Two by Two(99)

At the time, I suspected she was just trying to show moral support for  my own decision to sell, a decision she knew I still harbored  ambivalence about. But a few days later, she texted me a photo of the  new for sale sign in her front yard.

Nothing remains the same for long; her life, like mine, was moving forward. I just wished I knew where mine was heading.





My dad continued to show up at Marge's house with his toolbox nearly  every afternoon. What began as "necessary repairs" on the house  gradually turned into extensive remodeling. He had torn out the entirety  of the guest bathroom on the day Liz and Marge attended my open house,  intent on upgrading it to the kind of bathroom he thought his only  daughter deserved.

My dad was a dinosaur when it came to technology. To that point in his  life, he'd seen no reason to purchase a cell phone. His boss always knew  the location of the job site and everyone else on the crew had one, so  he could always be contacted. Who else would call him anyway, he  wondered? Why be bothered?

Yet my dad came to me right after the new year, and asked me to help him  buy a phone. Since he didn't know anything about "those cellular  gadgets," he asked me to select one for him. "Just make sure it does all  that fancy stuff," he said, "but isn't too expensive."

Though my Dad hadn't mentioned it, I chose a phone that I felt would be  simple for him to use as well. I set him up on my plan, and then spent  some time with him showing him how to make and receive calls, as well as  text. To his contacts, I added the information for Marge, Liz, my mom,  and me. I couldn't think of anyone else to add.

"Can it take pictures?" he asked. "I've seen phones that can do that now."

Pretty much all phones have done that for years, I thought to myself, but I said only, "Yes, it does."

I showed him that function and watched as he practiced taking pictures  and then examining them. I also showed him how to delete the ones he  didn't want. Though I had the sense that much of the information was  overwhelming, I watched him carefully tuck the phone into his pocket and  head out to his car.

I saw him again at Marge's house the following day. She'd risen from her  nap and our mom had chicken soup waiting. Marge ate half the bowl-less  than we'd hoped-and when the tray was taken away, our dad took a seat  beside her. He looked almost shy as he began to show her photos of  various faucets, sinks and towel rods as well as options for floor and  wall tile. Obviously, he'd been at the home improvement store, and this  was the only way he could make sure that Marge was part of the design  process.

Marge knew that our dad had never been a man of words, nor had he ever  been openly affectionate. But through his labors, she could see that in  his own way he was shouting his love for her at the top of his lungs,  hoping that she could somehow hear what he'd always found so difficult  to say.

Dad took notes as she made her selections, and when they were finished,  Marge leaned closer to him, giving him no choice but to hug her. "Love  you, Daddy," she whispered. Then, rising from the couch, he lumbered out  of the house. Everyone knew he was off to purchase her selections, but  after a few minutes, I realized that I hadn't heard him start his car.         

     



 

When I got up to peek through the curtains at the driveway, I saw my  dad, the strongest man I'd ever known, sitting in the front seat of his  car with his head bowed and shoulders heaving.





Wonderful aromas always floated from Marge's kitchen these days, as my  mom tried desperately to make food that would tempt Marge into eating  more. There were soups and stews and sauces and pasta; banana cream and  lemon meringue pies and homemade vanilla ice cream. The refrigerator and  freezer were stuffed, and every time I came by, she handed me food for  my refrigerator, which had gradually filled as well.

Whenever Marge was awake, my mom would set a tray in front of her; by  the second week of February, my mom had begun to feed her because her  left side was growing weaker as well. She would carefully raise the  spoon to her lips, wiping her mouth between bites, and then offer my  sister a sip of something to drink through a straw.

While Marge ate, my mom would talk. She would talk about Dad and the way  the young new owner of the plumbing business was giving Dad a hard time  for missing so much work. By that time, my dad had probably accrued  years of vacation time, but the owner was the kind of guy who was never  happy, a man who demanded more from the employees while demanding less  of himself.

She described the tulips she'd planted for my dad and the lecture she'd  attended with her Red Hat Society friends; she also regaled Marge with  things that London had told her, no matter how inconsequential. More  than once, I heard my mom pretend to be upset that no one had notified  her in advance about Marge's and London's roller-skating adventure.

"I picked you up and dropped you off so many times at that rink that my  tires made tire grooves in the parking lot asphalt-and you forgot to  mention when my granddaughter was trying it for the very first time?"

I knew that she was only half-teasing, that she would have loved to have  been there, and I silently berated myself for it. My mom, after all,  not only wanted to see London on skates that day; she'd wanted to see  her own daughter, skating with abandon and joy on her face-one last  time.





As the second week of February rolled around, I had the sensation that  time was simultaneously speeding up and slowing down There was a  slow-motion quality to the hours I spent at Marge's every day, marked by  long stretches of silence and sleep; on the other hand, each time I  showed up, it seemed that Marge's deterioration was accelerating. One  afternoon before pickup, I stopped by and found her awake in the living  room. She and Liz were speaking in low voices, so I offered to leave,  but Liz shook her head.

"Stay," Liz said. "I was about to touch base with one of my clients  anyway. It's an emergency. You two talk for a bit. I'm hoping this won't  take long."

I took a seat by my sister. I didn't ask her how she was feeling,  because I knew it was a question she hated. Instead, as always, she  asked about Emily and work, London and Vivian, her voice slurred and  tinny. Because she tired so easily, I did most of the talking. Toward  the end, though, I asked if I could ask her a question.

"Of course," she said, her syllables running together.

"I wrote you a letter for Christmas, but I never heard what you thought about it."

She smiled her half smile, the one I'd grown used to. "I haven't read it yet."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said, "I'm not ready to say goodbye to you just yet."





I confess that I sometimes wondered if she'd ever have a chance to read  it. Over the next three days, whenever I went to the house, Marge was  always asleep, usually in her bedroom.

I would stay for an hour or two, visiting with Liz or my mom, whoever  happened to be around. I would admire the latest repairs or renovations  that my dad had undertaken, and more often than not eat a large plate of  food that my mom would put down in front of me.

We almost always stayed in the kitchen. I thought at first it was  because no one wanted to disturb Marge while she was sleeping, but I  discounted that when I realized if that my dad's hammering wasn't enough  to wake her, our low voices wouldn't either.

I finally figured it out one afternoon, when Liz stepped outside to  sweep the porch. At loose ends, I wandered to the living room and took a  seat in the spot where Marge and I usually sat.

My dad was working away quietly in the bathroom, but I realized I could  hear a strange, rhythmic sound, like a malfunctioning fan or vent.  Unable to pinpoint its origin, I moved first to the kitchen and then to  the bathroom, where I spotted my dad lying on his back with his head  beneath the new sink, in the final stages of hooking it up. But the  sound was fainter in both those places; it grew in volume only as I  began to make my way down the hallway, and it was then that I knew what  was making that horrible noise.         

     



 

It was my sister.

Despite the closed door, across the far reaches of the house, what I'd been hearing was the sound of my sister breathing.





Valentine's Day fell on a Sunday that year. Marge had planned a special  gathering at her house, even inviting Emily and Bodhi, and I brought  London over as soon as she got back from Atlanta.

For the first time in two weeks, London and I arrived to find Marge  sitting upright on the couch. Someone-maybe my mom, maybe Liz-had helped  her apply a little makeup. Instead of the baseball cap, Marge wore a  gorgeous silk scarf, and a thick turtleneck sweater helped disguise the  weight she'd lost. Despite the tumor ravaging her brain, she was able to  follow the conversation, and I even heard her laugh once or twice.  There were moments when it almost felt like one of our usual Saturday or  Sunday afternoons at our parents'.