"You'll help her out, won't you, Russ?" Marge said, elbowing me.
I grimaced. "Marge has always been good at volunteering me for things."
"I seem to recall that," she laughed. "Russ said you had a good time in New York?"
The two of them fell behind a bit, engrossed in their conversation. I looped my arm through Liz's, and followed the path the kids had taken.
"How's the schedule working out with Mom?" I asked.
"It's working, I guess. I cut back to three days a week at work, so your mom is going to come on the other two weekdays."
"Marge seems to be doing well today."
"She was a little fatigued this morning, but she perked up on the ride over. I think doing things like this makes her feel like there's nothing wrong with her, if only for a little while. She was the same way when we were in New York."
"I'm glad she wanted to come. I just don't want her to get run down."
"I've said the same thing to her," Liz said. "And do you know what her response was?"
"I can't imagine."
"She told me not to worry so much, because she 'still has something important to do.'"
"What does that mean?'
Liz shook her head. "Your guess is as good as mine."
As we stopped and waited for Emily and Marge to catch up, I pondered my sister's cryptic words. She had always been one for surprises, and I wondered what last mysteries she had up her sleeve.
The next evening, Marge and Liz arrived at my house at seven on the dot. As soon as Liz walked through the door, London took her hand and led her up to the bedroom to show her the aquarium.
Marge was bundled in a scarf and hat, despite the relatively mild temperatures. She also wore gloves and the oversize down jacket I'd brought to the hospital.
It seemed impossible that less than three weeks had passed since she'd been rushed to the hospital.
"Are you ready?" she said impatiently, clearly ready to leave.
I grabbed my jacket and dug out a pair of gloves and a hat, even though I couldn't imagine needing them. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see," she said. "Come on. Before I chicken out."
I was still mystified, but as we began to turn down roads I recognized, I suddenly understood what she had in mind.
"You're not serious," I said as she pulled up to the gates and shut off the engine.
"I am," she said firmly. "And this is your Christmas gift to me."
As I looked up, the water tower loomed--impossibly, immeasurably tall.
"It's illegal to climb the water tower," I said.
"It's always been illegal. That never stopped us before."
"We were kids," I countered.
"And now we're not," she said. "You ready? Get your hat and gloves. It'll probably be windy up top."
"Marge..."
She stared at me. "I can make the climb," she said in a voice that left no room for dissent. "After another round of chemo, maybe I won't be able to. But right now, I still can, and I want you to come with me."
She didn't wait for me to answer. Getting out of the car, she strode toward the steel maintenance ladder, leaving me paralyzed with indecision. By the time I scrambled after her, she was already six feet in the air. Which meant, of course, that I had no choice but to start climbing. If she got tired, if she became weak or dizzy, I had to be there to catch her. In the end, it was fear for her that spurred me to follow.
Marge hadn't been lying. Though she had to take a break every twenty feet or so, she would inevitably start up again, moving relentlessly higher. Below me, I could see rooftops, and I caught the scent of chimney smoke. I was grateful for my gloves, as the metal rungs were cold enough to make my hands stiffen up.
When we finally reached the top, Marge inched her way over to the spot where I'd found her on that terrible night back when she'd been in college. Just like then, she let her feet dangle over the narrow walkway, and I quickly moved to her side. I put my arm around her again, in case she got dizzy.
"You must be feeling the cold," I said.
"Speak for yourself," she retorted. "I put on long johns before I came."
"Fine," I said. "Then slide your butt closer to me so I can get warm, too."
She did, and for a while we took in a bird's-eye view of the neighborhood. It was too cold for the nighttime sound of crickets or frogs; instead, I caught the faintest murmuring of wind chimes and the sound of the breeze as it rustled the branches of trees. That, and the sound of Marge wheezing, low and wet. I wondered how much pain she was in. The cancer, after all, always brings pain.
"I remember when you found me up here, drunk as a skunk," she said. "Well, not all of it--I actually don't remember much at all about that night, other than that moment, when you suddenly appeared."
"It was a rough night," I said.
"I sometimes wonder what would have happened had you not shown up. I wonder if I really would have jumped, or maybe fallen. I was so heartbroken about Tracey at the time, but I look back now, and can't help but think it was a good thing. Because in the end, I found Liz. And what Liz and I have is nothing like what I had with Tracey. Ever. She and I just work, you know?"
"Yeah, I know. You guys have something that everyone wants."
"I'm worried about her," Marge admitted. "She's so good at helping other people get through their problems, but I think she gives so much at work, she doesn't have much left for herself. And it scares me. Because I want her to be okay. I want her to be happy." She stared out into the distance, almost as if trying to see into the future. "I want her to one day find somebody new, someone who loves her as much I do. Someone she can grow old with."
I swallowed, forcing the tightness from my throat. "I know."
"When we were in New York, she swore she has no interest in ever finding someone else. And I actually got really mad at her. We had an argument, and afterward I felt so bad about it. We both did, but..."
"There's a lot going on, Marge," I said, my voice soft. "She understands. And she'll be okay." If Marge heard me, she gave no sign.
"Do you know what else scares me?"
"What's that?"
"That she's going to lose contact with London. She loves that little girl so much... London is a big part of the reason we wanted to have kids of our own. And now--"
"Liz is always going to be part of the family," I cut in. "I'll make sure that Liz plays a big part in London's life."
"What if London moves to Atlanta?" Marge pressed.
"She'll still see Liz regularly," I assured her.
"But you're only going to have her on the occasional holiday and every other weekend, right? Maybe a couple of weeks in the summer?"
I hesitated. "I honestly don't know what's going to happen with London," I said. Vivian had been more generous, and less volatile, since learning about Marge. But then, she was the least predictable person I knew, and I was leery of making specific promises I couldn't keep.
She turned toward me. "You have to fight for her," Marge urged. "London should live with you."
"Vivian won't let that happen. And I doubt that the courts will, either."
"Then you have to figure something out. Because let me tell you something--girls need their fathers. Look at me and Dad. He might not have been the most expressive guy in the world, but I always knew at some really deep level that he was there for me. And look at what he did for me when I came out. We stopped going to church, for God's sake! He chose me--over God, over our community, over everyone. And if you're not around for London when she comes to her own crossroads in life, she's going to feel abandoned by you. You have to be there for her--every day, not just now and then." She fell silent for a moment, as if winded by her efforts. "Anyway, she's used to you being the primary parent now," she added. "And you're great at it."
"I'm trying, Marge," I said.
She grabbed my arm, her voice fierce. "You have to do more than that. You need to do whatever you can in order to remain in London's life. N
ot as a weekend or vacation dad, but as the parent who's always there to hold her when she cries, pick her up when she falls, help her with her homework. To support her when she can't see a way forward. She needs that from you."
I stared down at the empty streets below, washed by the halogen glow of streetlights.
"I know she does," I said quietly. "I just hope I don't fail."
On Sunday morning, the Christmas tree was delivered and London and I spent the first part of the day decorating it, stringing lights among the branches and conferring over the placement of every single ornament. When I called Marge and Liz later that afternoon to see if they wanted to come by for some eggnog, Liz answered the phone and said they wouldn't be able to make it.
"It's been a pretty bad day," Liz said. Marge had undergone her second round of chemo on Friday, the day after the trip to the water tower, and I hadn't seen her since. According to Liz, the nausea and pain were worse than the first time, and Marge had barely been able to leave her bed.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No," she answered. "Your mom and dad have been here pretty much all day. They're still here." She lowered her voice. "Your dad--I think it really kills him to see Marge like this. He keeps finding new things to repair. It's hard for your mom, too, of course, but she's been through it so many times that at least she knows what to expect. He's trying so hard to be strong for Marge, but it's destroying him inside. He just loves her so much, his girl. They both do."
I found myself thinking about what Marge had said that night on the water tower, about being the kind of dad who is there for everything, always. Even, it seems, at the end.
"He's a great father, Liz," I said. "I hope I can be half the dad he is."
On Monday, London's last day of school before winter break, I finally got around to the Christmas list that Vivian had left me. Work had kept me busy most days, and in my binary focus on "clients" and "Marge," Vivian's list had slipped off my radar. Luckily, Emily still had some last-minute shopping to do, so the two of us drove from store to store late that morning. With Christmas only four days away, I was worried that some items would be sold out, but I was able to find everything on Vivian's list.
Halfway through our shopping, Emily and I took a break for lunch. There was a cafe at the mall and though the food smelled good, I had little appetite. On the scale that morning, I saw that I'd begun to lose weight again. I wasn't alone; Liz was losing weight as well, and I noted that she sometimes looked disheveled, as if she no longer cared about her appearance. Her hair, often tied back in a careless ponytail, was losing its luster. My mom and dad, too, were suffering. My dad seemed to have acquired a defeated hunch in the past few weeks, and my mom's face was more deeply lined with worry with every passing day.
But our suffering was nothing compared to Marge's. Walking was becoming painful for her, and often, she struggled to stay awake for more than an hour. When I visited, I sometimes sat with Marge in her darkened bedroom, listening as she seemed to struggle to draw breath, even as she slept. Occasionally she whimpered in her sleep, and I wondered if she were dreaming. If only, I thought, she could dream the kind of dreams that would make her smile.
Thoughts like these preoccupied me, even in Emily's company, no matter what the surroundings. When my lunch arrived, I stared at it blankly, picturing Marge's emaciated face. I took only a single bite before pushing the plate aside.
If Marge couldn't eat, I guess there was a part of me that felt like I didn't deserve to, either.
"You need to come by the house," Marge said without preamble, right after I answered her call. I'd just dropped Emily off a few minutes earlier.
"Why? Are you okay?"
"Do you really want me to answer that question?" she said, with a trace of her old sardonic humor. "But yes, I'm feeling better than I was, and I'd like you to come by."
"I have to pick up London from school in a little while. And drop off the gifts beforehand."
"Swing by here on the way and leave the gifts with us," she said. "London won't find them that way."
When I reached her house a few minutes later, I started unloading the bags from the trunk. When I looked up, my mom appeared in the front doorway. Even with her help, it took two trips to unload everything.
"I'm not sure where to put all this," I said, staring at the mountain of bags on the kitchen floor. Did London really need all this? I wondered.
"I'll put it all in one of the closets," my mom said. "Go on in. Marge is waiting for you."
I found Marge on the couch, wrapped in a blanket as usual, with the living room shades drawn. The lights from the Christmas tree cast a cheerful glow, but in the days since I'd seen her last, she seemed to have aged years. Her cheekbones stood out in sharp relief below the sunken pits of her eyes, and her arms looked ropy and flaccid. I tried to mask my dismay at her appearance as I took a seat beside her.
"I heard it was a rough few days," I said, clearing my throat.
"I've felt better, that's for sure. I'm on the mend now, but..." She cracked a smile, a ghost of her irrepressible self. "I'm glad you came by. I wanted to talk to you." Getting the words out seemed to be an effort. "Emily called a little while ago."
"Emily?"
"Yeah," she said. "You remember her, right? Gorgeous hair, has a five-year-old son, the woman you love? Anyway, she called me because she's worried about you. She says you're not eating."
"She called you?" I said, feeling my irritation rise. Now Marge was going to worry about my health?
"I asked her to keep an eye on you and let me know how you're doing," Marge said in a bossy voice I remembered from childhood. "Which is why I then asked you to come over." She scanned me with a critical eye. "You better eat a decent dinner tonight, or I'm going to get seriously angry with you."
"When did you discuss 'keeping an eye' on me with Emily?" I demanded.
"When we went to Santa's village for the trees."
"You have better things to worry about than me, Marge," I said, conscious of how sulky I sounded.
"That's where you're wrong," she said. "That's something that I won't let you take away from me."
Tuesday, December twenty-second, was London's last day of school before the winter break, and that was when I planned to wrap all the gifts. Before I'd left her house the previous day, Marge asked if she could help with the wrapping, since the gifts were over there anyhow.
When I arrived at the house with wrapping paper after dropping London off at school, my first thought was that Marge looked better than she had the day before. Simultaneously, I hated that I had begun to make those kinds of evaluations every time I saw her, only to see my hopes elevated or dashed depending on how she seemed to be doing.
Liz was home with her that day, and she exuded a forced good cheer as we brought the gifts to the kitchen and began to wrap. At Marge's request, she made us all cups of hot chocolate, thick and foamy, although I noticed that my sister drank little of hers.
Marge wrapped a couple of the smaller gifts before settling back in her chair, leaving the rest to Liz and me.
"I'm still not happy that you're calling Emily to check up on me," I groused.
Despite her condition, Marge was clearly enjoying my discomfort, as evidenced by the gleam in her eye. "That's why I didn't ask your permission. And if you're interested, we didn't just talk about that, by the way. We talked about a lot of things."
I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that. "What things?"
"That's between me and her," she said. "But for now, what I want to know is whether you ate last night. Full report, please."
"I made steaks for London and me," I sighed. "And mashed potatoes."
"Good," she said with satisfaction. "Now, have you spoken with Vivian about the plans for Christmas this year? Other than that she'll be coming to Charlotte?"
The tradition in my family had been to gather at my parents' on Christmas Eve. My mom would make an elaborate dinner and afterward, we'd allow London t
o open gifts from the relatives while It's a Wonderful Life played on television. On Christmas morning, at our house, Vivian and I would have London to ourselves.
"We haven't gotten into the specifics yet," I said. "She doesn't come in until tomorrow. We'll figure it out then."
"You probably need to get her something," Marge pointed out. "For London's sake, so she can see her mom opening some gifts. It doesn't have to be anything big."
"You're right," I said. "I didn't think of that."
"What did you get Emily for Christmas?"
"Nothing yet," I admitted.
"Any thoughts yet? You're cutting it a little close..."
"I don't know," I said, looking to Marge and Liz for inspiration. "A sweater, maybe? Or a nice jacket?"
"Those could be part of it, but she told me what she's getting you, so you'll have to do better than that."
"Like jewelry or something?"
"If you want, I'm sure she'd appreciate that, too. But I was thinking that you need to do something from the heart."
"Like what?"
"I think," she said, drawing the words out, "that you should write her a letter."
"What kind of letter?"
Marge shrugged. "You write for a living, Russ. Tell her how much she's meant to you these past months. How much you want her to remain in your life. Tell her..." Marge said, lighting up, "that you want her to take a chance on you again."
I squirmed. "She already knows how I feel about her. I tell her that all the time."
"Write her a letter anyway," Marge urged. "Trust me. You'll be glad you did."
I did as Marge suggested. With London in tow--piano lessons weren't until the New Year--I drove directly from school pickup to the mall, where I found some gifts for Vivian: her favorite perfume, a scarf, a new novel by a writer she liked. I also picked out an embroidered silk jacket for Emily, one that I was sure would complement her rich coloring and slightly Bohemian style, and a gold chain with an emerald pendant that would accent the color of her eyes. Later, after London had gone to sleep, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote Emily a letter. It took more than one draft to get it right; despite the wordsmithing I did for my job, writing from the heart was entirely different, and I found it difficult to strike that delicate balance between raw emotion and maudlin sentimentality.