“Have you accepted the offer on your house yet?”
I shook my head. “We’re still going back and forth on the price a bit.”
“That’s taking a long time.”
“The potential buyers have been traveling. According to my Realtor, we’re close, though. She’s thinking we’ll sign next week.”
“That’s good, right? So you’ll be able to pay off Vivian?”
Again, the sound of her name made me recoil. “I guess.”
Marge stared at me. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Emily said that you were gone all day Wednesday but wouldn’t talk to her about it.”
Rising from the couch, I peeked out the window, to make sure my mom wasn’t pulling into the drive. I didn’t want her to hear what was going on; the last thing she needed was even more stress in her life. Taking a seat again, I brought my hands together and told her about the meeting with Taglieri and the letter that Vivian’s attorney had sent.
“Well,” Marge said when I finished. “This isn’t completely unexpected. She’s been very clear all along that she intends to bring London to Atlanta.”
“But… the threat. She’s playing so…dirty.”
“What does your attorney say?”
“That he doesn’t like my chances. And that he still thinks Vivian and I should work something out between us.”
Marge was silent for a moment, but her gaze was almost feverish in its intensity. “First, you have to know what you really want.”
I frowned. “Why do you keep saying that? We’ve talked about this already. I’ve told you what I want.”
“Then do what you have to do.”
“You mean go to court? Play dirty, like she is?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that would be good for London. And London is your priority.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“I think you know,” she said, closing her eyes again.
And as I studied her weary face, it finally dawned on me that I actually did.
On the way back from Marge’s, I called Emily, asking if we could meet for lunch. She agreed, and we arranged to meet at a bistro not far from her home.
“First, I want to apologize for not telling you what was going on,” I said as soon as we sat down. “To be honest, I didn’t even know how to begin.”
“It’s okay, Russ,” she said. “Sometimes we all need to process things on our own first. Don’t ever feel pressured by me-I’m here whenever you feel ready to talk. Or even if you don’t.”
“No, I’m ready now,” I said, touching her hand. Taking a deep breath, I told her everything-about London’s distress, my instructions to Taglieri, and Vivian’s response. As I spoke, she brought her hands to her mouth.
“I can’t imagine how you must have been feeling,” she said when I finished. “I would have been… shell-shocked. And completely, utterly furious.”
“I was. I still am,” I admitted. “For the first time, I feel like I actually hate her.”
“With good reason,” she said. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to let the psychologist talk to London. You’ll probably be able to put these crazy allegations to rest right off the bat.”
“There’s still the issue of the bicycle accident.”
“Kids have accidents, Russ. That’s why the law requires them to wear bicycle helmets. Judges know that.”
“I don’t want this custody battle to play out in court. I don’t even want London to have to meet with a psychologist about this. If she needs counseling to help her deal with the divorce, that’s different. But I’m not going to put London in the position of having to choose between her mom and dad.” I shook my head. “I’m trying to stay focused on what’s best for London. And I know she needs me in her life as a consistent, everyday presence-not in an occasional, ad hoc way. So I’m going to do what I have to do.”
I knew I was being vague, but there were some things I just couldn’t tell Emily.
She nodded before sliding her water glass toward her. Rather than raising it to her lips, however, she rotated it on the table. “I saw Marge yesterday,” she said.
“I know. She told me. How do you like being labeled the ‘new-and-improved model’?” I cracked a grin.
“I’m honored.” Then, with a sad smile: “She’s such a good person.”
“The best.” There was nothing else really to say.
After school, I brought London to Marge’s. Because she’d been to the house numerous times in the past month, she’d known that Marge was sick, even if she didn’t realize the seriousness of her illness. When Marge opened her arms, she went to her as usual and gave her a tender hug.
When I mouthed the question, Do you want me to stay? Marge shook her head.
“I’m going to visit with Nana for a little while, okay, London? Will you keep an eye on Auntie Marge for us?”
“Okay,” she said, and I left them alone in the living room. My mom and I sat on the back porch off the kitchen, not saying much of anything.
A short while later, when I saw London enter the kitchen, I went back inside and held her as she cried.
“Why doesn’t God make Auntie Marge better?” she choked out.
I swallowed through the lump in my throat, squeezing her small body to mine. “I don’t know, sweetie,” I said. “I really don’t know.”
Vivian texted that she planned to go straight to Marge’s after her flight landed, and as a result, she didn’t arrive at the house until half past six.
As soon as I saw the limo out front, I thought of the letter from her attorney. I left the front door open but retreated to the kitchen, feeling a wave of disgust toward her wash over me. Even though she’d just spent more than an hour with my sister, I still had no desire to speak to her.
I heard Vivian enter the house, and then London’s tremulous voice, asking Vivian if she really had to go to Atlanta. Despite Vivian’s promise that they were going to have a terrific time, London began to cry. Footsteps pounded as she ran to the kitchen and threw herself into my arms.
“I don’t want to go, Daddy,” she sobbed. “I want to stay here. I want to see Auntie Marge.”
I scooped her up and held her as Vivian entered the kitchen. Her expression was unreadable.
“You need to spend time with your mom,” I said. “She misses you all the time. And she loves you very much.”
London continued to whimper.
“Will you take care of Auntie Marge while I’m gone?”
“Of course I will,” I said. “We all will.”
With London in Atlanta, I passed most of the weekend at Marge’s, just as I’d promised my daughter. My parents were there too, alongside Liz.
We spent long hours at the kitchen table telling stories about Marge, as if our vivid memories and outrageous accounts of Marge’s exploits would help keep her alive longer. I finally told my parents and Liz about the night I rescued Marge from the water tower; Liz re-created the romantic scavenger hunt. We laughed about Marge’s roller skating and horror movie obsessions, and reminisced about the idyllic day that Marge and Liz had spent with Emily and me at the Biltmore Estate. We marveled at Marge’s wit, and the fact that she still viewed me as a little brother desperately in need of her superior guidance.
I wished Marge had been there to hear all the stories, but she was with us for only a few of them. The rest of the time, she was sleeping.
On Sunday evening, London returned from Atlanta. Vivian said goodbye to our daughter near the limo and didn’t come inside.
It was the last day of January. Marge and I were both born in the month of March; she on the fourth, and I on the twelfth. We were both Pisces, and in the world of the Zodiac, people born under that sign are said to be compassionate and devoted. I’d always believed that to be truer of Marge than me.