While my mom was a little banged up, it was Marge whom everyone was most worried about. The momentum from the crash had thrown her into the side windows, shattering the glass. While she wasn’t unconscious when she arrived at the hospital, she was bleeding and bruised, and had sustained a broken collarbone.

When I entered Marge’s hospital room with my dad, the sight of my sister scared me. At six years old, I didn’t know much about death, or even hospitals. My dad stood over her bed, his expression flat, but I could tell by his posture that he was frightened, which scared me even more. Looking down at my stricken face, he frowned.

“Come see your sister, Russ.”

“I don’t want to,” I can remember saying.

“I don’t care what you want,” he said. “I told you to come here, and you’re going to do what I tell you.”

His tone brooked no argument and I inched toward the bed. Marge’s face was grossly swollen, with deep bruises and multiple stitches, like she’d been sewn back together. She didn’t look like my sister; she didn’t look like anyone. She looked like a monster in a scary movie and the sight of her caused me to burst into tears.

To this day, I wish I hadn’t cried. My dad thought I was crying for Marge and I felt him lay a comforting hand on my shoulder, which made me cry even harder.

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.”