We rehashed a lot of family stories, but the highlight of the evening was when Liz presented her Valentine’s Day gift to Marge. She’d made a photo album of the two of them that opened with photos of each of them as infants, and progressed through their entire lives. On the left-hand pages were photos of Liz; on the right, Marge. I knew that my mom must have helped Liz compile the photos and as Marge slowly turned the pages, I watched my sister and Liz grow up in tandem before my eyes.
Eventually the album began to feature photos of the two of them together, some taken on exotic trips while others were merely candid shots taken around the house. No matter how formal or casual, however, each photo seemed chosen to tell a story about a particularly meaningful moment in their lives together. The entire album was a testament to their love, and I found myself close to tears.
It was the final two pages of the album that broke me.
On the left was the photo of Marge and Liz beneath the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree in New York, the last trip they would ever take together; on the right was a photo that looked to have been taken only a couple of hours earlier, with Marge looking exactly as she did right then.
Liz explained that my dad had taken it, and that unbeknownst to her had left to get it developed at a nearby drugstore. Upon his return, he asked Liz to add it to the last page of the album.
All eyes turned toward him.
“I’ve always been so proud of you,” my dad choked out as he looked at Marge, “and I want you to know that I love you, too.”
The day after Valentine’s Day, the waiting began.
I now believe that on Valentine’s Day, Marge used much of her last remaining reserves of energy. She slept almost the entire day Monday and ate no solid food from that point on, sipping only tepid chicken broth through a straw.
While my mom and dad were a constant presence at Marge’s house, I drifted in and out, mainly because of London. She had been unusually volatile since learning the truth about Marge, occasionally throwing a tantrum or bursting into tears over trivial things. She would get particularly emotional when I refused her requests to visit Marge, but it was difficult to explain to London that her aunt was almost always sleeping now.
However, a few days following the Valentine’s Day celebration, Liz called me at home in the evening.
“Can you bring London by?” she said urgently. “Marge wants to see her.”
I called up to London, who was already upstairs in her pajamas, her hair still wet from her bath. She raced down the stairs and would have rushed straight to the car, but I managed to block the door in order to get her to put on a jacket. When I pointed out that she wasn’t wearing shoes, she randomly grabbed a pair of rubber boots from the closet and slipped those on, despite the fact that it wasn’t raining.
I saw she was holding a Barbie, refusing to put it down even while donning her coat.
When we arrived at Marge’s house, Liz gave London a hug and kiss and immediately pointed her in the direction of the master bedroom.
Despite her fevered rush to the car, London hesitated for a moment before starting slowly down the hall. I trailed a few steps behind. Again, I could hear my sister, the sound of life leaving her with every breath she took. Inside her room, the bed-stand lamp spilled a warm pool of light onto the hardwood floor.
London paused just inside the doorway.
“Hi… honey,” Marge said to her, the words slurred, but understandable.
London cautiously approached the bed, moving quietly so as not to disturb her sick aunt. I leaned against the doorjamb, watching as London reached Marge’s side.
“What… do you… have there?” Marge asked.
“I brought you a present,” London responded, handing over the doll she’d been clutching all along. “It’s my favorite Barbie because I’ve had her since I was little. She’s my first Barbie, and I want you to have it.”
When London realized that Marge didn’t have the strength to take it, she set it beside Marge, propping it against my sister as she lay beneath the covers.
“Thank you. She’s pretty… but you’re… prettier.”
London bowed her head and raised it again. “I love you, Auntie Marge. I love you so much. I don’t want you to die.”
“I know… and… I love you… too. But I… have something… for you. Auntie Liz put it… on the dresser. One day… when you’re old enough… maybe you can… watch it with your dad… okay? And maybe… when you do… you’ll think about me. Can you… promise me… you’ll do that?”
“I promise.”
My eyes flashed to the dresser. I saw the DVD that Marge had given my daughter and I blinked back sudden tears as I saw the title.
Pretty Woman.
“Marge thinks I should still have a baby,” Liz told me over coffee in the kitchen, a few days later. Her expression was a mixture of fatigue and bewilderment.
“When did she tell you this?”
“Well, she first brought it up when we went to New York,” she said. “She keeps pointing out that I’m healthy enough to do it, but…” She trailed off.
I waited for her to go on, but she seemed lost. “Do you want to do that?” I asked in a tentative voice.
“I don’t know, Russ – it’s all just so hard to contemplate right now. I can’t imagine doing it on my own, but she brought it up again yesterday.” For a moment she picked at the grain of the kitchen table, making a small groove in the wood. “She told me that she’d already made financial arrangements, in case I felt differently down the road. That I’d be able to afford IVF, a nanny if I wanted, schooling, even.”