“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.”
When I tilted my head, trying to figure how and when Marge had made these arrangements, Liz ran a hand over her hair, trying to corral loose strands into her messy ponytail.
“Apparently right after she’d passed the CPA and became an accountant, she bought a bunch of life insurance. Two different policies, in fact. She added to them over the years, and it’s quite a lot of money. The larger policy lists me as the beneficiary, and it’s more than I’ll ever need, even if I did decide to have a child on my own. She recently changed the beneficiary on the other policy, to your parents. So your dad can retire. I asked about you…”
I raised my hand, interrupting. “I’m glad it’s going to you and my parents,” I said. She looked confused, as if none of the information she’d recited really made sense to her.
“What I kept wondering when she told me about all this,” Liz continued, “is how did she know? I asked her, and she said that because of her family history, and even though she wasn’t sure who the beneficiaries would eventually be—early on, I think she listed you and your parents—she wanted to make sure she had it just in case she ever needed it.”
“She never told me.”
“She never told me, either,” Liz admitted. “When we were discussing having a baby before she got sick, I guess I never really focused on the cost. We do okay and we’ve saved a bit, but mostly I guess I always trusted that if Marge thought we could afford it, we could…” For a moment, her expression verged on desperation. “I can barely hold myself together. I told her that I didn’t think I was capable of raising a child without her. She was always the more maternal one. And do you know what she said to that?”
I looked at her, waiting.
“She said that I was her inspiration and that any child that I raised would make the world a better place. And that if there’s a heaven, she promised that she would watch over our child forever.”
The following day, it was my turn to say goodbye.
When I arrived at the house, Marge was sleeping as usual. I stayed for a while, keeping an eye on the clock so as not to be late to pick up London from school, but before long the baby monitor in the kitchen crackled and both my mom and Liz hustled back to the bedroom. A few minutes later, my mom returned to the kitchen.
“Marge wants to see you,” she said.
“How is she?”
“She seems pretty coherent, but you should probably head back now. Sometimes she starts to get confused, and doesn’t stay awake long.”
Observing my mom’s steady demeanor, I could see that she was every bit as strong as my father, for she was bearing the unbearable, each and every day.
I held my mom for a moment, then walked down the hall to the bedroom. As on Valentine’s Day, Marge was wearing a pretty scarf, and I guessed that she had asked Liz to put it on her before I came in.
I pulled a chair from the corner of the room and scooted it toward the bed. Liz backed out of the room as I reached for my sister’s hand. It felt warm but lifeless in mine. Unmoving. I didn’t know whether she could even feel it, but I squeezed it anyway.
“Hi, Sis,” I said to her softly.
At my voice, she blinked, then struggled to clear her throat.
“Read,” she said, the word coming out garbled.
It took a moment for me to understand what she meant, but then I spotted the envelope that Liz had placed on the bed stand, and I reached for it. Opening it, I pulled out the single sheet of paper, took a deep breath and began to read.
Marge,
It’s late at night, and I am struggling to find the words that I wish would come more easily. In truth, I’m not sure it’s even possible to convey in words how much you’ve always meant to me. I could tell you that I love you, and that you’re the greatest sister a guy could ever have; I could admit that I’ve always looked up to you. And yet, because I’ve said those things to you before, it feels painfully inadequate. How can I say goodbye to the best person I’ve ever known, in a way she truly deserves?
And then it occurred to me that all of what I need to say can be summed up in just two words.
Thank you.
Thank you for looking out for me all my life, for trying to protect me from my own mistakes, for being a living example of the courage I so desperately wish I owned. But most of all, thank you for showing me what it means to truly love, and be loved, in return.