Two By Two

Wonderful aromas always floated from Marge’s kitchen these days, as my mom tried desperately to make food that would tempt Marge into eating more. There were soups and stews and sauces and pasta; banana cream and lemon meringue pies and homemade vanilla ice cream. The refrigerator and freezer were stuffed, and every time I came by, she handed me food for my refrigerator, which had gradually filled as well.

Whenever Marge was awake, my mom would set a tray in front of her; by the second week of February, my mom had begun to feed her because her left side was growing weaker as well. She would carefully raise the spoon to her lips, wiping her mouth between bites, and then offer my sister a sip of something to drink through a straw.

While Marge ate, my mom would talk. She would talk about Dad and the way the young new owner of the plumbing business was giving Dad a hard time for missing so much work. By that time, my dad had probably accrued years of vacation time, but the owner was the kind of guy who was never happy, a man who demanded more from the employees while demanding less of himself.

She described the tulips she’d planted for my dad and the lecture she’d attended with her Red Hat Society friends; she also regaled Marge with things that London had told her, no matter how inconsequential. More than once, I heard my mom pretend to be upset that no one had notified her in advance about Marge’s and London’s roller-skating adventure.

“I picked you up and dropped you off so many times at that rink that my tires made tire grooves in the parking lot asphalt – and you forgot to mention when my granddaughter was trying it for the very first time?”

I knew that she was only half-teasing, that she would have loved to have been there, and I silently berated myself for it. My mom, after all, not only wanted to see London on skates that day; she’d wanted to see her own daughter, skating with abandon and joy on her face – one last time.

As the second week of February rolled around, I had the sensation that time was simultaneously speeding up and slowing down There was a slow-motion quality to the hours I spent at Marge’s every day, marked by long stretches of silence and sleep; on the other hand, each time I showed up, it seemed that Marge’s deterioration was accelerating. One afternoon before pickup, I stopped by and found her awake in the living room. She and Liz were speaking in low voices, so I offered to leave, but Liz shook her head.

“Stay,” Liz said. “I was about to touch base with one of my clients anyway. It’s an emergency. You two talk for a bit. I’m hoping this won’t take long.”

I took a seat by my sister. I didn’t ask her how she was feeling, because I knew it was a question she hated. Instead, as always, she asked about Emily and work, London and Vivian, her voice slurred and tinny. Because she tired so easily, I did most of the talking. Toward the end, though, I asked if I could ask her a question.

“Of course,” she said, her syllables running together.

“I wrote you a letter for Christmas, but I never heard what you thought about it.”

She smiled her half smile, the one I’d grown used to. “I haven’t read it yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said, “I’m not ready to say goodbye to you just yet.”

I confess that I sometimes wondered if she’d ever have a chance to read it. Over the next three days, whenever I went to the house, Marge was always asleep, usually in her bedroom.

I would stay for an hour or two, visiting with Liz or my mom, whoever happened to be around. I would admire the latest repairs or renovations that my dad had undertaken, and more often than not eat a large plate of food that my mom would put down in front of me.

We almost always stayed in the kitchen. I thought at first it was because no one wanted to disturb Marge while she was sleeping, but I discounted that when I realized if that my dad’s hammering wasn’t enough to wake her, our low voices wouldn’t either.

I finally figured it out one afternoon, when Liz stepped outside to sweep the porch. At loose ends, I wandered to the living room and took a seat in the spot where Marge and I usually sat.

My dad was working away quietly in the bathroom, but I realized I could hear a strange, rhythmic sound, like a malfunctioning fan or vent. Unable to pinpoint its origin, I moved first to the kitchen and then to the bathroom, where I spotted my dad lying on his back with his head beneath the new sink, in the final stages of hooking it up. But the sound was fainter in both those places; it grew in volume only as I began to make my way down the hallway, and it was then that I knew what was making that horrible noise.

It was my sister.

Despite the closed door, across the far reaches of the house, what I’d been hearing was the sound of my sister breathing.

Valentine’s Day fell on a Sunday that year. Marge had planned a special gathering at her house, even inviting Emily and Bodhi, and I brought London over as soon as she got back from Atlanta.

For the first time in two weeks, London and I arrived to find Marge sitting upright on the couch. Someone – maybe my mom, maybe Liz – had helped her apply a little makeup. Instead of the baseball cap, Marge wore a gorgeous silk scarf, and a thick turtleneck sweater helped disguise the weight she’d lost. Despite the tumor ravaging her brain, she was able to follow the conversation, and I even heard her laugh once or twice. There were moments when it almost felt like one of our usual Saturday or Sunday afternoons at our parents’.

Almost.

The house itself had never looked better. My dad had finished the guest bathroom and the new tiles and sink gleamed, reflecting state-of-the-art fixtures. He’d also spent the last week repainting all of the interior trim in the house. My mom had laid out a veritable banquet on every surface of the kitchen, and as soon as Emily arrived, my mom made her promise to take a mountain of leftovers home with her, including whatever was left of the pies.