Samantha pursed her lips and turned her wedding ring around and around on her finger.
‘And before we go, we’re also going to see the jackalope,’ Stella added.
‘Maybe we’ll see the jackalope,’ I said. ‘If we have time.’
‘…jackalope?’ Samantha asked weakly.
‘Oh, it’s amazing,’ Stella gushed. ‘You’ll never see anything like it in your life.’
Samantha blinked furiously. Finally, she pointed at Stella’s black satin gloves. ‘Why are you wearing those? You are cold, aren’t you?’
‘Not at all, dear.’ Stella turned her wrists under.
Samantha pursed her pink lips. ‘What are those even made out of?’ She reached and pulled at the very tip of the left glove’s thumb. Stella made a pained noise.
‘Samantha, don’t,’ I said sharply.
The glove bagged around Stella’s thin arms, so Samantha barely had to pull to get it off. Stella slithered around to hide her arm, but we all got a good look at the bruises. There were the green spots in the crook of her elbow, the purplishblue welts by her wrist, the black blotches on the top of her palm, not from any recent hospital visits-she’d finally given in and gotten a chemo port-but from months ago. Not unusual, for all the treatments she’s had, the doctor assured us. Chemotherapy makes you bruise very easily.
It was as if a curtain had been ripped back. Samantha fell silent, letting the satin glove drop to the table. I snatched it up and handed it back to Stella, who shoved it on her arm as quickly as she could, which wasn’t as fast as she’d have liked.
‘I just like the gloves,’ Stella said stubbornly. ‘I think they’re pretty. All right?’
‘Of course,’ Samantha said quickly. It seemed like she was becoming less whole before our eyes, the way a photo bleached out in the sun. She cleared her throat. ‘You know, if we want to go to Wal-Mart, we should go today. Because I really should leave later this evening. My conference starts really early tomorrow morning, and I should get there as soon as I can.’
‘But we have your bedroom ready for you,’ Stella protested. It was true-we had been under the impression that Samantha was going to stay the night.
‘No, I was always leaving today. I didn’t say that?’ Samantha smoothed her hand over the lacy doily on the coffee table, avoiding looking at us. ‘They really need me at my conference. And I’m up for an award.’
‘An award!’ Stella weakly clapped her hands. ‘Well, then! What kind of award?’
‘A…real-estate award.’ Samantha looked at me, her eyes pleading.
I could tell she’d just tacked this on in a panic. Stella had probably caught on to this already, I realized next. But we both gave in. What was the point of arguing? ‘Well, all right,’ I said. ‘I guess we could go today. Stella, you up for going to Wal-Mart today?’
‘I think I could manage,’ Stella said, putting a gloved hand to a yellowish cheek.
‘Good,’ I answered. I raised my wine glass and looked at Samantha. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ Samantha answered, snapping back to her new self. In a few minutes, she carried her wine glass to the sink and poured it down the drain.
19
My father hadn’t seemed that surprised when I gave up my fellowship two years ago, and he hadn’t pushed me to explain why I’d stayed. After I watched my flight to Dublin take off, I’d come home and picked up the dogs from Mrs Church, the woman down the street who’d volunteered to adopt them until my father was back from his ‘rest cure’-his description, not mine. Mrs Church seemed so relieved when I showed up at the door, saying that as soon as I had left, the dogs had eaten a shepherd’s pie that was sitting on her kitchen counter, knocked over a coffee pot, and lapped up the coffee. Only Wesley greeted Mrs Church when she returned to the kitchen, leading Mrs Church to believe that he either had some remorse for what he’d done, or that he possibly wasn’t involved at all.
That Christmas of 1998, the first Christmas he was at the Center, he and I celebrated in the facility’s common room with some of the other patients. There was a fir tree in the middle of the room, a roaring fire in the fireplace, and six inches of glittering snow outside. My father squealed when he saw I’d brought Wesley with me, which only reminded me that he never squealed when he saw me.
Bing Crosby was on constant repeat on the Center’s stereo. There was a marathon game of Scrabble, the aides making sure no one used any words that would upset anyone else. Everyone ate with plastic utensils, and the pecan pie was eschewed because everyone seemed to have a nut allergy. It didn’t really feel like Christmas.