As dusk approached, the sky began to cloud over. Marge's hospital room was bathed in flat gray light, and the TV was tuned to Judge Judy, though on mute. The machine monitoring her vitals beeped steadily. A doctor that we hadn't met came into the room. Though his demeanor was steady, his expression was grim and I already knew what he was going to tell us. He introduced himself as Dr. Kadam Patel, and he was an oncologist. Over his shoulder, in the hallway, I watched as a young girl in a wheelchair was rolled past the room. In her arms was a stuffed animal, a purple pig.
Just as my mother had dreamed.
I went blank, my mind tuning out almost as soon as he began to speak, but I caught various bits and pieces.
Adenocarcinoma... more common in women than men... more likely to occur in younger people... non-small cell... slower growing than other types of lung cancer, but unfortunately, it's advanced and the CT scan shows that it has metastasized to other parts of the body... both lungs, lymph nodes, bones and her brain... malignant pericardial effusion... stage IV... incurable.
Incurable...
My mom was the first to let out a cry; the plaintive wail of a mother who knows that her child is dying. Liz followed a moment later and my dad took her in his arms. He said nothing, but his lower lip trembled while he squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to block out reality. Marge sat unmoving on the bed. Watching her, I felt as though I would topple over but somehow, I remained upright. Marge kept her gaze fixed on the doctor.
"How long do I have?" she asked, and for the first time that day, I heard fear in her voice.
"It's impossible to say," Dr. Patel answered. "Though it's incurable, it's treatable. Treatment has improved exponentially in the last ten years. It can not only prolong life, it can alleviate some of the symptoms."
"How long?" Marge demanded. "With treatment?"
"If we had caught it earlier," Dr. Patel hedged. "Before it had metastasized--"
"But we didn't," Marge said, cutting him off.
Dr. Patel stood a bit straighter. "Again, there's no way to know exactly. You're young and in good condition, both of which increase life expectancy."
"I understand that it's not a question that you want to answer. I also understand that every patient is different, which means you can't really know for sure. What I want, though, is your best guess." Marge's voice made it clear she would not be deterred. "Do you think I have a year?"
The doctor didn't answer, but his expression was pained.
"Six months?" Marge pressed, and again, the doctor didn't answer.
"Three?"
"Right now," Dr. Patel said, "I think it would be best if we start discussing treatment options. It's critical that we get started right away."
"I don't want to discuss treatment," Marge said. I could hear anger in her voice. "If you think I only have a few months, if you're telling me it's incurable, then what's the point?"
Liz had collected herself enough to wipe her eyes. She moved toward the bed and took Marge's hand. Lifting it to her mouth, she kissed it. "Baby?" she whispered. "I want to hear what the doctor says about treatment options, okay? I know you're afraid, but I need to know. Can you listen? For me?"
For the first time, Marge turned from the doctor. The trail of her tear had left a streak on her cheek that the light caught, making it shine.
"Okay," Marge whispered, and only then, did Marge begin to cry.
Systemic chemotherapy.
Over the next forty minutes, the doctor patiently explained to us his reasoning for the course of treatment he was recommending. Because the cancer was so advanced, because it had spread throughout Marge's body and reached her brain, there were no real surgical options. Radiation was a possibility, but again, because of the spread, the benefits weren't worth the costs. Usually, patients were given more time to consider all the pros and cons of chemotherapy--including side effects, and he went over those in detail--but again, because the cancer was so advanced, the doctor strongly recommended that Marge start immediately.
To do that, Marge would need a catheter. When that part was underway, my parents and I left the room to go to the cafeteria. We didn't speak; instead, we sat in silence, each of us simply trying to process what was happening. I ordered coffee that I didn't drink, thinking that chemotherapy is essentially poison, and the hope is that the cancer cells are killed before normal cells. Too much poison and the patient dies; too little poison, and the medicine does no good at all.
My sister had already known all this. My parents and I had known all this as well. We had grown up knowing about the cancer. All of us knew about stages and survival rates and possible remission and catheters and side effects.
The cancer, after all, spread not only through human bodies. Sometimes it spread through families, like mine.
Later, I returned to the room, and I took a seat in the chair, watching as the poison began to be administered, killing as it flowed through her system.
I left the hospital when the sky had turned black, and I walked my parents to their car. To me, it seemed like they were shuffling rather than walking, and for the first time, they seemed old. Beaten down and utterly wrung out. I knew because I was feeling the same way.
Liz had asked us if she could be alone with Marge. As soon as she asked, I felt guilty. Lost in my own feelings about Marge, it didn't occur to me that the two of them needed time together, without an audience.
After watching my parents pull out of the parking lot, I walked slowly to my car. I knew I couldn't stay at the hospital but I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to go anywhere. What I wanted was to be able to rewind, to return to yesterday. Twenty-four hours earlier, I had been having dinner with Emily and looking forward to an evening of laughter.
The stand-ups at the Comedy Zone were good, and although one of the routines had been a bit too profane for my taste, the second comedian was both married and a father, and the humorous stories he related had the sweet ring of familiarity. At one point, I reached for Emily's hand and when I felt her fingers intertwine with my own, I felt as though I'd come home. This, I remember thinking, is what life is really about. Love and laughter and friendship; happy times spent with those you care about.
As I drove home, yesterday seemed impossibly distant, a different lifetime altogether. The axis of my world had shifted, and like my parents, I'd aged in the last few hours. I'd been hollowed out. And as I squinted through eyes that had gone blurry with tears, I wondered if I would ever feel whole again.
Emily texted to ask if I was still at the hospital, and when I replied that I'd gone home, she said that she was coming over.
She found me on the couch, in a house illuminated by a single lamp in the family room. I hadn't risen when she'd knocked at the door and she'd let herself in.
"Hey there," she said, her voice soft. She crossed the room and sat beside me.
"Hi," I said. "Sorry I didn't get the door."
"It's fine," she said. "How's Marge? How are you?"
I didn't know how to answer and I pinched the bridge of my nose. I didn't want to cry anymore.
She slipped her arm around me and I leaned into her. Just like earlier that day, she held me close, and we didn't have to talk at all.
Marge was released from the hospital on Sunday. Though she was weak and nauseated, she wanted to go home and there was no reason to stay at the hospital.
The first dose of poison, after all, had already been administered.
I pushed the wheelchair, my parents trailing behind me. Liz walked beside the wheelchair, clearing a path in the busy hallways. No one we passed cast a second glance in our direction.
It was cold outside. On the way to the hospital, Liz had asked me to swing by their house to get Marge a jacket. She directed me to a key hidden under a rock to the right of the front door.
I had let myself in and rummaged through the foyer closet, trying to find something soft and warm. I finally settled on a long down jacket.
Before going outside, Liz helped Ma
rge stand so she could slip on the jacket. She winced and wobbled, but kept her balance. Liz and my parents set out for the parking lot together, then veered in opposite directions to find their cars.
"I hate hospitals," Marge said to me. "The only time I've ever been in a good mood in a hospital was when London was born."
"I'm with you," I said. "That's it in my book, as well."
She pulled at her jacket, pinching it closed around her neck. "So roll me outside, would you? Let's get out of here."
I did as she asked, feeling a brisk wind nip at my cheeks as soon as we exited the building. The few trees in the parking lot were barren of leaves and the sky was an iron gray.
When Marge spoke again, her voice was so soft I almost missed it. "I'm afraid, Russ," she whispered.
"I know," I said. "I am, too."
"It's not fair. I never smoked, I hardly ever drank, I ate right. I exercised." For a moment, she looked like a child again.
I squatted down so I could be at eye level. "You're right. It's not fair."
She met my gaze, then, and barked out a resigned laugh. "This is all Mom's fault, you know," she said. "Her and the family genes. Not that I'd ever say that to her. And not that really I blame her. Because I don't."
I'd had the identical thought, but hadn't spoken the words aloud. I knew that my mom was tormented by the same idea, and it was one of the reasons she'd barely spoken while at the hospital. I reached over and took Marge's hand.
"I feel like crap," Marge said. "I've already decided that I hate chemotherapy. I've thrown up four times this morning and now, I don't feel like I have enough strength to get to the bathroom on my own."
"I'll help you," I said. "I promise."
"No," she said, "you won't."
"What are you talking about? Of course I will."
I'd never seen Marge look so sad--Marge, who shrugged off even the biggest losses with pragmatic insouciance. "I know that's what you think you should do. And I know that you'll want to." She gripped my hand. "But I have Liz. And you have London, and your business, and Emily."
"I could care less about work right now. Emily will understand. And London is in school most of the time."
Marge didn't answer right away. When she spoke, it was as if she were returning to a conversation I didn't know we were having. "Do you know what I admire about you? Among other things?" she said.
"I have no idea."
"I admire your strength. And your courage."
"I'm not strong," I protested. "And I'm not brave."
"But you are," she said. "When I look back at the past year, and all you've gone through, I'm not sure how you made it. I watched you become the father I always knew you could be. I saw you at your very lowest after Vivian left. And I watched you pull yourself back up. All while launching a business and the struggles that entailed. Not many people could have handled the past six months the way you did. I know for a fact that I couldn't have."
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, uncomprehending.
"Because I'm not going to let you stop doing what you need to do, just because of me. That would break my heart."
"I'm going to be here for you," I said. "You can't talk me out of it."
"I'm not asking you to abandon me. I'm asking that you continue to live your life. I'm asking you to be strong and brave again. Because London's not the only one who's going to need you. Liz is going to need you. Mom and Dad, too. One of you has to be the rock. And while you might not believe it, I know in my heart that you've always been the strongest of us all."
CHAPTER 24
December
When I think back on Marge as a teenager, two things come to mind: roller skating, and horror films. In the late eighties and early nineties, roller skating was giving way to Rollerblading; but Marge stayed true to the old-fashioned skates that she had owned as a child--I think she had a soft spot for the disco roller rinks of her early childhood. Weekends during her teenage years were spent almost entirely on skates, usually with her Walkman and headphones on... even, remarkably, after she got her driver's license. There were few things she loved more than roller skating--unless it was a good horror film.
Although Marge loved romantic comedies like I did, her favorite genre was horror, and she never missed seeing the latest horror movie in its first week of release. It didn't matter to her if the film had been panned by critics and the public alike; she would happily watch it alone if she couldn't find a fellow enthusiast, as devoted to the genre as a groupie to her favorite band. From Nightmare on Elm Street to Candyman to Amityville 4: The Evil Escapes, Marge was a true aficionado of horror, highbrow and low.
When I asked her why she loved horror movies so much, she merely shrugged and said that sometimes she liked to be scared.
I didn't get it, any more than I did the allure of rolling around with wheels on your feet. Why would someone want to be scared? Weren't there more than enough scary things in real life to keep us awake at night?
Now, though, I think I understand.
Marge liked those films precisely because they weren't real. Any fright she felt in the course of the film was quantifiable; it would begin, and then it would end, and she would leave the theater, emotionally spent yet relieved that all was well in the world.
At the same time, she'd been able to confront--albeit temporarily--one of the hardwired emotions of life, the root of our universal instinct toward fight or flight. By willing herself to stay put despite her fear, I think Marge felt that she would emerge stronger and better equipped to face down whatever actual terrors life had in store for her.
In retrospect, I think that Marge might have been onto something.
Vivian had returned with London on Sunday evening. Before she left, she hugged me, a longer hug than I'd expected. In it, I could sense her concern, but strangely, her body no longer felt familiar to me.
London had enjoyed her visit, but this time she mentioned that she had missed both her fish and Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles. As soon as she got home, we went up to her room, where she told me that she'd had Thanksgiving dinner in a mansion. I guessed that Vivian had introduced our daughter to Spannerman in reaction to seeing London hug Emily at the art studio. To Vivian's mind, no doubt, I'd violated the taboo first, which gave her the right to do so as well.
I suppose I should have cared more, but in that moment, I didn't. I was worn out, and I'd known that London would meet Spannerman sooner or later anyway. What did it matter if it was this weekend, or the next time she was in Atlanta?
What did anything matter anymore?
While London was occupied with the fish, I decided to clean the hamster cage, since I'd let it slide while London was gone. By then, I was accustomed to it, and it took no time at all. I ran the mess to the outdoor garbage can, washed up, then went back upstairs, where London was holding Mr. Sprinkles.
"Are you hungry, sweetie?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Mommy and me ate on the plane."
"Just making sure," I said. I took a seat on the bed, watching her, but mainly thinking about Marge. My sister wanted me to keep living my life, to act as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed and I felt hollowed out, as empty as a junked oil drum. I wasn't sure I was capable of doing as Marge asked, and wasn't sure I even wanted to.
"Guess what?" London said, looking up.
"What, sweetheart?"
"For Christmas, I'm going to make Auntie Marge and Auntie Liz a vase, like I did for Mommy. But this time, I want to paint fishes on it."
"I'm sure they'll love that."
For a moment, London seemed to study me, her gaze unaccountably serious. "Are you okay, Daddy?"
"Yeah," I answered. "I'm okay."
"You seem sad."
I am, I thought. It's all I can do not to fall to pieces.
"I just missed you," I said.
She smiled and came toward me, still holding the hamster.
"Would you like to hold Mr. Sprinkles?"
"Sure,"
I said, as she gently placed him in my hand. The hamster was soft and light, but I could feel his tiny claws scramble for purchase as he shifted into place. His whiskers twitched and he began to sniff my hand.
"Guess what?" London asked again. I summoned an inquisitive look. "I can read now."
"Yeah?"
"I read Two by Two all by myself. I read it to Mommy."
I wondered if it wasn't so much reading, as reciting from memory--after all, we had read it a hundred times together. But again, what did it matter?
"Maybe you could show me later?"
"Okay," she agreed. She put her arms around me and squeezed. "I love you, Daddy."
I caught the scent of the baby shampoo she still used and felt another ache in my heart.
"I love you, too."
She squeezed harder before letting go. "Can I have Mr. Sprinkles back?"
Marge quit work on Monday. I know because I got a text from her saying, I've decided to retire.
I went by her house after I dropped London off at school. Work could wait. I didn't care what she wanted; what I wanted was to see my sister. Liz answered the door, and I could tell she'd recently been crying, though only a trace of redness in her eyes remained.
I found Marge propped on the couch with her legs tucked up, wrapped in a blanket. Pretty Woman was playing on the television. It brought back a flood of memories, and all at once, I saw Marge as a teenager again. Back when she had an entire life in front her, a life measured in decades, not months.
"Hey there," she said, hitting the pause button. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at work?"
"I know the boss," I answered. "He says it's okay if I'm a little late today."
"Smart-ass."
"I learned from the best." Marge made room, and I plopped down on the couch next to her.
"Admit it: You got my text, and you came over because you're jealous that I've finally quit the rat race." She gave a defiant grin. "I figured it was time to live a little."
I struggled in vain for a snappy comeback, and in the silence, Marge poked my ribs with her feet. "Lighten up," she said. "No doom and gloom allowed in this house." She peeked over her shoulder. "Was Liz okay?" she finally whispered.