“It was a rubber skullcap, Mama.”
“Still. It makes a woman’s eyes look beautiful. I do wish I’d brought my makeup though. You could use a little blush, maybe a touch of liner. Meghann should have told me. And I’ll pick you up a pretty little bed jacket. Maybe with some fur around the collar. I remember a dress I once wore to the—”
“Mama.” Claire tried to lean forward. The effort clearly cost her. “There’s a tumor eating through my brain.”
Mama’s smile fluttered. “That’s awfully graphic of you, darlin’. We Southern women—”
“Please, Mama. Please.”
Mama sank into her chair. She seemed to lose mass somehow, become smaller, ordinary, until the flapping black outfit swallowed her up, leaving behind a thin, heavily made-up woman who’d had one too many face-lifts. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
It was the first time in twenty years Meghann had heard her mother’s real voice. Instead of the sweet lilt of the South, it had the pinched flatness of the Midwest.
“Oh, Mama,” Claire said, “of course you don’t. You never wanted children. You wanted an audience. I’m sorry. I’m too tired to be polite. I want you to know that I love you, Mama. I always did. Even when you … looked away.”
Looked away.
That was how Mama always put it: I was standing there one day, takin’ care of my babies, then I looked away for a minute, and they were both gone.
It had been easier, Meghann thought, than confronting the fact that Mama had simply let Claire go.
“Sam was a good man,” Mama said so softly they had to strain to hear it. “The only good one I ever found.”
“Yes, he was,” Claire agreed.
Mama waved her hand airily. “But y’all know me. I’m not one to go pickin’ through the past.” The accent was back. “I keep movin’. That’s always been my way.”
They’d lost Mama; whatever opportunity had been opened by the sight of Claire’s illness had closed. Mama had rallied. She stood up. “I don’t want to tire you out. I’m goin’ to run over to Nordstrom and buy y’all some makeup. Would you mind if a friend of mine took a little picture of us together?”
“Mama—” Meghann warned.
“Sure,” Claire said, sagging back into the pillows. “Meghann, would you send Bobby and Ali in? I want to kiss them before I take another nap.”
Mama bent down and kissed Claire’s forehead, then barreled out of the room. Meghann almost fell into her when she left. Mama was standing in the hallway.
“Makeup, Mama?”
“I don’t care if she is dyin’, there’s no need to let herself go like that.” Mama’s composure cracked.
Meghann reached out.
“Don’t you dare touch me, Meggy. I couldn’t take it.” She turned and walked away, skirts flapping behind her, heels clattering on the floor.
There wasn’t a single person who didn’t look at her as she passed.
Claire grew weaker. By her second day in the hospital, she wanted simply to sleep.
Her friends and family had begun to exhaust her. They’d shown up religiously. All of them. The Bluesers had descended on her tiny hospital room, bringing life and laughter, flowers and fattening food, and Claire’s favorite movies. They talked and told jokes and remembered old times. Only Gina had had the guts to brave the harsh, icy landscape of Claire’s fear.
“I’ll always be there for Ali, you know,” she said when everyone else had gone to the cafeteria.
Claire had never loved her friend as much as in that moment. No wartime charge ever took more courage. “Thank you,” was all she’d been able to say. Then, softly, “I haven’t been able to tell her yet.”
“How could you?”
Gina’s eyes met hers, filling slowly with tears. They’d both been thinking about how a woman said good-bye to her five-year-old daughter. After a long pause, Gina smiled. “So. What are we going to do about your hair?”
“I thought I’d cut it off. Maybe dye what’s left of it platinum.”
“Very chic. We’ll all look like old housewives next to you.”
“That’s my dream now,” Claire said, unable to help herself. “Becoming an old housewife.”
Ultimately, as much as she loved to see her friends, she was glad when they went home. Late that night, in the quiet darkness, she gave in to the meds and fell asleep.
She woke with a start.
Her heart was pounding too fast, skipping beats. She couldn’t seem to breathe, couldn’t sit up. Something was wrong.
“Claire, are you okay?” It was Bobby. He was sitting beside her bed. He’d obviously been sleeping. Rubbing his eyes, he stood up, came to her bedside. For a second, she thought it was a hallucination, that the Pacman tumor had eaten through the good parts of her brain and left her crazy. Then he moved closer to the bed, and she heard the jingle of the keys.
“Bobby,” she whispered, trying in vain to lift her heavy, heavy arms.