As Close as Sisters (4 page)

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” she asked as she stripped the foil from around the cork.

“I can’t.”

She waited.

“Nothing else has worked, Aurora. This isn’t going to work. It’s a drug trial, not a cure.” I shook my head. “I can’t tell you how many second opinions I’ve gotten. How many oncologists I’ve seen. I can’t do that to my parents, to my girls. I can’t do it to Lilly and Janine. I can’t give them hope, not when there is none.”

Aurora held the wine bottle between her bare thighs and used a simple plastic corkscrew—the kind you picked up at the counter in the liquor store and carried in your purse. She pulled on the cork, and it came free with a delicious
pop
. “But you can crush
my
hope?”

“I’m sorry.” I glanced at my hands resting in my lap. “It’s just that you’re the strong one. The brave one. I guess . . . I needed to tell someone, and I know you . . . you won’t act crazy and start planning my fiftieth birthday or anything.”

She raised the bottle to offer me another glass.

I covered my glass with my hand. I’d had enough. “I’m sorry,” I said again. Now I felt bad. “I didn’t mean to dump this on you.” I hesitated and went on. “Please don’t tell them. Lilly and Janine. Or my girls.”

“You know I won’t.”

“I know.” I watched her pour herself another full glass of wine. And these were big glasses. The kind without the stems. “You’re good with secrets. You never told anyone I made out with Kandy Delacroix at her sixteenth birthday party.”

Aurora grinned. Raised her glass in toast. “That’s because I made out with her that night, too.”

I laughed. Hard. The kind of laugh that comes from deep in your belly. I didn’t know why that delighted me, but it did. We were sixteen. We weren’t lesbians; we were just
exploring our sexuality
. And our drinking limits. I wondered if either of my daughters has ever made out with a girl. I knew I’ll never be able to ask them. We get along well, for a dying mother and her daughters, but there were lines we will never cross. Asking them if they ever kissed a girl would be over the line.

I laughed until tears came to my eyes. “I’ll be right back,” I said, getting out of my chair. I needed to use the bathroom.

“Then maybe a walk on the beach?” Aurora’s dark eyes were on mine again.

“A
short
walk. Maybe just down to the water. I’m not much of a walker these days.”

Aurora rose, glass in hand. She had already drunk half of it. “I’ll carry you. If you get too tired.”

I grinned, resting my hand on the doorjamb. “I know.”

2

Aurora

S
he’s dying.
Stroke. Glide
.

She’s really dying.
Stroke. Glide.

I could see it.
Stroke. Glide.

Her bald head.
Stroke. Glide.

I lifted my head to breathe deeply. The tangy, ionized air filled my lungs.

My face hit the cold ocean water again.

But it wasn’t her hair.
Stroke. Glide.

It was her eyes.
Stroke. Glide.

I saw it in her eyes.
Stroke. Glide.

McKenzie was really dying.
Stroke.

I breathed again.

My strokes were always choppy when I first hit the water. I was more a crawler than a breaststroker, but tonight, I was feeling it. Needing it.

Slowly, I found my rhythm. My breath. I cut through the dark water, under the dark sky. I was fifty feet off the shoreline. Invisible in the darkness. I liked the invisibility.

McKenzie was going to die.
The thought drifted from my head, down to my shoulders. I pulled at the water, and the thought drifted out from my fingertips.

Well, fuck me
. McKenzie was really going to die.

For a moment I let my emotions wash over me like the salt water. The pain. The fear. Sadness so deep that it took my breath away. But I could only hold on to the feelings for a second and then they’re gone. Not my own anymore. They drifted below to the great deep.

Everyone died sometime, I told myself. I was going to die.

I closed my eyes. I pulled myself through the water. I tasted the salt in my mouth. It stung my eyes, even with goggles on.
Stroke. Glide. Stroke. Glide.

And I did it again.

I swam faster. Lifting myself in and out of the water, I propelled myself through the dark, cold water. The ocean was the only place where I could really think.

I dove off the yacht in the Venice lagoon. Pretty ballsy. Even for me. It was probably close to a mile swim. Which wouldn’t have been a big deal except that I had been drunk and sleep-deprived. And I might have done a line of coke. I’m not sure, even now. It was a miracle I had made it to shore without being chopped up by a boat’s propeller.

I wondered what Fortunato and his brother thought. When they came back to the cabin in their black leather pants and masks. Found me gone. Not in the bathroom. Not up on the deck. Gone. Over the side. Into the dark, silky water.

I laughed at the idea and gagged and spit. Broke my stroke. Picked it up again.

I could have died. In that filthy water that night. Christ knew what was in that water. Sharks, probably.

But I couldn’t have stayed on the yacht. Not with the human sharks. They were way too coked out. I had let things go too far. Kinky sex was one thing.
That,
what they wanted, was another.

I could have died on that boat. It had been smarter to risk it with the sharks and the boat propellers.

McKenzie was going to die.

If I had died on the yacht, would McKenzie have been spared?

I did it again and again and again.

I wondered how far I’d swum. How much time has passed. McKenzie would be pissed if she woke up and found me gone from the house in the middle of the night. Maybe even scared.

But she knows that I have to swim. I swim or die.

3

McKenzie

M
y one-piece swimsuit (dark blue—I was living on the wild side two summers ago when I bought blue instead of black) was a little baggy in the butt and boobs, but I had put it on. It was the only one I had.

As I tugged on my University of Delaware ball cap, I wondered if I should get a new suit. There were plenty of boutiques and swim shops in Albany Beach. There was a nice boardwalk; smaller than in Rehoboth, but it might be fun to go shopping one day. The four of us, for old times’ sake. But that would be a waste of money, wouldn’t it? I always bought good clothing, intending to wear it for years. I wasn’t buying new clothes these days.

It was ten forty when I walked into the kitchen. I’d slept in. Bad night. Aurora and I didn’t go to bed until one. Then, like every night, my alarm went off on my phone at three a.m. and I took my drug trial medication. It had to be taken on an empty stomach at least an hour after I’ve eaten, with no food for an additional hour. Two doses, twelve hours apart. I fell asleep right after taking the harmless-looking little beige pills, but I woke an hour later feeling as if I’d had three bottles of wine instead of three glasses. The bed had been spinning. The waves of nausea washed over me. I didn’t puke, which was a nice surprise. But I was deathly nauseated. It was so bad that the thought went through my head that if I walked (or more likely,
dragged
myself ) out into the ocean, I’d be too weak to swim. I could just let myself go under....

Wouldn’t my mother love
that
phone call?

I’d never do it, of course. I wasn’t suicidal. This cancer was going to kill me, but I’d fight it to my last breath. My last glass of wine. The last smiles of my daughters. The hugs of my friends who should have been born my sisters instead of the dud I got.

There was fresh coffee in a French press on the counter. Aurora. It smelled heavenly. A dark roast. She’d ground the beans this morning; the grinder was still on the counter, surrounded by little brown specks. But I didn’t dare have a cup. Coffee doesn’t stay down first thing in the morning. I needed tea, lots of hot, sweet tea. I added water to the teakettle and sat on a stool at the counter and waited for it to whistle.

I wondered where Aurora was. She wasn’t in the house or out on the deck. I called to her when I got up. A morning swim maybe. Or she might be hitchhiking to Mexico City. Either way, she wouldn’t leave a note.

I would never leave the house without leaving a note. Maybe it was the mommy in me.

The kettle whistled, and I took a tea bag from the box I’d brought. Barry’s Irish Breakfast. Janine had sent it to me. I smiled. She’d sent me four boxes. She knew how I loved my morning tea.

“Mom, pick up. Mom, pick up,” my phone chirped.

My daughters set my ringtones.

I checked the screen before answering. I heard the same ringtone no matter which girl was calling. An image of Mia, sticking her tongue out at me, was on my phone screen. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

“So what are you guys up to today, Mia?”

“It’s Maura.”

I rolled my eyes. “I told you guys you can’t do this to me. You know I can’t tell your voices apart on the phone. My phone says
Mia’s
calling. I expect
Mia
.”

“I can’t find my phone,” Maura said.

I pushed the tea bag around with a spoon. The mug was in the shape of a woman’s curvy torso, wearing a hot pink bikini. Not my favorite cup (we all have our favorites), but the one closest to me when I opened the cupboard.

“I warned you. I’m not paying for another phone,” I told Maura. She’d had two since Christmas. I was lying, of course. If she needed a new iPhone, I’d buy it today. A new Maserati? Coming up. A dying mother’s prerogative—to spoil her daughters.

“It’s upstairs, somewhere,” Maura said dismissively. “Or at Sondra’s. Is everybody there yet? Aunt Aurora?” My girls, particularly Maura, adored Aurora. I knew Maura wished that she were their mom instead of me. She had as much as said so. Aurora was beautiful and cool. She sent good gifts: FAO Schwarz toys when they were younger, Italian shoes and handbags now. And she would never get cancer and die on them. “Aurora’s here, but not here right now. Lilly will be here soon. Janine tonight. When are you coming over to say hi?”

“Mia! Mom’s on the phone! You wanna talk to her?” my darling daughter hollered.

I held the phone a few inches from my ear.

“I don’t know,” Maura said, now talking to me again. “I work ’til ten tonight, Saturday, and Sunday night. We’re going to Sondra’s house tonight. So I guess Monday or Tuesday.”

“Your father making you stick to your curfew?” I fished the tea bag from my mug. I added sugar but not milk. I couldn’t do dairy, not since I started the drug trial. That was a guaranteed express train to Barfsville.

“Of course we’re keeping our curfew.” She was using her “sweet Maura” voice.

She was lying. I knew she was lying, but what was I going to do about it? Soon Jared would be her only parent. I had to trust him.

I closed my eyes for a second, standing too close to that abyss. Teetering on the edge of an emotional black hole I visit too often.
You can’t think about this,
I told myself. I repeated my mantra.
You can’t think about it.

I couldn’t let worry about my girls dominate my last thoughts, my last days. Mia and Maura would be okay. I’d raised them for seventeen years. I could trust them, even if I couldn’t trust their nitwit father. How could you trust a man who names his baby Peaches?

“Hey, Mom. Having fun?” It was Mia now. I only knew that because I heard her take the phone from her sister while complaining that there was no cream cheese for bagels.

“Hey, honey. I
am
having a good time.” I took my cup of tea and walked out of the kitchen, into the living room. “It’s just Aurora and me right now, but Lilly and Janine will be here later today.”

“Aunt Janine bringing Fritz?”

Janine’s German shepherd. Mia adored animals. They both did. But Mia wanted to be a vet. Maura, on the other hand, aspired to be an NBA player’s wife. Needless to say, I was a little concerned about her career path.

“I imagine she is.”

“But not Betsy?”

“Not Betsy,” I repeated. Betsy had been Janine’s partner for five years. They had broken up the previous summer, got back together, then broke up again. For good, this time. I thought.

“Guess she’s really gone. That’s too bad,” Mia said. “I liked her. I thought she was good for Aunt Janine. She made her laugh. Aunt Janine doesn’t laugh enough.”

I walked out onto the porch, carrying my tea. “I liked her, too.”

“Did Maura tell you about the guy she met last night?
Viktor,
” she sang loudly, obviously for her sister’s benefit . . . or detriment.

“I told you not to tell!” I heard Maura holler.

“He’s one of the Russian guys who just started working with us at the pizza place.
Viktor,
” Mia said again, using her Natasha Fatale accent.

I slid into my green chair and set my tea on the arm. I loved these moments with my girls. I kept thinking about how much I’d miss them. But would I? When I was dead, would I know I was dead? Who do you ask?

“If we’re going to the beach, come on,” Mia yelled to her sister. Then to me, “Gotta go, Mom. Call you tomorrow.”

“Have a good day. Wear sunscreen,” I said. “Make your sister wear sunscreen.”

“Bye. Love you.”

“Love you!” Maura echoed.

“I love you.” I gripped the phone. “I love you both so much.” My voice was shaky. Luckily, Mia had already hung up. She didn’t hear my desperate words.

I sat on the porch and drank my tea. With no sign of Aurora, I went into my creepy bedroom to grab a book. I’d brought a whole canvas bag of them. In the year and a half since my cancer diagnosis, I’d been trying to make better choices about what I read. I’m a librarian, for God’s sake. I should be reading the classics. Banned books. Books that have impacted the world. There are actually lists on the Internet of books you should read before you die.

I laid my hand on
Moby-Dick,
then a sweet Amish romance caught my eye. I hesitated, then chose the skinny paperback instead of the hefty,
loftier
book. It felt deliciously wicked to leave Melville behind.

I made another cup of tea, grabbed a towel from a basket in the living room, and returned to my chair on the porch. The towel smelled slightly mildewy. I made a mental note to throw the whole basket of towels in the washing machine later. Right now, that wasn’t how I wanted to spend my limited energy.

It had come down to this in my day-to-day life, making decisions as to what was physically or emotionally worth my effort and what wasn’t. People were worth the energy: my family, my friends, even the lady at the post office. Usually,
things
just didn’t seem worth the bother.

I spread the suntan-lotion-stained blue and white towel on my chair and sat down. As I opened the cover of my book, I considered going down to the beach. But from here, the seventy-five yards seems like seventy-five miles. My
busy
morning had tired me. More likely the trip from home. The excitement of seeing Aurora again. The walk down to the ocean last night. And the long walk back, slogging through the sand.

I felt like I wanted to close my eyes and just enjoy the heat of the sun. But I was afraid to. Afraid I’d fall asleep and waste the morning. A morning I’d never get back again. Instead, I watched the way the sun sparkled off the ocean’s surface and then I read the first page.

I didn’t look up again from my book until I heard the sound of a car. I was too caught up with what was going on with the Yoder sisters in Kent County. I loved the series, partially because it took place locally, but mostly because the simple life of the Amish families took me far from my own life, which was definitely not simple. No Yoders were dying of cancer. At least not so far.

I put down my book, crossed the porch, and went down the steps. I followed the narrow footpath around the side of the house to the backyard, which was really just a sandy parking lot. I spotted Lilly’s car, tugged at the brim of my ball cap, and hurried, hoping to surprise her.

I was the one who got the bigger surprise.

Lilly spotted me and grinned ear to ear. She’s pretty, our Lilly. Maybe not beautiful in the conventional sense of the word, but she has an amazing presence. Heads turn when she walks by. Her mother was Japanese, her father is Somalian; she has gorgeous sun-kissed skin, black hair, and the blackest eyes. I always thought she looked like a shorter, healthier version of the supermodel Iman.

“McKenzie!” She threw open the door of her Mercedes and popped out in a sweet floral sundress and a baby bump.

A
big
baby bump!

I stopped so fast that I practically slid in the sand. I stared at her, unable to believe what I saw. I’m rarely struck speechless, but I was, just for a second.

Her hands went to her belly, and when I met her gaze, her dark eyes were brimming with tears.

“You’re pregnant,” I said, knowing it sounded stupid, considering that was obvious. I said it anyway.

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated.

I opened my arms to meet her and hugged her tightly, reveling in the feel of her taut, round abdomen against my bony hips. For just a slip of a second, I remembered my own big belly and what it had felt like to carry life inside me. As I hugged her, I tried to feel that life, life that would carry on beyond not just me, but my Lilly, too.

She had to be six months along.

I found my voice. “Lilly, I’m so happy for you.” Her arms were warm and secure around me. She smelled of gardenias. She’d started using the perfume years ago when I thought she was too young for the scent. Now, anytime I smelled gardenias, I thought of Lilly.

I savored her embrace another moment longer, then took a step back, grabbing her hand. Unwilling to let her go, yet. “Why didn’t you tell me? I only saw you, what? A month ago? Six weeks?”

She slid her big, white sunglasses that were perched on her head down over her eyes. “I don’t know how you didn’t notice. I was already out of my clothes, covering it with tunics and baggy jackets. But two weeks ago, I really popped out. There’s no way I can hide it now.” She laughed and stroked her belly. “I don’t know how those girls in that reality TV show have babies without knowing they’re pregnant. I feel like I swallowed a watermelon.”

Lilly was a Chatty Patty. Especially when she was nervous . . . or happy or sad. Lilly had always been the talker. She was the one who used to get detention all the time in school for talking. Of course one of us would inevitably get detention, too, because she was always talking to us.

I looked into her eyes. I was a little disappointed that, for the last six months, I haven’t had the enjoyment of knowing she was pregnant. I’ve had some pretty lousy days. Days when I could have used something cheerful to think about. Lilly had been trying to have a baby for years. First with husband number one, then husband number two. (Sounded like a game show.) Polycystic ovary syndrome. She’s had five miscarriages. I thought she and the hubby were considering adoption.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I didn’t mean to sound whiny, but it came off that way.

She made an apologetic grimace. “Didn’t want to worry you, I guess. Not until I was sure.” She searched my gaze, her eyes still teary. “I’m sorry, McKenzie. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” She squeezed my fingers. “I was just . . . trying to protect you, I guess.”

I took my hand from hers and smoothed her dress over her belly. I stared at it, at the wonder of it. “Boy or girl?”

“We don’t know.” She shook her head. Laughed. She was giddy. “We want it to be a surprise.”