“I’m going to get on the phone with the attorney later, because we can’t just ignore these kinds of implied threats. It’s an attempt to intimidate you, and it’s also incredibly unprofessional. At the same time, it gives us a sense of just how far Vivian might go to get custody. And if it goes to court, I want to emphasize that you never know what a judge is going to decide.”

“What do I do? I know London wants to live with me…”

“Like I said, let me talk to the attorney. But what would be best, as I told you early on, is for you and Vivian to work it out. Because, as your attorney, I can’t say I feel optimistic about your chances when it comes to winning this thing.”

For the rest of the day, I staggered around as if I’d received a massive body blow.

I didn’t go to work. I didn’t go home. I didn’t visit Marge or Liz, or drop by my parents’ place.

In my speechless fury, in my horror, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Instead, I texted Emily and asked if she could pick London up from school and watch her until I got back into town. She asked me where I was and what was wrong, but I couldn’t answer. I need a few hours alone, I texted back. Thank you.

Then, getting into my car, I started to drive.

Three and a half hours later, I was in Wrightsville Beach, where I parked my car.

The sky was overcast and the wind was bitter. I walked the beach longer than it took me to make the drive, and as I walked, my mind circled from London to Marge to Vivian before starting anew. With it came uncertainty and fear and relentless waves of emotion. I alternated between rage and confusion, heartbreak and terror, and by the time I returned to the car, my cheeks were wind-burned and my soul was numb. I hadn’t eaten all day, yet I wasn’t hungry in the slightest.

I made the drive back to Charlotte and picked up London long after the sky had turned black. It was past London’s bedtime, but thankfully, Emily had fed her. I couldn’t summon the energy to speak to Emily about what had happened just yet; there was so much I still didn’t know how to put into words.

It was Marge to whom I eventually turned, mainly because she left me no other choice.

It was the last Friday in January, and I had agreed to stay with Marge while my mom ran to the pharmacy to refill one of Marge’s prescriptions. By this time, the cancer had progressed to the point where no one was comfortable leaving Marge alone, even for a little while. The living room was illuminated by a single table lamp, and the shades had been drawn at Marge’s request. She said bright light made her eyes ache, but I knew the truth: She didn’t want us to see her clearly, for even a single glance was enough to reveal how sick she really was. So much of Marge’s hair had fallen out that she’d taken to wearing an Atlanta Braves baseball cap whenever she was awake. Even though she was wrapped in a blanket, her continued weight loss was evident in her bony hands and painfully skinny neck, in which her Adam’s apple protruded, knoblike. Her breathing sounded wet and thick, and she had long bouts of coughing and gagging that sent my mom and Liz into a panic. They would pound her back in an effort to dislodge mucus and phlegm, which often came out bloody. She slept more than sixteen hours a day, and her appearance at the open house two weeks earlier was the last time she’d left the house.

She could no longer walk more than a few steps on her own. The cancer in her brain had affected the right side of her body, as if she’d had a stroke. Her right arm and leg were weak, and her eye had begun to droop. She could only offer half smiles.

And yet, as I sat beside her, I found her as beautiful as ever.

“Emily came by yesterday,” she said, the words emerging slowly, and with effort. “I like her so much, Russ. And she truly cares about you. You need to call her,” she said with a pointed look. “You have to talk to her, let her know what’s going on with you. She’s worried about you.”

“Why did she come by?”

“Because I asked to see her. I wanted to spend some time with the woman my brother loves. The new-and-improved model, I mean.” She forced a weak smile. “That’s what I called her. I think she was pleased.”

I smiled. Despite her decline, Marge was still Marge.

She gathered her strength for a moment, and went on. “I think it’s time that I talk to London, too.”

“When?’

“Can you bring her by this weekend?”

“She won’t be here. She’ll be in Atlanta with Vivian.”

“Then how about after school today?”

My sister, in her own way, was telling me that time was running out.

I was suddenly unable to swallow. “All right,” I whispered.

“I want to see Vivian, too. Can you set that up?”

My stomach tightened at the name and I looked away. Still furious and mortified, I could barely tolerate the thought of Vivian, let alone the idea of asking her to visit my dying sister. Marge saw my expression but pressed on.

“I need you to do this for me,” she said. “Please.”

“I’ll text her,” I said, “but I don’t know whether she’ll come. She’s usually on a tight schedule.”

“See what she says,” Marge pressed. She blinked, and I noticed that even her lids were slowing down. “Tell her it’s important to me.”

I reached for my phone and texted Vivian; she responded almost instantly. Of course, the text said. Tell Marge I’ll be there around five.

I let Marge know and watched as she closed her eyes. I thought she was about to fall asleep before she opened them again.