.         

     



 

She turned toward me. "You have to fight for her," Marge urged. "London should live with you."

"Vivian won't let that happen. And I doubt that the courts will, either."

"Then you have to figure something out. Because let me tell you  something-girls need their fathers. Look at me and Dad. He might not  have been the most expressive guy in the world, but I always knew at  some really deep level that he was there for me. And look at what he did  for me when I came out. We stopped going to church, for God's sake! He  chose me-over God, over our community, over everyone. And if you're not  around for London when she comes to her own crossroads in life, she's  going to feel abandoned by you. You have to be there for her-every day,  not just now and then." She fell silent for a moment, as if winded by  her efforts. "Anyway, she's used to you being the primary parent now,"  she added. "And you're great at it."

"I'm trying, Marge," I said.

She grabbed my arm, her voice fierce. "You have to do more than that.  You need to do whatever you can in order to remain in London's life. Not  as a weekend or vacation dad, but as the parent who's always there to  hold her when she cries, pick her up when she falls, help her with her  homework. To support her when she can't see a way forward. She needs  that from you."

I stared down at the empty streets below, washed by the halogen glow of streetlights.

"I know she does," I said quietly. "I just hope I don't fail."





On Sunday morning, the Christmas tree was delivered and London and I  spent the first part of the day decorating it, stringing lights among  the branches and conferring over the placement of every single ornament.  When I called Marge and Liz later that afternoon to see if they wanted  to come by for some eggnog, Liz answered the phone and said they  wouldn't be able to make it.

"It's been a pretty bad day," Liz said. Marge had undergone her second  round of chemo on Friday, the day after the trip to the water tower, and  I hadn't seen her since. According to Liz, the nausea and pain were  worse than the first time, and Marge had barely been able to leave her  bed.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No," she answered. "Your mom and dad have been here pretty much all  day. They're still here." She lowered her voice. "Your dad-I think it  really kills him to see Marge like this. He keeps finding new things to  repair. It's hard for your mom, too, of course, but she's been through  it so many times that at least she knows what to expect. He's trying so  hard to be strong for Marge, but it's destroying him inside. He just  loves her so much, his girl. They both do."

I found myself thinking about what Marge had said that night on the  water tower, about being the kind of dad who is there for everything,  always. Even, it seems, at the end.

"He's a great father, Liz," I said. "I hope I can be half the dad he is."





On Monday, London's last day of school before winter break, I finally  got around to the Christmas list that Vivian had left me. Work had kept  me busy most days, and in my binary focus on "clients" and "Marge,"  Vivian's list had slipped off my radar. Luckily, Emily still had some  last-minute shopping to do, so the two of us drove from store to store  late that morning. With Christmas only four days away, I was worried  that some items would be sold out, but I was able to find everything on  Vivian's list.

Halfway through our shopping, Emily and I took a break for lunch. There  was a café at the mall and though the food smelled good, I had little  appetite. On the scale that morning, I saw that I'd begun to lose weight  again. I wasn't alone; Liz was losing weight as well, and I noted that  she sometimes looked disheveled, as if she no longer cared about her  appearance. Her hair, often tied back in a careless ponytail, was losing  its luster. My mom and dad, too, were suffering. My dad seemed to have  acquired a defeated hunch in the past few weeks, and my mom's face was  more deeply lined with worry with every passing day.

But our suffering was nothing compared to Marge's. Walking was becoming  painful for her, and often, she struggled to stay awake for more than an  hour. When I visited, I sometimes sat with Marge in her darkened  bedroom, listening as she seemed to struggle to draw breath, even as she  slept. Occasionally she whimpered in her sleep, and I wondered if she  were dreaming. If only, I thought, she could dream the kind of dreams  that would make her smile.

Thoughts like these preoccupied me, even in Emily's company, no matter  what the surroundings. When my lunch arrived, I stared at it blankly,  picturing Marge's emaciated face. I took only a single bite before  pushing the plate aside.         

     



 

If Marge couldn't eat, I guess there was a part of me that felt like I didn't deserve to, either.





"You need to come by the house," Marge said without preamble, right  after I answered her call. I'd just dropped Emily off a few minutes  earlier.

"Why? Are you okay?"

"Do you really want me to answer that question?" she said, with a trace  of her old sardonic humor. "But yes, I'm feeling better than I was, and  I'd like you to come by."

"I have to pick up London from school in a little while. And drop off the gifts beforehand."

"Swing by here on the way and leave the gifts with us," she said. "London won't find them that way."

When I reached her house a few minutes later, I started unloading the  bags from the trunk. When I looked up, my mom appeared in the front  doorway. Even with her help, it took two trips to unload everything.

"I'm not sure where to put all this," I said, staring at the mountain of  bags on the kitchen floor. Did London really need all this? I wondered.

"I'll put it all in one of the closets," my mom said. "Go on in. Marge is waiting for you."

I found Marge on the couch, wrapped in a blanket as usual, with the  living room shades drawn. The lights from the Christmas tree cast a  cheerful glow, but in the days since I'd seen her last, she seemed to  have aged years. Her cheekbones stood out in sharp relief below the  sunken pits of her eyes, and her arms looked ropy and flaccid. I tried  to mask my dismay at her appearance as I took a seat beside her.

"I heard it was a rough few days," I said, clearing my throat.

"I've felt better, that's for sure. I'm on the mend now, but … " She  cracked a smile, a ghost of her irrepressible self. "I'm glad you came  by. I wanted to talk to you." Getting the words out seemed to be an  effort. "Emily called a little while ago."

"Emily?"

"Yeah," she said. "You remember her, right? Gorgeous hair, has a  five-year-old son, the woman you love? Anyway, she called me because  she's worried about you. She says you're not eating."

"She called you?" I said, feeling my irritation rise. Now Marge was going to worry about my health?

"I asked her to keep an eye on you and let me know how you're doing,"  Marge said in a bossy voice I remembered from childhood. "Which is why I  then asked you to come over." She scanned me with a critical eye. "You  better eat a decent dinner tonight, or I'm going to get seriously angry  with you."

"When did you discuss ‘keeping an eye' on me with Emily?" I demanded.

"When we went to Santa's village for the trees."

"You have better things to worry about than me, Marge," I said, conscious of how sulky I sounded.

"That's where you're wrong," she said. "That's something that I won't let you take away from me."





Tuesday, December twenty-second, was London's last day of school before  the winter break, and that was when I planned to wrap all the gifts.  Before I'd left her house the previous day, Marge asked if she could  help with the wrapping, since the gifts were over there anyhow.

When I arrived at the house with wrapping paper after dropping London  off at school, my first thought was that Marge looked better than she  had the day before. Simultaneously, I hated that I had begun to make  those kinds of evaluations every time I saw her, only to see my hopes  elevated or dashed depending on how she seemed to be doing.

Liz was home with her that day, and she exuded a forced good cheer as we  brought the gifts to the kitchen and began to wrap. At Marge's request,  she made us all cups of hot chocolate, thick and foamy, although I  noticed that my sister drank little of hers.