Ann Patchett - Commonwealth

Not feeling great.

Just in case.

Love, Mom

That was good enough.

Albie was the single distraction from what, on the third day, she had rather hazily decided was a very intelligent plan. He had called too many times to check on her, and how she explained the situation to him had everything to do with where the phone call fell in the cycle of pain. A few times she simply hadn’t answered. The idea of picking up the phone had overwhelmed her. But then she did answer, and he told her to get up and open the front door. He said that Franny Keating was coming over to see her.

“Franny Keating?”

“She’s in town visiting her father. I asked her to come over and check on you.”

“I know people who can check on me,” Teresa said, sounding pathetic even to herself. She did have friends, she had just made a decision to stay home and experiment with dying.

“I’m sure you do but I was tired of waiting for you to call them. Go open your door. She’s going to be there in a minute.”

Teresa hung up the phone and looked down at herself in her zip-front cotton robe, what her mother had called a model’s coat back in Virginia. She’d been wearing it for three days and it had been crushed by restless sleep and perspiration. She hadn’t taken a bath or brushed her teeth or looked in a mirror since this all began. Franny Keating coming to the house was not the same as Beverly Keating coming to the house, but at this moment Teresa was having a hard time distinguishing the two of them in her mind. Beverly Keating, who was Beverly Cousins, who was now Beverly-something-else, Teresa couldn’t remember what Jeanette had told her other than she’d married again after Bert. Beverly-Something-Else was so bone-crushingly beautiful that even now, fifty years later, it hurt to think of it. Beverly was always in the pictures the children brought back from summer, as if Catherine Deneuve happened to wander by while they were playing in the pool or swinging in swings and stepped accidentally into the frame as the shutter snapped. She did not want to die thinking of Beverly Keating’s beauty. Beverly was younger than Teresa too, not by a lot but it mattered. Beverly wouldn’t even be eighty yet.

A wave of pain broke over her and she had to cling to the back of the recliner to remain upright. It was deep in her pelvis, top to bottom, hip to hip. Uterine cancer? Bone cancer? Could it come on this fast? If she didn’t answer the door the Keating girl would call her father. Albie said she was visiting her father. He would be old himself by now but he would call some cop friend over to break down her door. That’s the way cops work: straight from thought to battering ram. She could feel the sweat breaking out over her scalp. Her short gray hair would be soaked through in a minute. She let go of the recliner and made it over to the front door. Every step made her swear in her head, sonofabitch, sonofabitch. She used it as a mantra, a focal point to calm her breathing, the way Holly had taught her. She opened the front door wide and unlatched the screen, then, having no speed to work with, shuffled back to change her clothes and splash some water on her face. She was hoping there was mouthwash. She didn’t think she had the energy to brush her teeth.

It wasn’t five minutes before she heard a voice, “Mrs. Cousins?” and then five seconds later, the voice was more familiar, “Teresa?” She heard the screen door open.

“One minute.” She pulled up her track pants and pushed her feet into sneakers, ran a towel over her head. It hurt. Her hair was so short but who did she have to impress? Jeanette said she looked like she was coming back from chemo. Holly said she looked like a Buddhist nun. Albie never mentioned her hair.

“It’s Franny,” the voice said.

“I know, Franny. He told me.” Teresa closed her eyes, waited, inhaled sonofabitch, exhaled sonofabitch. It helped a little.

When she came into the living room there were two of them there, a blonde and a brunette. The blonde was aggressively natural, gray in her ponytail, no makeup, a cotton top that tied at the neck with a string. The brunette had more polish but the truth was you wouldn’t look at either one of them twice. Neither was as pretty as Holly or Jeanette. Teresa pushed her mouth into a smile by the sheer force of will.

“This is my sister, Caroline,” the blonde said. “I hope you don’t mind us coming over. Albie was worried about you.”

“He turned out to be a worrier,” Teresa said. She was trying not to pant. “It’s strange, when you think about all the worry he caused us, that he would turn around and worry.”

“I guess it happens,” Caroline said.

Teresa looked at them for a long time. She had seen so many pictures, heard so many stories. Caroline was the aggressive one, Franny placating. They both made good grades in Catholic school but Caroline was smarter. Franny was kinder. “I know this sounds crazy but have I ever met you girls before?” One of them finished law school and one of them dropped out. She couldn’t say she remembered which was which but she could sure tell by looking at them.

“Cal’s funeral,” Franny said. “I think that was the only time.”

Teresa nodded. “I wouldn’t remember it then.”

“How are you feeling?” Caroline asked. Straight down to business. She had authority. Teresa had the feeling that if she lied about anything Caroline would walk over and poke her in the stomach.

“I’ve been sick,” she said, putting her hand on the chair. “But I’m getting better. I’m up now. It’s hard when you get to be my age. Little things knock you out.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see a doctor?” Franny asked.

Had I liked to see a doctor, Teresa thought, I would have seen one. But she wouldn’t be nasty. There was nothing wrong with these girls. Albie had asked them to come. It wasn’t their fault. “No,” she said.

The smarter one squinted slightly. “We’re here. We can drive you over to the hospital. If you have to call an ambulance at eleven o’clock at night it’s going to be a lot harder. I’m sorry to say this but you don’t look great.” Miss Rational Argument. She’d probably already made partner.

“I’m eighty-two,” Teresa said. She could feel the sweat on her face. “I haven’t looked great in a long time.”

“So you’re not going?” Caroline asked. Let the record state the defendant declined the offer for transportation to the hospital despite the advice of counsel.

“I’m sorry my son made you come all the way over here for nothing. If he’d asked me first I would have told him not to call.” They would leave in just a minute and she could sit down. She could fall down. She wouldn’t make it back to bed but the living room couch was all she could ever want.

“Okay,” Franny said, “but my father’s in the car and he wants to say hello to you. Come say hello to my father and we’ll leave you alone.”

“Fix is in the car?”

Franny nodded. “Today’s his birthday. He’s eighty-three. That’s why we’re out here.” Franny waited for a minute but Teresa didn’t make any offers. She decided to up the pot. “Dad has esophageal cancer. He’s very sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Teresa liked Fix Keating. She’d only met him that one time on the terrible day of the fire, but she remembered him as being a very nice man. Albie, radiant in his silent fourteen-year-old rage, had gone to his bedroom and slammed the door while she and Fix sat in the kitchen and had a drink together. There was fresh orange juice in the refrigerator and she made them each a screwdriver. When he tapped his glass to hers he looked her straight in the eye and said, Solidarity . She thought that was just the classiest thing in the world.