Between Sisters

In the past nine days, Meghann and Claire had seen several specialists. It was amazing how fast doctors would see you if you had a brain tumor and plenty of money. Neurologists. Neurosurgeons. Neuro-oncologists. Radiologists. They went from Johns Hopkins to Sloan-Kettering to Scripps. When they weren’t on airplanes, they were in hospital waiting rooms or doctors’ offices. They learned dozens of frightening new words. Glioblastoma. Anaplastic astrocytoma. Craniotomy. Some of the doctors were caring and compassionate; more were cold and distant and too busy to talk for long. They outlined treatment models that were all depressingly alike and stacked them on statistics that offered little hope.

They each said the same thing: inoperable. It didn’t matter if Claire’s tumor was malignant or benign; either way it could be deadly. Most of the specialists believed Claire’s tumor to be a glioblastoma multiforme. A kind they called the terminator. Ha-ha.

Each time they left a city, Meghann pinned her hopes on the next destination.

Until a neurologist at Scripps took her aside. “Look,” the doctor said, “you’re using up valuable time. Radiation is your sister’s best hope right now. Twenty-five percent of brain tumors respond positively to the treatment. If it shrinks enough, perhaps it will be operable. Take her home. Stop fighting the diagnosis and start fighting the tumor. ”

Claire had agreed, and so they’d gone home. The next day, Meghann had taken her sister to Swedish Hospital, where yet another neuro-oncologist had said the same thing, his opinion bolstered by yet another radiologist. They’d agreed to begin radiation treatment the next day.

Once a day for four weeks.

“I’ll need to stay here for the treatments,” Claire said as she sat on the cold stone fireplace in Meghann’s condo. “Hayden’s too far away. ”

“Of course. I’ll call Julie and take some more time off of work. ”

“You don’t have to do that. I can take the bus to the hospital. ”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer. Even I am not that big a bitch. ”

Claire looked out the window. “A friend of mine went through chemo and radiation. . . . ” She stared at the sparkling city, but all she really saw was Diana wasting away, losing her soul along with her hair. In the end, all those treatments hadn’t helped at all. “I don’t want Ali to see me like that. She can stay with Dad. We’ll visit every weekend. ”

“I’ll rent a car for Bobby. That way you guys can drive back and forth. ”

“I’m not going to tell Bobby . . . yet. ”

Meghann frowned. “What?”

“I am not going to call my brand-new husband and tell him I have a brain tumor. He’ll come home, and I couldn’t stand that. ” Claire looked at her. “He’s waited his whole life for this break. I don’t want to ruin it for him. ”

“But if he loves you—”

“He does love me,” she answered fiercely. “That’s the point. And I love him. I want him to have his chance. Besides, there’s nothing he can do but hold my hand. ”

“I thought the point of love was holding each other up through the hard times. ”

“That’s what I’m doing. ”

“Really? It sounds to me like you’re afraid he won’t want to come. ”

“Shut up. ”

Meghann went to her sister then, sat down beside her. “I know you’re scared, Claire. And I know Mama and I left you a long time ago. I know . . . we hurt you. But you have to give Bobby the chance to—”

“This isn’t about the past. ”

“My shrink says everything is about our past, and I’m beginning to agree with her. The point is—”

“Do not tell me the point of my own life. Please. ” Claire’s voice cracked. “I’m the one who has a tumor. Me. You don’t get to organize or critique my choices, okay? I love Bobby and I am not going to ask him to sacrifice everything for me. ” Claire stood up. “We better get going. I need to tell Dad what’s going on. ”

“What about Mama?”

“What about her?”

“You want to call her?”

“And hear her say she’s too busy picking out sofa fabrics to visit her sick daughter? No, thanks. I’ll call her if I get worse. You know how she hates unnecessary scenes. Now let’s go. ”

Two hours later, Meg turned onto River Road and they were there. Late-afternoon sunlight drizzled down the yellow clapboard sides, caught the blooming pink roses and turned them orange. The garden was a riot of color. A small bicycle with training wheels lay on its side in the overgrown grass.