But I wasn’t crying for Marge. I was crying for myself, because I was afraid, and over time, I came to despise myself for my reaction.
Some people have courage.
On that day, I learned that I wasn’t one of them.
The doctors didn’t know what was wrong with Marge. Nurses took samples of blood and X-rayed her chest. That was followed by a CAT scan. Three different doctors came to examine her. I watched as a needle was inserted into Marge’s lungs to remove tissue for further examination.
Throughout it all, Marge was the only one who didn’t seem worried. Part of that had to do with the fact that since she’d arrived at the hospital, her coughing had abated. She joked with the doctors and nurses while Liz and my parents looked on with grim concern, and I thought again about how effective my sister was at hiding her fears, even from those who loved her. Meanwhile, in another part of the hospital, tests were being run. I heard the doctor whispering words like pathology and radiology. Biopsy. Oncology.
Liz was clearly worried, but not yet panicked. My parents sat like stones, barely holding it together. And I was upset, because Marge didn’t look good. Her skin had a grayish pallor, which accentuated her weight loss, and I found myself replaying all that I’d seen and the things she’d said over the last few months. The racking cough that never seemed to go away, the soreness in her legs. How exhausted she’d been after her vacation.
My parents and I, Liz and the doctors, were all thinking about the same thing.
The cancer.
But it couldn’t be cancer. Marge couldn’t be that sick. She was my sister and she was only forty years old. A little more than a week ago, she’d gone to a specialist because she wanted to have a baby. She was looking forward to being pregnant. She had her entire life ahead of her.
Marge couldn’t be sick. She didn’t have the cancer.
No.
No, no, no, no, no…
I was thankful that Vivian had taken London to Atlanta, because I don’t know what I would have done with her all day. I spent hours drifting in and out of Marge’s hospital room. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I would pace the parking lot or have coffee in the cafeteria. I called Emily and shared what was going on; I asked her not to come by, but she came anyway.
Marge and Emily had a short but sweet reunion a little before noon, and in the hallway afterward, Emily held me as I shook with fear. She told me that she wanted to see me later, if I was up to it, and I promised that I’d call.
Finally, I called Vivian. When I told her what was going on, she gave a strangled gasp and immediately offered to fly back with London right away. I explained that London was probably better off with her, at least through the weekend. Vivian understood.
“Oh, Russ,” she said quietly, sounding nothing like her usual brisk self. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry yet,” I said, “we don’t know anything for sure.”
I was lying to myself, and both Vivian and I knew it. She was well aware of the history on my mother’s side of the family. As I spoke again, I could hear my voice cracking.
“Do me a favor and don’t say anything to London yet, okay?”
“Of course not. Is there anything I can do? What do you need?”
“Nothing for now,” I said. “Thanks.” Words were becoming hard to form, my thoughts beginning to scatter. “I’ll let you know.”
“Keep me informed, okay?”
“I will,” I promised, and I knew that I would. After all, we were still married.
In the afternoon, while my parents and Liz were visiting the cafeteria, I stayed with Marge. She asked about my work, and at her insistence, I described the ad campaigns I was crafting for my clients. I think she remembered that day in the hospital so long ago, after the auto accident, and could tell how frightened I was. She knew I could speak about work on autopilot, so she kept asking questions, to distract me.
As had become her habit, she asked about Emily and I finally admitted that I’d fallen in love, but wasn’t ready to tell our parents yet. At that, she cracked a grin.
“Too late. Mom and Dad already know.”
“How? I haven’t said anything to them.”
“You didn’t have to,” she said. “When you called Emily on Thanksgiving, the way you felt about her was plain as day. Mom raised her eyebrows while Dad turned to me and said, ‘Already? He’s not even divorced yet.’”
Despite everything, I laughed. That was my dad, all right. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding. “I just wish you hadn’t waited until today to bring her by. I look like hell. You should have had us meet right after Costa Rica, when I was still tan.”
I nodded, struck by how normal Marge sounded.
“My bad.”
“I’d like to meet Bodhi, too. Since I’ve heard so much about him.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a chance.”
She twisted the hospital sheet, winding it tight and letting it unfurl. “I’ve been thinking about baby names,” she said. “I bought one of those books, you know? At work, whenever I’m bored, I look through it. I even started highlighting some of them.”
Baby names? Was she really talking about baby names? I could feel pressure behind my eyes and I struggled to get the words out without my voice cracking. “Any favorites?”
“If it’s a boy, I like Josiah. Elliot. Carter. If it’s a girl, I like Meredith and Alexis. Of course, Liz is going to have her own ideas, but I haven’t spoken to her about it yet. It’s still pretty early in the process, so we have plenty of time to make a decision.”
Plenty of time.
Marge must have heard herself because she looked first toward the clock, then the door of the room, which was propped open. Nurses hurried past, going about their duties as if today were no different than any other day. “I wonder when they’re going to finally let me out of here,” she said. “What’s taking them so long? I’ve been here for hours already. Don’t they know I have things to do?”
When I had no answer to that, Marge sighed. “You know I’m going to be okay, right? I mean, I’m not ignoring what happened this morning, but I don’t feel all that bad. I feel a lot better than I did before I left for Costa Rica, in fact. I probably just picked up some parasite while I was down there. Lord only knows what the sanitary standards are like in those kitchens.”
“We’ll see what the doctors say,” I murmured.
“If you see them, tell them to hurry up. I’d rather not waste my whole weekend here.”
“I will.”
Marge continued to wind and unwind the sheet. “London comes back tomorrow, right?”
“She does. I don’t know what time exactly. Early evening, I’d guess.”
“Why don’t you bring London over for dinner with Liz and me this week? You’ve been so busy lately, we haven’t had time for our normal sit-downs.”
Watching her work the sheet, I could feel my throat tightening again. “Dinner sounds great. But none of that Costa Rican food. What with all the parasites, right?”
“Yeah,” she said, looking right at me. “Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want what I have.”
The day crawled by.
Midafternoon. Late afternoon.
Vivian texted, asking if there was any news. I replied that we were still waiting.
Emily texted, asking how I was doing.
Scared to death, I replied.
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.