Nicholas Sparks - Two by Two

“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.

On Saturday, Marge arrived at my house after art class-the very same art class where unbeknownst to my sister, London had fashioned her Christmas gift-to take London roller skating. Liz and I tagged along with them, watching from the gallery as Marge helped London inch around the rink. London, like most kids, kept trying to walk in the skates rather than glide, and it took a good half an hour before London began to master the motion. Had it not been for Marge holding both of London’s hands-Marge was skating backward-my little girl would have wiped out at least twenty times.

However, by the end of the session they were able to skate side by side, albeit slowly, and London was visibly proud as she finally untied the laces with Liz’s help and turned in her skates. I took a seat next to Marge while she bent over and removed her own skates.

“Your arms and back are going to be sore tomorrow,” I predicted. To my eyes, she looked tired, but I couldn’t tell whether it was because she was sick, or because catching London over and over before she fell was understandably exhausting.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “London’s not very heavy. But she is a chatty little thing. She talked and talked the whole time. She even grilled me on what my favorite color of fish was. I had no idea what to tell her.”