Mom runs out of bread, and Libby will want some milk later on, plus I don’t have any extra underwear with me. (Thank goodness I can write this off to packing in a hurry.) So around ten A.M.—even while our dad is lying on an operating table—Chloe and I make a Walgreens run.
“I feel so guilty,” I say as I grab a package of cheap Hanes bikini briefs from the drugstore wall. “I know it doesn’t make any difference whether we’re in the waiting room, or at home hoping the phone will ring, but—buying panties and groceries seems so trivial.”
“It’s trivial until you’re hungry,” Chloe points out. “Besides, what would be the point of the waiting room?”
This isn’t as heartless as it sounds. We live not even a five-minute drive from the hospital, which means the house is as logical a spot to wait as anyplace on-site could be. I know my parents stayed at the house while I was getting my tonsils out; they sat with me on the upstairs gallery while Chloe was in labor.
And if we get bad news, Mom would rather fall apart in private. Even then, she would care about appearances. Then again, I’d probably rather be at home too. Then I wouldn’t have to think about driving back, or pulling myself together to talk to doctors, or anything. I could just let go.
Listen to yourself, I think. You’re telling yourself how to react if your father dies.
Which is when Chloe’s phone rings.
We both freeze. She and I stare at each other, stricken. This is too early for them to be calling, isn’t it? Too early if it’s good news—
Chloe fumbles in her purse for her cell phone. As she lifts it to her ear, she holds her other hand out to me. For this moment we are sisters again, sisters only. Daddy’s little girls.
“Momma?” Chloe’s voice shakes. I can just make out my mother’s voice—high, tremulous—but the words escape me.
Then Chloe smiles, and I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
Thank God. Thank God.
I hug Chloe tightly. She hugs me back like nothing had ever come between us, or ever could.
This truce lasts all of seven minutes.
After we cry our eyes out standing in the Walgreens cosmetics aisle, and Chloe relates the details (went even better than expected, new valve is functioning perfectly), we check out and head back home. As Chloe steers her beige-gold Lexus down Napoleon Avenue, she asks, “What else do we need to do for him? He’s got his bag. We can bring him a couple of books—”
“And his slippers.” We forgot to pack those this morning. Then another idea occurs to me. “We ought to move some of his stuff downstairs and fix up the guest room for him.”
The guest room is a small, closetless space on the first floor separated from the living room by some old sliding doors. It’s not the most luxurious place on earth, but it’s comfortable enough.
Chloe stares at me. “Why would Daddy move into the guest room?”
“He can’t climb those stairs every day right after heart surgery, Chloe.”
“Who said anything about every day? We’ll get him upstairs and take care of him from then on.”
“It might be weeks. Or months.”
“Then we’ll hire someone to stay with him.”
My mother can’t afford that. Anthony and Chloe can, though. Maybe I should be thankful for their generosity, but—“You’re not thinking this through. Dad would hate being stuck up there for forever. He’d much rather be able to eat in the dining room, or go out on the porch swing when Libby’s playing in the yard—”
“You come home twice a year, if that.” Chloe snaps the turn signal, refusing to turn toward me. “It takes an emergency to get you here. Then, when you decide to grace us with the honor of your presence, you think you know what’s best for everyone.”
Count to ten, I tell myself. Deep breaths. “It’s like you said this morning. We’re all upset and tired, so we’re all picking at little things.”
Chloe doesn’t take the graceful way out. “You could be more a part of this family than you are, if you really wanted to be. Obviously, you don’t. It’s fun for you to play with Libby every once in a while, but otherwise you don’t care whether you see us at all.”
That’s not true. But it’s close enough to the truth to sting.
She keeps talking as she steers the Lexus onto St. Charles Avenue. “I don’t know why we bother asking you. All you do is see the worst in things. You’re always looking at the negative. Like now, when you assume Daddy’s going to be an invalid for the rest of his life.”
“That is not what I said.” Looking at the negative? For Chloe, that means I acknowledge reality. “You know what? Let’s ask Dad what he wants once it’s time for him to come home. Then we can do whatever he’d like best.”
Chloe’s shrug means she’ll consider it. By now, however, she’s too invested in our argument to let it drop so easily. “You’re not going to graduate school on the dark side of the moon. You’re in Austin. Why don’t you ever come home, if you care about us so much?”