CHAPTER 24.

December

When I think back on Marge as a teenager, two things come to mind: roller skating, and horror films. In the late eighties and early nineties, roller skating was giving way to Rollerblading; but Marge stayed true to the old-fashioned skates that she had owned as a child I think she had a soft spot for the disco roller rinks of her early childhood. Weekends during her teenage years were spent almost entirely on skates, usually with her Walkman and headphones on... even, remarkably, after she got her driver's license. There were few things she loved more than roller skating unless it was a good horror film.

Although Marge loved romantic comedies like I did, her favorite genre was horror, and she never missed seeing the latest horror movie in its first week of release. It didn't matter to her if the film had been panned by critics and the public alike; she would happily watch it alone if she couldn't find a fellow enthusiast, as devoted to the genre as a groupie to her favorite band. From Nightmare on Elm Street to Candyman to Amityville 4: The Evil Escapes, Marge was a true aficionado of horror, highbrow and low.

When I asked her why she loved horror movies so much, she merely shrugged and said that sometimes she liked to be scared.

I didn't get it, any more than I did the allure of rolling around with wheels on your feet. Why would someone want to be scared? Weren't there more than enough scary things in real life to keep us awake at night?

Now, though, I think I understand.

Marge liked those films precisely because they weren't real. Any fright she felt in the course of the film was quantifiable; it would begin, and then it would end, and she would leave the theater, emotionally spent yet relieved that all was well in the world.

At the same time, she'd been able to confront albeit temporarily one of the hardwired emotions of life, the root of our universal instinct toward fight or flight. By willing herself to stay put despite her fear, I think Marge felt that she would emerge stronger and better equipped to face down whatever actual terrors life had in store for her.

In retrospect, I think that Marge might have been onto something.

Vivian had returned with London on Sunday evening. Before she left, she hugged me, a longer hug than I'd expected. In it, I could sense her concern, but strangely, her body no longer felt familiar to me.

London had enjoyed her visit, but this time she mentioned that she had missed both her fish and Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles. As soon as she got home, we went up to her room, where she told me that she'd had Thanksgiving dinner in a mansion. I guessed that Vivian had introduced our daughter to Spannerman in reaction to seeing London hug Emily at the art studio. To Vivian's mind, no doubt, I'd violated the taboo first, which gave her the right to do so as well.

I suppose I should have cared more, but in that moment, I didn't. I was worn out, and I'd known that London would meet Spannerman sooner or later anyway. What did it matter if it was this weekend, or the next time she was in Atlanta?

What did anything matter anymore?

While London was occupied with the fish, I decided to clean the hamster cage, since I'd let it slide while London was gone. By then, I was accustomed to it, and it took no time at all. I ran the mess to the outdoor garbage can, washed up, then went back upstairs, where London was holding Mr. Sprinkles.

"Are you hungry, sweetie?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Mommy and me ate on the plane."

"Just making sure," I said. I took a seat on the bed, watching her, but mainly thinking about Marge. My sister wanted me to keep living my life, to act as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed and I felt hollowed out, as empty as a junked oil drum. I wasn't sure I was capable of doing as Marge asked, and wasn't sure I even wanted to.

"Guess what?" London said, looking up.

"What, sweetheart?"

"For Christmas, I'm going to make Auntie Marge and Auntie Liz a vase, like I did for Mommy. But this time, I want to paint fishes on it."

"I'm sure they'll love that."

For a moment, London seemed to study me, her gaze unaccountably serious. "Are you okay, Daddy?"

"Yeah," I answered. "I'm okay."

"You seem sad."

I am, I thought. It's all I can do not to fall to pieces.

"I just missed you," I said.

She smiled and came toward me, still holding the hamster.

"Would you like to hold Mr. Sprinkles?"

"Sure," I said, as she gently placed him in my hand. The hamster was soft and light, but I could feel his tiny claws scramble for purchase as he shifted into place. His whiskers twitched and he began to sniff my hand.

"Guess what?" London asked again. I summoned an inquisitive look. "I can read now."

"Yeah?"

"I read Two by Two all by myself. I read it to Mommy."

I wondered if it wasn't so much reading, as reciting from memory after all, we had read it a hundred times together. But again, what did it matter?

"Maybe you could show me later?"

"Okay," she agreed. She put her arms around me and squeezed. "I love you, Daddy."

I caught the scent of the baby shampoo she still used and felt another ache in my heart.

"I love you, too."

She squeezed harder before letting go. "Can I have Mr. Sprinkles back?"

Marge quit work on Monday. I know because I got a text from her saying, I've decided to retire.

I went by her house after I dropped London off at school. Work could wait. I didn't care what she wanted; what I wanted was to see my sister. Liz answered the door, and I could tell she'd recently been crying, though only a trace of redness in her eyes remained.

I found Marge propped on the couch with her legs tucked up, wrapped in a blanket. Pretty Woman was playing on the television. It brought back a flood of memories, and all at once, I saw Marge as a teenager again. Back when she had an entire life in front her, a life measured in decades, not months.

"Hey there," she said, hitting the pause button. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at work?"

"I know the boss," I answered. "He says it's okay if I'm a little late today."

"Smart-ass."

"I learned from the best." Marge made room, and I plopped down on the couch next to her.

"Admit it: You got my text, and you came over because you're jealous that I've finally quit the rat race." She gave a defiant grin. "I figured it was time to live a little."

I struggled in vain for a snappy comeback, and in the silence, Marge poked my ribs with her feet. "Lighten up," she said. "No doom and gloom allowed in this house." She peeked over her shoulder. "Was Liz okay?" she finally whispered.

"I guess so," I answered. "We didn't really talk."

"You should," she said. "She's actually a very nice person."

"Are you done?" I asked with a halfhearted smile. "How are you feeling, anyway?"

"A lot better than yesterday," she answered. "Which reminds me can I take London roller skating this weekend?"

"You want to take London roller skating?" My disbelief must have shown, because Marge bristled.

"Believe it or not, I refuse to let all of you keep me cooped up in the house, and I think London will enjoy it. I know I will."

Left unsaid was that it would likely be something that London would remember forever, since it would be her first time. "When was the last time you even went roller skating?"

"What do you care? It's not like I've forgotten how to do it. If you recall, I used to be pretty good."

It's not that, I thought to myself. I'm wondering whether you'll have the strength. I looked away toward the screen, convinced that Marge was in denial. In the freeze-frame image on the television, Julia Roberts was in a bar, confronting her roommate about money. Though I hadn't seen the movie in years, I could still recall the film practically scene by scene. "Okay," I said. "But only if you hit play so we can watch the movie."

"You want to waste your morning watching Pretty Woman? Instead of earning money?"

"It's my life," I said.

"Well, just don't make it a habit, okay? You're welcome to come by after work, but not before. I'll probably start needing my beauty rest."

"Just hit the play button already."

She lifted her eyebrow slightly and pointed the remote. "I just started it a few minutes ago."

"I know."

"We used to watch this together."

"I know," I said again. "Just like I also know you've always had a crush on Julia Roberts."

She laughed as the movie started up again, and for the next couple of hours, my sister and I watched the movie, calling out lines and sharing a running commentary, just like when we were kids.

After the movie, Marge went to the bedroom to take a nap while Liz and I drank coffee in the kitchen.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," Liz admitted, with the expression of someone overtaken by events she can hardly comprehend. "In Costa Rica, she seemed fine. She barely coughed and it was hard for me to keep up with her. I don't understand how she could seem so healthy a month ago, and now..." She shook her head in bewilderment. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I canceled my appointments today and tomorrow, but Marge basically forbade me from taking a leave of absence. She wants me to continue working at least a few days a week, insisting that your mom can fill in as needed. That we should work out a schedule, or whatever." When she raised her eyes, they were full of pain. "It's like she doesn't want me around."

"It's not that," I said, covering her hand with my own. "She loves you. You know that."

"Then why is she essentially telling me to stay away? Why can't she understand that I just want to be with her as much as possible, for as long as possible?"

She squeezed my hand in return as she stared out the window, unseeing.

"She still wants to go to New York next week," she finally added.

"You're not seriously thinking of going, are you?" Roller skating was one thing, but a sightseeing trip to one of the busiest cities in the world?

"I don't know what to do. She asked the doctor about it last night, and he said that if she was feeling up to it, there was no reason for her not to go since it's between chemo sessions. But how can I go and not think to myself, This will be the last time Marge sees this, or, This will be Marge's only chance to do that that?"

She was looking to me for an answer, but I knew there wasn't anything I could say.

Most of her questions, after all, were the same as my own, and I had no answers, either.

On Tuesday morning, the first day of December, I got a text from Marge, asking London and me to dinner that night. It was a subtle way of telling me not to swing by the house before that.

The thought depressed me, and after dropping London off at school, I arranged to meet Emily for coffee. In jeans and a thick turtleneck sweater, she looked as fresh-faced and youthful as a college student.

"You look tired," she observed. "Are you holding up okay?"

"I'm surviving," I answered, pushing a weary hand through my hair. "I'm sorry for not calling the last couple of days."

She raised her hands immediately. "Don't be. I can't imagine what you're going through. I've been worried about you."

For whatever reason, her words were a comfort. "Thanks, Em," I said. "That means a lot to me."

"Do you want to tell me what's going on?" she said, touching my arm.

For the next hour I rambled on, my cup of coffee gradually cooling to room temperature. Listening to myself, I realized that since Emily had come back into my life, I'd been careening from one emotional catastrophe to the next. Even as she held me later, I found myself marveling that she was still willing to put up with me.

For dinner that night, Liz went out of her way to cook something she knew London would enjoy Shake'N Bake chicken, seasoned potatoes, and a fruit salad.

My mom was just leaving as we arrived, and I walked her out to her car. Before she got in, she paused.

"Marge is refusing to let me give up any of my clubs," my mom said. "In fact, she insisted that I stick to the very same schedule, but Russ..." She frowned in concern. "She doesn't how bad it's going to get. She's going to need help. It's like she's in denial."

I nodded, signaling that I'd been thinking the same thing.

"Do you know what she said to me just now? She wants Dad to come by to fix a few of the railings on the porch because they've got some dry rot. And some of the windows are sticking. And there's a leaking sink in the bathroom. She was so insistent about getting these things fixed. As if that even matters right now." She gave me a baffled look. "Why would she be making such a fuss about a few porch railings? Or the windows?"

Though I didn't respond, it finally dawned on me, what Marge was doing. I suddenly knew why she wanted me to only come by in the evenings; why she was having Liz and my mom split time with her. I knew why she wanted my dad to come over and make repairs on the house, and why she was insisting on taking London roller skating.

Marge, more than anyone, knew that each of us not only wanted private time with her, but were going to need it, before the end.

With the side effects of the initial chemotherapy treatment diminishing over the course of the week, Marge grew steadily stronger. And all of us wanted to believe her treatment was working, because we so desperately craved even a few more months with her.

I know now that only Marge understood on some intuitive level what was really going on inside her body. She bowed to treatment in the first place simply because it was what all of us wanted her to do. In hindsight, I realize that she understood, even as she'd said yes, that it wouldn't slow the progress of the disease at all.

To this day, I still wonder how she knew.

Liz and my mom organized a schedule, such that one of them would always be at the house during the day, once Marge and Liz returned from New York.

The Friday following my dinner at Marge's, my dad took a morning off work and showed up at Marge's with his tool chest and a pile of precut railings in his trunk. He began the slow process of repair and took a break at lunch; Marge and my dad had sandwiches and sweet tea on the back porch, admiring my dad's handiwork to that point and discussing the Braves' prospects for the following year's season.