Two by Two(95)

"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.