As Close as Sisters (6 page)

5

McKenzie

I
couldn’t stop smiling. They were all here.
We
were all here. Sometimes I felt like I spent my whole life just passing time, waiting to be with Aurora, Janine, and Lilly again. Which was silly, of course. I had a life separate from them. Sort of. And even when we were apart, we were still together.

Later, on my laptop, I’d record my impressions of this first evening together. I would not only be responsible for the when, what, and how of the month we spent together, but also the why. The thoughts. Those expressed and those that bubbled just under the surface, waiting to spill over.

As I looked from one face to the next, I wondered what exactly we were to each other. I mean, I knew, but . . . how did I express it?

Friends. Sisters.
None of the words I can think of really describe what we were. How did we get here? Could we have ever gotten to this place, found this closeness, without being together for days, weeks on end?

And then there was the tragedy that has shaped and reshaped our lives over and over again. Like it or not, there was no denying that Buddy had brought us closer together. This house, this refuge that was hell and heaven at the same time, had made us more than the sum of our parts.

Pretty deep thinking for a Friday night.

We sat on the front porch, the parts of me: Janine, Lilly, Aurora. The sun was setting behind us, behind the house. Dinner was done, and the plates were piled in the sink for someone to deal with later. Now we sat, lined up along the porch in our Adirondack chairs. But not our own. I was in Aurora’s white chair, she was in Lilly’s pink one, Lilly was in Janine’s blue one, and Janine was in mine. Fritz sat on the edge of the stairs, gazing out at the ocean, beyond the beach, the same way we are. I couldn’t tell if he was sitting vigil or considering making a run for the water’s edge.

Lilly was telling a funny story about being pumped up on IVF baby-making hormones, fighting a man for a parking space at the Annapolis Mall. It was a long story with a lot of gesturing. Janine and Aurora were laughing with her. I looked from one face to the next. I never realized how much I missed them, missed
us,
until we were all together again. Why was that? Was it because the pain would be too great if we fully realized it? Could we physically not survive if we felt the true depth of our desolation when we were apart?

I was so happy to be here with them. Who was I kidding? I was happy to be here at all.

I took a slow, deep breath, the way I had learned to do in my yoga-for-healing class. I inhaled the salty air. Oddly enough, my breathing seemed to be a little better this evening. I couldn’t imagine why. It was such a relief to have made it here again, to all be together at last . . . this one last time. In the weeks leading up to my arrival, I’d worried something bad would happen and I wouldn’t make it. My immune system was poor. I caught every cold, every stomach bug that went by. Last week I became almost paranoid about germs, washing my hands constantly with antibacterial soap. I was afraid the universe was going to turn against me, that lightning was going to strike, that something awful was going to happen to prevent me from seeing my Lilly, my Janine, and my Aurora.

But here I was, at last.

Lilly’s story came to an end, and she drank water from a glass. Her bracelets jingled on her wrist. She was delicate, our Lilly, even with her big belly. Her hands were small. Her wrists were small. I’d always been envious that she could wear bangle bracelets, and I, with my big manly hands, could rarely find any that fit.

I reached for my glass of wine. I was only going to allow myself one tonight. I was hoping to avoid a repeat of the previous night’s bed-spin.

Everyone was quiet for a moment. There was just the chirping of insects in the beach grass below and the rhythmic pulse of the waves. I could vaguely hear the whirl of the exhaust fan, left on in the kitchen.

Aurora sipped her gin and tonic. She and Janine had moved on to the hard stuff as soon as we ditched the dinner plates. For Aurora, it was gin. For Janine, Jack Daniel’s. The girl can hold her whiskey like nobody’s business.

A minute or two passed before I realized that everyone was looking at me. At least stealing glances. I felt uncomfortable, and I adjusted my bony butt in my chair.

Aurora rose and went to sit on the porch rail, balancing on it, butt and feet on the narrow, white beam. “Okay, McKenzie. You might as well get it over with,” she said, not looking at me. “Tell us what’s going on with the tumors.”

I sensed she left the phrase open to give me a choice. I could tell them about the drug trial. Or not. I was standing with my decision. I wasn’t going to tell them. I wish I hadn’t even told Aurora. That was what I got for drinking too much.

That didn’t mean I didn’t feel a little guilty about it. I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. I settled my gaze on the slatted sand fence that protruded from the dune in front of the house.

I’d been having so much fun all day that I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to talk about me. About
it
. I just wanted to be here together with them and talk and laugh and pretend nothing had changed. That nothing
would
ever change. I wanted to pretend that we’d all be back next summer, and the summer after that. I wanted to go down to the beach where the sand was soft, dig a big hole the way I used to when my daughters were little, and stick my head in it.

“She doesn’t have talk about it if she doesn’t want to.” Lilly wrapped her arms around her belly the way pregnant women do. Protectively. Only I felt as if, somehow, she was trying to protect me with her arms.

Janine poured herself another two fingers and didn’t say anything. I wondered how long it would be before she’d be drinking directly from the bottle.

I glanced at the German shepherd. No word from him, either.

I wrapped my hand around the stemless wineglass. Squeezed. Released. Someone had lit a citronella candle, even though there were no mosquitoes tonight, and set it on a little round table. I liked the smell. Some people didn’t, but I did. It reminded me of this place. Summers here. Summers when we were all happy . . . at least fairly so.

I could feel them waiting. Compelling me to speak.

“There’s not much to say.” I looked down at my feet. I was wearing a pair of old canvas Toms that had once belonged to one of my daughters. I could feel the grit of sand between the big and second toes of my left foot. I took my time, pulling my foot out of the shoe and wiggling my toes. “The tumors are still growing,” I said softly.

“You don’t know that for sure,” said Lilly.

“For sure,” I answered, with little emotion. Was I just out of emotion? “My scans. They always compare them to the previous ones.” I didn’t identify the proverbial “they.” It didn’t much matter: Christiana Care, Johns Hopkins, Sloan Kettering.

Aurora cut her eyes at me. She thought I should tell them about the drug trial. But that wasn’t her call. It was mine. She could give me the stink eye all she wanted.

“There’s not anything anyone can do?” Janine’s voice seemed to come from far away.

We were all staring at the dark water beyond the dunes and the stretch of white sand. I shook my head slowly and stole a glance in Janine’s direction. “No.”

Janine was looking tough, but I saw tears glisten in her eyes. “Surgery?” she asked. “You can’t find anyone to cut the little bastards out?”

“They’re not those kinds of tumors. The kind that can be surgically removed.” I paused. Guilt washed over me to the same rhythm as the rising tide. How could I be doing this to them? To Mia and Maura? To Lilly and Janine and Aurora? “There are . . . too many of them,” I said.

Lilly was crying quietly into a tissue. I noticed earlier that she carried them around with her; this wasn’t the first time today she’d plucked one from the plastic pouch. Apparently, she cried a lot these days, with the hormone thing happening. More in my presence.

“You’ve done research? On the Internet?” Janine again. “Talked to people? I mean, just because doctors in the US don’t—”

“There’s nothing that can be done,” I interrupted. I didn’t want to talk about the
options
again . . . with anyone. Not even Janine.

I’d heard plenty about nonconventional treatments from everyone and their brother: acupuncture, salves, qigong. A nice enough girl from work wanted me to take some kind of vitamin concoction that had
proved
to cure cancer in South America. (Containing white-headed marmoset pee probably.) A gal in my hot yoga class wanted me to meet her spiritual advisor, who’d had good luck with healing mantras. (
Ommm,
kick this cancer’s butt,
ommm.
) Apparently, he’d cured someone of brain cancer. Or so the gal with the big, fuchsia tiger tattoo on her shoulder had told me.

Lilly was sobbing now. I reached over and took her hand. “Oh, Lilly, don’t.”

“I just . . . can’t . . . believe . . .” She was taking big, noisy gulps of air. “Believe this . . . is . . . happening to us.”

I wanted to get up and put my arms around her, but honestly, I was too tired. Instead, I rested her hand on the arm of my chair and laid my cheek against it. She crumpled over and rested her face on my shoulder, her hair falling over my face. I liked the feel of it, and for a moment, I pretended it was my own hair. The fantasy didn’t last long. Her hair was smooth and silky and smelled of expensive shampoo. My hair was longer, coarser . . . and I used Head & Shoulders. Or leftovers from the assorted bottles my daughters discarded on the floor of their shower.

Now Janine was crying. Crying without making a sound.

It was Aurora who broke the silence. She lit up a cigarette and sighed loudly with obvious pleasure.

Lilly popped up her head.
“Really?”
She sniffed, taking her hand from mine, and fumbled for the pack of tissues.

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. I wasn’t going to be able to stay up much longer. I needed to climb into my pajamas, into my bed. I needed a nebulizer treatment. I needed sleep.

“You’re going to
smoke?
” Lilly demanded. “She’s got lung cancer, and you’re going to
smoke
five feet from her?” Her last words come out angry. Bitter.

I sometimes think that while Lilly loves Aurora, a part of her resents her. Resents what she did that night. The way it changed us all. The way it solidified our relationship, but broke us into little pieces, deep inside.

I patted her hand. “Lilly. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

I opened my eyes to see Lilly heaving herself up out of the chair. “Put it out, Aurora,” she told her, pointing her finger.

Aurora drew the cigarette, held between her fore and middle fingers, to her lips and inhaled dramatically.

Lilly reached out and plucked the cigarette from Aurora’s mouth.

Janine had gone from crying to laughing. No one messed with Aurora. No one but Lilly.

“I see a Tiger Mom in the making,” Janine declared.

Lilly ground the cigarette out on the top of the empty Coke can Aurora used for an ashtray. “No more smoking in front of McKenzie. I mean it. You go out on the back deck if you want to do that.” She pointed in the direction of the back of the house. The funny thing was, Lilly used to smoke.

I waited for Aurora to argue . . . or at least
say
something.
Do
something. I wondered if she’d light up again. Maybe blow smoke rings into Lilly’s face. But she didn’t. She just raised her glass to her lips and artfully deflected the attention. “Dating anyone, Janine?”

Lilly retreated to her chair. I was relieved to have been saved from any further discussion of me possibly taking a yak trip across Siberia to meet a medicine man.

“Actually, I am.” She was drunk enough to talk to us about her love life. She gave us a half smile. She had this way of turning her lip up on one side. Kind of like an Elvis smirk.

I like her hair the way she’s wearing it. Longer. It was less . . . severe. It was a pretty brown. Chestnutty. No gray. She’d worn it short since she cut it herself that summer. This was the longest I’ve seen it in all these years. I wanted to tell her how much I liked it but hadn’t. If I did, I was afraid she might take the scissors to it again.

“Do tell,” Lilly said.

Janine sipped her Jack. “Nah . . . I don’t want to. Not yet. I don’t want to jinx it.”

Lilly’s eyes widened. “Does that mean it’s serious? After Betsy, you thought you’d never love anyone again. Janine, this is so exciting!”

“Always someone else out there to love.” Aurora prodded Janine with her bare foot. “Right?”

Janine just kept smirking.

“Is she hot?” Aurora asked.

“Pretty hot,” Janine agreed.

Lilly rolled her eyes and heaved herself out of her chair. “I’ve got to pee. Again. Don’t say a word until I get back.” She held up her finger.

All three of us held up our fingers at once, imitating her. And we all four burst into laughter.

6

Lilly

I
looked at her, lying on the bed in a small circle of light cast from the bedside lamp. I just wanted to cry. She looked so pale. So skinny. She’d always been curvy with nice breasts. The turban covering her head looked so . . . not McKenzie. All that beautiful red hair, gone. Eyelashes. Eyebrows. Gone.

I wondered if that meant
all
of her hair fell out . . . everywhere. Pubic hair, too? I didn’t know why I cared, but I thought how weird that would be. It was such a part of our femininity, wasn’t it?

McKenzie saw me in the doorway, in my pink nightgown, and smiled. “Hey,” she said, closing her laptop. She sounded sleepy.

“Hey. I just came down to check on you before I went to bed.” I couldn’t stay up like I used to. I needed so much more sleep than I did pre-blimp. Janine and Aurora were still out on the front porch. Aurora was probably sneaking a joint, since I’d gone to bed. Which meant Janine was threatening to arrest her.

I hung on the doorknob, hesitant. Did McKenzie want me to come in? Was she too tired and just wanted to be left alone? I hated feeling this way, as if I didn’t know her anymore. As if I didn’t know what she wanted or needed.

“Journal?” I asked. It sounded lame. Like I was the new girl in the cafeteria or something and didn’t know what to say. I’d felt this way my whole life. As if I never quite fit in. Even here, where I fit in best. I was so ordinary compared to McKenzie and Janine. And certainly compared to Aurora, who was practically a goddess.

McKenzie nodded. “I’ve learned the hard way to write every night, if I can. Otherwise . . .”

“I know,” I commiserated. At first, I thought it was kind of mean, us making her write it. But then Aurora told me that she thought it was good to give McKenzie a job, something to focus on other than her cancer. That made sense to me. I acquiesced, which of course I always did when push came to shove with Aurora.

I glanced at the dozen or so brown plastic pill bottles with the white caps on McKenzie’s nightstand. I saw the nebulizer on the other side of the bed. The hose. The face mask. I knew the treatments helped her breathe, but I hated the machine. I returned my gaze to her face. While she had certainly aged since her diagnosis, she was still beautiful to me. “Okay if I come in?” I asked.

“Of course. I know you guys are trying to be nice, letting me sleep down here.” She stuck her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “But it’s lonely.”

I glanced around the room as I entered. For years, we just kept the door shut and never came in here. But eventually, when McKenzie had her girls and wanted to bring them down, we completely renovated it. We pulled out the carpet and had the hardwood floors refinished. We painted the walls a sunny yellow and added white curtains. White coastal-style furniture. It was a gorgeous room . . . but I’m still glad I’m sleeping upstairs instead of here. Just the thought of sleeping in the same room where Buddy McCollister had once slept gave me indigestion. Which I already had enough trouble with now, as it was.

McKenzie scooted over in the queen-sized bed, making room for me. Anymore, I feel as if I waddle instead of walk. I couldn’t imagine how big I’d be at forty weeks. I already felt like a whale. But I was determined to enjoy my rotundness. This baby was a miracle and I knew it, and I didn’t want to squander a moment of my pregnancy.

I waddled to the bed and sat down on the edge. She rearranged the pillows she’d been leaning against and patted the empty space on a pillow. I hesitated. Should I be lying in bed with her? Shouldn’t I let her get her rest? She needed her rest if she was going to get better.

But the way she looked at me, I couldn’t say no. I stretched out beside her. Our heads were side by side on the king-sized pillow. I felt her warmth and smelled her facial moisturizer. We stared up at the white ceiling. There was a ceiling fan. I watched it spin. Listened to it tick-tick.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay.”

She knew what I was talking about. I’d been here all day, but we hadn’t gotten to discuss it. Me not telling her sooner that I was pregnant.

We were both quiet again. The fan tick-ticked. Lying there beside McKenzie, I could hear her breathing. It wasn’t labored. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but it wasn’t normal breathing, either. Shouldn’t she have been breathing normally, lying in bed?

“I
wanted
to tell you . . .” I said finally. Then I hesitated. I hated to blame it on Matt. People thought I let Matt control me. I know Aurora thinks he does; she makes comments about him all the time. But what she didn’t understand was that I only let him make decisions that I couldn’t or didn’t want to make. I let him do the things I couldn’t or didn’t want to do. I knew this was totally not acceptable in the modern feminist world, but the truth was, I liked having my husband take care of me. I
really
liked it.

“Matt and I talked,” I went on, “and he . . . I was afraid that if the pregnancy . . . didn’t continue, it would make you sad.”

She rolled onto her side and propped her head up with her hand. I stayed on my back.

She looked down at me. “Of course I would have been sad if you’d lost another baby. But,
Lilly,
that’s not how it works between us. We share the bad things, too.”

“I know. I know.” I felt my lower lip tremble. The floodgates were about to open. I’d cried three times already since I’d arrived. Of course I cried when McKenzie talked about her illness. But I’d cried earlier when Janine was telling us about a homeless teenager she found under a local bridge. I also cried when I saw a mom and dad on the beach with a little boy, flying a kite. Janine and Aurora looked at me like I was crazy. Even Fritz thought I’d lost it. But McKenzie . . . she understood. I guess because she was a mother.

I knew I wasn’t a mother yet. But, I was, in a way. I was mom to all those little souls that had lived in my hostile womb for a brief time. I truly believed that.

McKenzie rubbed her hand over my belly, and I smiled, bringing myself back to the here and now. It was something I was working on. It was time to stop always looking to the future, Matt told me. It was time to live in the present. And he was right.

So I lived in the present, here at this moment in bed with McKenzie. Her hand felt good against my taut skin.

“I’m so happy for you,” she said. “I’m mad at you for cheating me out of knowing all these months.” She smiled, looking into my eyes. “But I’m so happy for you, sweetie.”

Her turban had shifted when she rolled over to face me, and now it sat askew. I reached out to readjust it and cover the tiny bit of red fuzz beneath it.

She rested her head on the pillow again, and we just lay there.

“Lilly, I want to talk to you,” she said after what seemed like a long while.

I realized I was drifting off to sleep. I needed to get up. I needed to go upstairs to my own bed. “Not tonight,” I told her, opening my eyes.

I knew what she wanted to talk about. About her cancer. But we
already
talked about it tonight. Of course, when we talked, it was in a general way. Like a recap of the information we already knew. I wasn’t the only one who had cried. Janine had cried then, too. I saw her tears, even though she was trying to hide them. I’d always loved that about Janine. She could get her bull dyke cop on when she had to, but she could still be a girly girl with us. She could still cry
for
us. The way we’ve cried for her. The way I still cry for her sometimes for that night. For all of those nights we didn’t know about, until after the fact.

“Lilly.” McKenzie whispered my name. Her green eyes were so intense, more so now that her face is thinner.

“I know,” I whispered back. “But I can’t, honey. Not tonight.” Then I sat up. Awkwardly. I kissed her forehead, right where the knit turban met her pale skin. “You okay?” I pressed my palm to her cheek and frowned. “Do you have a fever? Your . . . face looks red.” I looked at her more closely.

She pushed my hand away. “I’m fine. It’s . . . one of the medications. I get a little bit of a fever sometimes. If I get lucky,” she joked, “maybe I’ll break out in hives by morning.”

I don’t know how she can joke about this. If it were me with the cancer, I wouldn’t be cracking jokes. I’d be curled up in a ball on the floor, unable to speak or function.

I made myself smile. “Okay,” I said slowly. My gaze went to the nebulizer on the table beside her again.

My mom had died of lung cancer. She’d had a three pack a day habit in her prime. I knew my nebulizers. My oxygen tanks. I knew how a person with lung cancer dies. How their life slowly eked out of them with each struggling breath.

“Go to bed,” McKenzie ordered. She gave me a push, but she didn’t lift her head off the pillow. I think maybe she was so weak that she couldn’t.

I paused at the bedroom door and looked back at her. She was lying there, half asleep, half smiling. I knew she was happy we were all here together. Happy, like the rest of us. It seemed like we lived our lives just waiting to get back here. To be together again, here. Just the four of us.

Kind of sick, when you thought about it.

“Yoi yume o,”
I told her. Words my Japanese mother always said to me before she turned out the light.

“Sweet dreams,” McKenzie echoed.