Two by Two(97)

Then, getting into my car, I started to drive.

Three and a half hours later, I was in Wrightsville Beach, where I parked my car.

The sky was overcast and the wind was bitter. I walked the beach longer  than it took me to make the drive, and as I walked, my mind circled from  London to Marge to Vivian before starting anew. With it came  uncertainty and fear and relentless waves of emotion. I alternated  between rage and confusion, heartbreak and terror, and by the time I  returned to the car, my cheeks were wind-burned and my soul was numb. I  hadn't eaten all day, yet I wasn't hungry in the slightest.

I made the drive back to Charlotte and picked up London long after the  sky had turned black. It was past London's bedtime, but thankfully,  Emily had fed her. I couldn't summon the energy to speak to Emily about  what had happened just yet; there was so much I still didn't know how to  put into words.





It was Marge to whom I eventually turned, mainly because she left me no other choice.

It was the last Friday in January, and I had agreed to stay with Marge  while my mom ran to the pharmacy to refill one of Marge's prescriptions.  By this time, the cancer had progressed to the point where no one was  comfortable leaving Marge alone, even for a little while. The living  room was illuminated by a single table lamp, and the shades had been  drawn at Marge's request. She said bright light made her eyes ache, but I  knew the truth: She didn't want us to see her clearly, for even a  single glance was enough to reveal how sick she really was. So much of  Marge's hair had fallen out that she'd taken to wearing an Atlanta  Braves baseball cap whenever she was awake. Even though she was wrapped  in a blanket, her continued weight loss was evident in her bony hands  and painfully skinny neck, in which her Adam's apple protruded,  knoblike. Her breathing sounded wet and thick, and she had long bouts of  coughing and gagging that sent my mom and Liz into a panic. They would  pound her back in an effort to dislodge mucus and phlegm, which often  came out bloody. She slept more than sixteen hours a day, and her  appearance at the open house two weeks earlier was the last time she'd  left the house.         

     



 

She could no longer walk more than a few steps on her own. The cancer in  her brain had affected the right side of her body, as if she'd had a  stroke. Her right arm and leg were weak, and her eye had begun to droop.  She could only offer half smiles.

And yet, as I sat beside her, I found her as beautiful as ever.

"Emily came by yesterday," she said, the words emerging slowly, and with  effort. "I like her so much, Russ. And she truly cares about you. You  need to call her," she said with a pointed look. "You have to talk to  her, let her know what's going on with you. She's worried about you."

"Why did she come by?"

"Because I asked to see her. I wanted to spend some time with the woman  my brother loves. The new-and-improved model, I mean." She forced a weak  smile. "That's what I called her. I think she was pleased."

I smiled. Despite her decline, Marge was still Marge.

She gathered her strength for a moment, and went on. "I think it's time that I talk to London, too."

"When?'

"Can you bring her by this weekend?"

"She won't be here. She'll be in Atlanta with Vivian."

"Then how about after school today?"

My sister, in her own way, was telling me that time was running out.

I was suddenly unable to swallow. "All right," I whispered.

"I want to see Vivian, too. Can you set that up?"

My stomach tightened at the name and I looked away. Still furious and  mortified, I could barely tolerate the thought of Vivian, let alone the  idea of asking her to visit my dying sister. Marge saw my expression but  pressed on.

"I need you to do this for me," she said. "Please."

"I'll text her," I said, "but I don't know whether she'll come. She's usually on a tight schedule."

"See what she says," Marge pressed. She blinked, and I noticed that even  her lids were slowing down. "Tell her it's important to me."

I reached for my phone and texted Vivian; she responded almost  instantly. Of course, the text said. Tell Marge I'll be there around  five.

I let Marge know and watched as she closed her eyes. I thought she was about to fall asleep before she opened them again.

"Have you accepted the offer on your house yet?"

I shook my head. "We're still going back and forth on the price a bit."

"That's taking a long time."

"The potential buyers have been traveling. According to my Realtor, we're close, though. She's thinking we'll sign next week."

"That's good, right? So you'll be able to pay off Vivian?"

Again, the sound of her name made me recoil. "I guess."

Marge stared at me. "Do you want to tell me what happened? Emily said  that you were gone all day Wednesday but wouldn't talk to her about it."

Rising from the couch, I peeked out the window, to make sure my mom  wasn't pulling into the drive. I didn't want her to hear what was going  on; the last thing she needed was even more stress in her life. Taking a  seat again, I brought my hands together and told her about the meeting  with Taglieri and the letter that Vivian's attorney had sent.

"Well," Marge said when I finished. "This isn't completely unexpected.  She's been very clear all along that she intends to bring London to  Atlanta."

"But …  the threat. She's playing so … dirty."

"What does your attorney say?"

"That he doesn't like my chances. And that he still thinks Vivian and I should work something out between us."

Marge was silent for a moment, but her gaze was almost feverish in its  intensity. "First, you have to know what you really want."

I frowned. "Why do you keep saying that? We've talked about this already. I've told you what I want."

"Then do what you have to do."

"You mean go to court? Play dirty, like she is?"

She shook her head. "I don't think that would be good for London. And London is your priority."

"Then what are you suggesting?"

"I think you know," she said, closing her eyes again.

And as I studied her weary face, it finally dawned on me that I actually did.





On the way back from Marge's, I called Emily, asking if we could meet  for lunch. She agreed, and we arranged to meet at a bistro not far from  her home.

"First, I want to apologize for not telling you what was going on," I  said as soon as we sat down. "To be honest, I didn't even know how to  begin."         

     



 

"It's okay, Russ," she said. "Sometimes we all need to process things on  our own first. Don't ever feel pressured by me-I'm here whenever you  feel ready to talk. Or even if you don't."

"No, I'm ready now," I said, touching her hand. Taking a deep breath, I  told her everything-about London's distress, my instructions to  Taglieri, and Vivian's response. As I spoke, she brought her hands to  her mouth.

"I can't imagine how you must have been feeling," she said when I  finished. "I would have been …  shell-shocked. And completely, utterly  furious."

"I was. I still am," I admitted. "For the first time, I feel like I actually hate her."

"With good reason," she said. "Maybe it's not such a bad idea to let the  psychologist talk to London. You'll probably be able to put these crazy  allegations to rest right off the bat."

"There's still the issue of the bicycle accident."

"Kids have accidents, Russ. That's why the law requires them to wear bicycle helmets. Judges know that."

"I don't want this custody battle to play out in court. I don't even  want London to have to meet with a psychologist about this. If she needs  counseling to help her deal with the divorce, that's different. But I'm  not going to put London in the position of having to choose between her  mom and dad." I shook my head. "I'm trying to stay focused on what's  best for London. And I know she needs me in her life as a consistent,  everyday presence-not in an occasional, ad hoc way. So I'm going to do  what I have to do."

I knew I was being vague, but there were some things I just couldn't tell Emily.

She nodded before sliding her water glass toward her. Rather than  raising it to her lips, however, she rotated it on the table. "I saw  Marge yesterday," she said.

"I know. She told me. How do you like being labeled the ‘new-and-improved model'?" I cracked a grin.

"I'm honored." Then, with a sad smile: "She's such a good person."

"The best." There was nothing else really to say.





After school, I brought London to Marge's. Because she'd been to the  house numerous times in the past month, she'd known that Marge was sick,  even if she didn't realize the seriousness of her illness. When Marge  opened her arms, she went to her as usual and gave her a tender hug.