“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.
“I guess so,” I answered. “We didn’t really talk.”
“You should,” she said. “She’s actually a very nice person.”
“Are you done?” I asked with a halfhearted smile. “How are you feeling, anyway?”
“A lot better than yesterday,” she answered. “Which reminds me-can I take London roller skating this weekend?”
“You want to take London roller skating?” My disbelief must have shown, because Marge bristled.
“Believe it or not, I refuse to let all of you keep me cooped up in the house, and I think London will enjoy it. I know I will.”
Left unsaid was that it would likely be something that London would remember forever, since it would be her first time. “When was the last time you even went roller skating?”
“What do you care? It’s not like I’ve forgotten how to do it. If you recall, I used to be pretty good.”
It’s not that, I thought to myself. I’m wondering whether you’ll have the strength. I looked away toward the screen, convinced that Marge was in denial. In the freeze-frame image on the television, Julia Roberts was in a bar, confronting her roommate about money. Though I hadn’t seen the movie in years, I could still recall the film practically scene by scene. “Okay,” I said. “But only if you hit play so we can watch the movie.”
“You want to waste your morning watching Pretty Woman? Instead of earning money?”
“It’s my life,” I said.
“Well, just don’t make it a habit, okay? You’re welcome to come by after work, but not before. I’ll probably start needing my beauty rest.”
“Just hit the play button already.”
She lifted her eyebrow slightly and pointed the remote. “I just started it a few minutes ago.”
“I know.”
“We used to watch this together.”
“I know,” I said again. “Just like I also know you’ve always had a crush on Julia Roberts.”
She laughed as the movie started up again, and for the next couple of hours, my sister and I watched the movie, calling out lines and sharing a running commentary, just like when we were kids.
After the movie, Marge went to the bedroom to take a nap while Liz and I drank coffee in the kitchen.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Liz admitted, with the expression of someone overtaken by events she can hardly comprehend. “In Costa Rica, she seemed fine. She barely coughed and it was hard for me to keep up with her. I don’t understand how she could seem so healthy a month ago, and now…” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I canceled my appointments today and tomorrow, but Marge basically forbade me from taking a leave of absence. She wants me to continue working at least a few days a week, insisting that your mom can fill in as needed. That we should work out a schedule, or whatever.” When she raised her eyes, they were full of pain. “It’s like she doesn’t want me around.”
“It’s not that,” I said, covering her hand with my own. “She loves you. You know that.”
“Then why is she essentially telling me to stay away? Why can’t she understand that I just want to be with her as much as possible, for as long as possible?”
She squeezed my hand in return as she stared out the window, unseeing.
“She still wants to go to New York next week,” she finally added.
“You’re not seriously thinking of going, are you?” Roller skating was one thing, but a sightseeing trip to one of the busiest cities in the world?
“I don’t know what to do. She asked the doctor about it last night, and he said that if she was feeling up to it, there was no reason for her not to go since it’s between chemo sessions. But how can I go and not think to myself, This will be the last time Marge sees this, or, This will be Marge’s only chance to do that that?”
She was looking to me for an answer, but I knew there wasn’t anything I could say.
Most of her questions, after all, were the same as my own, and I had no answers, either.
On Tuesday morning, the first day of December, I got a text from Marge, asking London and me to dinner that night. It was a subtle way of telling me not to swing by the house before that.