by Leslie Gould
Jill wanted anything but adventure. She wanted her stomach to settle down. She wanted a good night’s sleep. She wanted Liam to sit still. She wanted life to be the way it had been before Rob was stressed out by his job, before she felt sick all the time.
Caye slung the near-empty gallon of milk into the refrigerator. Yesterday Gwen was sure that Caye had made a mistake on the grocery list. “Surely the kids wouldn’t go through three gallons of milk before it goes bad,” she said as she carried in the sacks of groceries. “And all this food! Are you throwing a party every night?”
“Not just every night,” Caye answered sarcastically. “All night long.”
She walked into the living room to check on Jill. She was asleep. Her breathing was ragged. It came and went—sometimes her breathing was smooth and peaceful, other times it rattled. Simon sat on the floor by the bed and tore a page out of a Family Fun magazine. He looked at Caye with an impish smile. Scout was sprawled by the front door.
Caye felt so unprepared. So inadequate.
“We already cleaned your house,” Bev called out to Caye as she swept through Jill’s back door, Marion in tow. “Now we’re going to clean Jill’s. But first Marion needs to talk to her. You and I should go to the family room—with the kids.”
Caye stood and looked at her mother in wonder and concern. How had she gotten Marion to do anything? What did Marion want to talk with Jill about?
She scooped up Simon and headed down the basement stairs. The three older children were playing with LEGOs—Liam was zoned out on the couch sucking his thumb and watching a Winnie the Pooh video.
“She’s an odd egg,” Bev whispered to Caye as she pulled the stair door closed.
Caye nodded her head. “I know.”
“She has a bizarre story to tell Jill.”
“Really?” Caye asked, thinking about Marion’s breast cancer. Could it be worse than that? They sat down at Jill’s workbench, out of earshot of the children.
“If it’s hereditary, Jill got it from her father and her mother.”
“From both sides of the family?”
“Not exactly,” Bev said.
“Then what do you mean?”
“There’s basically just one side to Jill’s family.” Bev shook her head, closing one eye as if it might help her think more clearly. “No, that’s not entirely true. There’s Marion’s mother’s side. And William’s mother’s side. And then their father’s side.”
“Mom, you’re not making sense,” Caye said, shaking her head.
“This is the secret that I never told you,” Marion said to Jill, standing above the bed. Her gray, short hair curled a little around her ears. She wore tan pants and a bright blue short-sleeve blouse that accented her eyes.
“I was eight when my father died from pancreatic cancer. He was in his second marriage. I knew that his mother, my grandmother, lived in the next town over, but I never met her.
“I lived with my mother until she died. I was twenty-six then. I’d worked in a men’s store—selling hats and trousers and shoes—since I was eighteen. The fall after my mothers death, a good-looking man in his forties started coming into the shop. He was from Chicago. He bought expensive shirts and shoes, always carefully chosen. Sometimes he would come in several times to ask questions and look around before he made a purchase.”
Marion paused a moment. Jill nodded her head. She knew the man was her father.
“He took a liking to me. I was flattered. It seemed, after a few weeks, that he was coming in to see me and just buying clothes as an excuse.”
Jill thought of her mother, how she might have looked nearly forty-five years ago. Tall and thin. Dark hair. Blue eyes flashing with a quick, self-conscious smile.
“I didn’t know the stranger’s name. He always paid with cash, and I didn’t ask. One day the shop owner said ‘Hello, William,’ when the man came in. William. I liked that. William was my fathers name, although everyone called him Bill.
“A week or two later the shop owner asked me how long my ‘kin’ would be in town. He asked it an odd way. I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I didn’t answer.
“When William came in the next day, I asked him when he would be going back to Chicago. He said he wasn’t sure. His grandmother had died, and he was settling her estate. He was staying at the hotel close to the store while he put her house in order. Said it was too sad for him to stay at the old place.”
Jill moved the hospital bed into a sitting position. She patted the side of the bed for Marion to sit down. Marion pulled the dining room chair around from the end of the bed and sat down.
“My grandmother, whom I had never met, had just died too. At least that’s what my busybody neighbor had told me. I’d seen my grandmother just one time. This neighbor attended her church. She told me exactly what my grandmother looked like. I visited the church—just once. I sat in the balcony and stared down at the back of my grandmother’s head. She wore a big white hat with a purple ribbon. The message was on forgiveness. I was so disgusted that I left before the closing prayer.
“The next day when William came into the store to buy a handkerchief, I was nervous, practically shaking, as I asked him his last name.
“It was Linsey.” Marion paused.
Jill waited for her to go on. What had she missed? This seemed to be the climax of Marion’s story. What was Marion saying?
“My last name was Linsey too.” Marion looked at Jill for a reaction. “I thought it was Morgan,” Jill said.
“That was my middle name, from my mothers maiden name.”
“You were cousins?”
“No,” Marion paused.
Go on, Jill thought.
“Siblings. He was my half-brother.”
Jill tilted her head away from her mother.
“Are you serious?” she whispered.
Marion continued as if Jill hadn’t spoken.
“We ran off together—it was an overnight decision. William gave his cousin, our cousin, Ada the old place, and he took the money from the estate and we headed to California. I had felt so cheated by my father’s family. I finally was getting what I deserved—half the money, a new start, and the only son. It all began with such intensity, such passion, such abandon, but within a year we essentially lived like the brother and sister that we were.”
“Essentially?” Jill asked. “Except for me?”
“Except for you.”
Marion paused again.
Jill’s head ached. She remembered the shame she felt as a child, shame from Marion that she could never comprehend. Pain shot through her abdomen. She struggled to breathe.
“Ada told us not to have children. Her mother, our father’s sister, had died from pancreatic cancer too, just after Ada was born. ‘You’ll curse your kids,’ she said. That was all she said when William told her we were running away. I thought her advice was well given, and besides, I never wanted children.” Marion looked away from Jill.
“It turns out your father did. I thought I was going through the change before I figured out I was pregnant. I knew of a doctor in LA. who could have taken care of things. Your father made me promise I wouldn’t. He started bringing home maternity dresses and things for a nursery, all carefully chosen, top quality. It put a spark in our lives.” Marion looked back toward Jill and made eye contact.
Jill shook her head, but her mother kept talking. All these years she wouldn’t talk; now she wouldn’t stop.
They led a quiet life, Marion explained. William sold real estate; Marion kept his books. When Jill was born, William, now in his late fifties, doted on her. He started buying rentals “to pay for Jill’s college.”
Jill thought of her father. She remembered the smell of his pipe, the smell of his polished wingtip shoes, the texture of his felt hat. She remembered his blue eyes. The same as Marion’s. The same as hers.
“Then your fath
er came down with the flu. Finally he went to the doctor. The doctor told him to stop drinking, said it was his liver. William stopped. But he was still sick. I told the doctor to test for the cancer. I was right.”
Jill thought of her father on the daybed, writhing in pain. She thought of the graveside service. Just a handful of people—a few neighbors, a few Realtors from his office.
“I was petrified,” Marion said. “How was I going to support you?
Marion looked down at the floor. “I know I wasn’t a good mother. William would have gone to your games, your art shows, tucked you in at night, been home when you got home from school. He never would have talked you into getting an abortion. I’m sorry,” Marion said quietly.
“Pardon?”
“I’m sorry.
“You’re sorry?”
Marion nodded. She took another breath and rushed on.
“I didn’t call the doctor when I found my lump. A month later you called from Argentina and told me you were pregnant—with Hudson. When you told me you were due in mid June, I figured out you were four months along. I knew you’d waited that long to tell me because you thought I wouldn’t be pleased.
“But I was pleased. I called the doctor that day and insisted on an appointment immediately.
“I knew you’d be a good parent. Like your dad.”
“But you didn’t want me to have kids?”
“Not at first. I kept thinking about Ada’s mother dying, coming down with pancreatic cancer not too long after Ada was born. After you were pregnant with Hudson—of course I wanted you to have him—I just didn’t want you to keep having more.”
Jill closed her eyes.
“If I had told you sooner, that you had a double genetic dose of it, would you have taken me seriously about the cancer? Not had more kids?”
“Do you think I came down with it because I had Liam and Simon?” Jill’s eyes flew open wide. “I don’t know.”
“I would have been miserable without my kids. All those years you droned on and on about pan-cre-at-ic can-cer. I decided, after the abortion, that I wasn’t going to listen to you, that I was going to live my life the way I wanted.” Jill closed her eyes. Her eyelids felt thin and papery. “I have no regrets—except that I didn’t have more of a relationship with you.”
“But what if the boys get it?” Marion asked.
“Don’t ask that,” Jill commanded. “They’re never going to get it.”
“When Marion told me her story,” Bev said, “I told her to tell Jill. That Jill deserved to know.”
What if it’s too much for Jill to handle? Caye wondered. The whole story made Caye feel unsettled, icky. Why had she been so sure that Jill needed to patch things up with her mother?
“You should go up and check on Jill,” Bev said to Caye. “Marion’s had enough time.”
The video was over, and Liam was bouncing on the couch. He somersaulted off and fell on the floor.
“I’ll get him,” Bev said, before Liam let out a scream. “Go up to Jill.”
Caye found Marion sitting silently, staring at her daughter. Jill’s eyes were closed.
“Is she asleep?” Caye asked. Marion nodded.
They were traveling, riding along through an orchard, in a pickup. Hank’s pickup. Caye was driving. Jill turned to her and said, “I have cancer.”
She felt foolish as she said it. The words sounded so improbable. And besides, she felt fine.
Caye turned toward her. But it wasn’t Caye. It was William. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So sorry.”
“Who will take care of Mommy?” she asked her father.
30
“I’m going for a walk,” Caye said to Bev in her most nonchalant, everything-is-fine voice. “Jill’s asleep. So are the little boys. Can you keep an eye on things?”
She crossed the street and headed toward the park, past the neighbors’ towering cedar tree, past the perfect Craftsman house that she often dreamed of buying, but knew they never could afford. She was walking downhill, pumping her arms, keeping up a furious pace.
She could feel the sweat bead on her brow, feel it begin to collect on the backs of her knees.
She cut down to High Street and then on to Winburn Way, swinging around to the front of the park. She was sure she’d restore some order to the swirl in her head if she could walk the familiar paths, pound out the churning emotions and thoughts.
Purposefully she walked under the towering “tree of heaven” planted by a homesick Chinese cook 150 years ago. Homesick. That was how she felt. She was mourning the world she’d lived in for the last four years, grieving its loss. There. She’d acknowledged it. Or almost.
Jill was dying.
She stopped briefly at the first pond. How many times had she and Jill and the kids fed the ducks and swans? Sat on the bench? Chased Liam away from the water?
She couldn’t stay. She hurried along the pebbled walkway, eyes ahead to the bridge, the creek, the dirt trail just beyond the playground. Caye.
It was a familiar voice.
“Caye!”
Joya stood in the middle of the playground. She began to walk away from Louise, who sat on a swing, toward Caye.
“I was just thinking about you and Jill,” Joya said. “I was praying for Jill as I pushed the swing.”
“Hi,” Caye said, standing with her arms at her side.
“I dropped Thomas off at the college. He’s finishing up his grades. I need to go get him in a few minutes. I thought we might stop and see Jill on our way home.”
“Her moms there,” Caye said stupidly, thinking she should say her parents were at Jill’s too. But she didn’t.
“Oh,” Joya said. “That’s good. Things always seem tense between Jill and her mom. Are they working things out?”
Caye looked at her blankly.
Joya kicked at the dirt with her blue canvas shoe, studied the ground for a moment and then looked back at Caye. “Look, I know you’re angry with me.” “Mom,” Louise called. “Push me”
Joya ignored her. “I know you think I’m wrong about Jill’s healing.” Caye crossed her arms.
“I think,” Joya said, “that you’re part of the problem. I think that your spiritual immaturity has hindered Jill’s healing.”
Caye could feel the red splotches forming on her neck.
“Mom!” Louise called as she stopped the swing. “You said you’d push me.”
“I have to be honest,” Joya said. “I don’t think you’ve sincerely believed Jill will be healed. I think you—and Nathan and Rob—have focused on statistics. On what you’ve read. On what you’ve found on the Internet.”
Caye’s mouth opened—as if she might have something to say. It didn’t matter. Joya continued, “It’s a great sin to lack faith.”
“It’s a great sin to lack love,” Caye retorted and started walking past Joya. It was a cheap shot, Caye knew it.
“Caye,” Joya snapped, grabbing her arm. Caye felt the fingers around the flesh of her biceps. “I wanted to talk with you, away from Jill. She’s dying,” Joya said, letting go of Caye’s arm.
Caye pulled back.
“I used to work on a cancer ward, before I met Thomas. I talked to Rob this morning. He doesn’t think so, but from what he told me, she’s dying. In a day or two it will be too late.”
Caye remembered that Jill loved Joya. She couldn’t fathom why.
“Joya,” Caye said, “I think that your theology is twisted.”
“What do you know about theology?”
“Mom. Push me!” It was Louise. Caye was finding the girl as annoying as her mother. Louise was too old to be so demanding. “What do you know about being a friend?” Another cheap shot. “Mom”
“Stop it, Louise!”
Caye took a step around Joya and kept on walking, nearly running. Her face was hot. Her heart raced. Her hands tingled. “When’s
your baby due?” Joya called out after Caye. Caye stopped and turned.
“I know you’re pregnant. I knew on Sunday. When are you due?”
Caye turned away again and kept on walking.
“I hate her, God,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to, but I do.”
First Joya blamed Jill, then Rob, and now me. And Nathan. Who’s next? Simon?
Caye stretched her stride longer.
She would pound the anger out, the anger that was wedged so deep.
Every step reminded her of Jill. They often walked in the late afternoons during the summers through the park and then up to the Shakespeare Festival grounds to watch the Renaissance dancers before the plays began. They’d sit on the grass in the courtyard and listen to the harpsichord music and watch the dancers in their peasant costumes.
“I was born in the wrong century,” Jill would often sigh. It was an often-repeated conversation. Jill thought living in the seventeenth century sounded like a lot of fun.
“Without hot water? Without toilets? Without washing machines?” Caye would ask.
Jill would laugh. “I could live without all of those,” she’d say. “I’d paint. Learn to play the harp. Tell the gardener what to do.”
It took awhile before Caye realized that when Jill imagined living during the Renaissance period, she saw herself as nobility, while Caye saw herself as a scullery maid.
The creek rushed over the rocks to Caye’s right. The undeveloped hillside rose to her left. She swung around to the upper pond and surveyed the water for the ducks. They were huddled in the middle on the little island. Caye hurried under the branches of the mulberry tree. “Here we go round the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush; here we go round the mulberry bush, so early in the morning,” they’d all chanted so many times. She dashed across the street.