by Karin Cook
“I’ll be quite frank with you,” Dr. Lichner continued, “there’s no reason not to be at this point. At the time of the mastectomy, there were nine positive lymph nodes. The tumor was quite grave, so large that it had adhered to the pectoral muscle. That is what is meant by the term radical.”
I should have understood from the beginning what radical meant. I should have looked it up.
Dr. Lichner kept speaking, some words low and hushed, others I couldn’t hear at all. I pictured the two of them standing closer than men usually stand, each with a hand on the kitchen counter. Uncle Rand cursed and groaned. Suddenly the doctor’s voice grew near, louder.
“I’m only saying this because I think it’s important that you know what we’re dealing with here. At the time of her surgery her chance of survival past five years was less than 20 percent.”
“And now?” Uncle Rand asked.
“I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “It’s difficult to say. Sometimes people hold out six months or so. But given her current state. … I’d have to say … well, she doesn’t have long. Weeks, really. I can arrange for a nurse to check in so that she’ll be comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Uncle Rand said.
It surprised me that Dr. Lichner was so imprecise. It made me want to jump up and ask him a few questions of my own. About the chemotherapy: why hadn’t it worked? And where had she gotten those pills to start with? He was supposed to make her better. All he could offer now was information.
“This is the hardest part of my profession,” he said as he walked toward the door.
Elizabeth let her head fall back and bang hard against the wall. “I thought he was supposed to be nice,” she cried, her body shaking.
I tried to block out the sound of her voice as she repeated the words we had just heard. She wanted me to contradict what the doctor had said—suggesting other doctors, more medicine, another operation. There was hope in her confused urgency. Somehow she still believed that something more could be done.
But I had settled into a quiet resignation. Loaded down with the facts, I felt numb, my practical side surfacing over all emotion. I now knew that Mama was dying; her death was a project that she had been working on secretly. To acknowledge it meant that I would come to know her better. Death was a hard fact, like any external fact, something that you accept without necessarily understanding the process. Like the way television works. Or weather. It was someone else’s job to understand why things worked the way they did.
Now I wasn’t sure how to face Mama. I was afraid that looking into her eyes meant seeing only the knowledge of her death reflected back at me. Knowing that it had been there, unseen for months, made me not trust what I knew of her. No matter how many times I rolled it over in my mind or how often I said it to myself, I could not imagine the fact of it. I knew only that it meant that Mama was ready to begin the work of her dying. I would join her in this work. It was all I had.
The family meeting that followed confirmed the worst. Nick did all the talking, in a tentative and detached voice, while Mama sat next to him wringing her hands in her lap, her eyes darting all around the room.
“Your mama wants to be here at home,” Nick said. “She doesn’t want to spend …” his voice cracked. “She doesn’t want to go to the hospital. Can you both accept that?”
I watched Nick’s face, his words falling away. I could see only that serious pursed mouth and his pleading eyes. I could not figure out exactly what he was asking. Uncle Rand covered his face with his hands and balanced himself in the doorway. When no one responded to Nick’s question, he continued, as if Mama weren’t there.
“It may be difficult,” he said, watching us, “but the doctor says it’s possible to make her comfortable.” He paused to check for Uncle Rand’s reaction and then ours.
“Do you girls have any questions? It’s going to take all of us … we all have to be strong. Okay, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth began crying, first with a squeak and then a piercing, wailing sound. Uncle Rand folded his arms around her and rocked her gently, burying his face in her hair, his upper body quivering.
“Tilden?” Nick stepped closer to reach out to me.
“What?” I barked, moving away from him. “Can we just stop talking. Please.”
Mama shifted, balancing her weight on one arm, and tried to sit up. She smoothed the comforter with her hand. “Come here, girls. I want to talk to you.”
We moved closer, taking our positions around her bed. Elizabeth right beside her, me on the radiator, the sharp bumps pushing into my rear. Mama nodded to Nick, excusing him and Uncle Rand. She waited until they had moved away from the door before grabbing hold of both of our hands with her bony fingers. She took a deep, shaky breath.
“I never meant for anything like this to happen to us. You girls are my whole world, you know that? And I don’t understand this any more than you do, but I do know that the only thing that matters to me is that you two help each other … look out for each other always. Will you do that for me?”
Elizabeth nodded through her tears. My throat was so dry and tight, I could not swallow or speak. We sat for a moment, sniffling and collecting ourselves, and then Elizabeth eked out a few words. “What’s … going … to happen … to us?”
“You’re going to be just fine. I know it doesn’t feel that way. But … Nick loves you girls—he really, really does. He knows how I feel, what’s important to me. I’ve asked him to look after you the very best way he can.” She rubbed her hand on my leg. “Please, Tilden. Just give him a chance.”
I shrugged and then began to cry, slipping from my place on the radiator to her side, folding myself against her frail body. She tickled the spot between my shoulders and continued to talk over our sobs. “Two girls. How did I get so lucky to have two such wonderful girls?”
I spent that entire day running between my bedroom and Mama’s, seeking solitude, then company. Alone in my room, I dug through boxes of old photographs, pinning pictures of Mama edge-to-edge on my corkboard. Sitting there amongst images of her, healthy and vibrant, it was easy to forget what was happening, to pretend it away. She was so beautiful in every picture—a sly, knowing smile, her hair shining around her face—I was quickly taken back to before she was sick. Then, I would get a pang of fear, a little worry growing in my gut, a question I wanted to ask, some story I needed to hear and run dry-mouthed down to her room, only to find her, a shadow of herself, dull and groggy.
Elizabeth spent her day making a list, saving up all her wants for one exchange. She joined me that evening in Mama’s room with her tape recorder.
“Tell me again what time was I born,” Elizabeth started.
“Nine-thirty in the morning,” Mama responded, smoothing back Elizabeth’s hair. “You were nine twenty-five A.M. and you …” she motioned toward me, “ … were nine twenty-five P.M.” She said nine twenty-five as if it meant something beyond the time of day.
“And … God?” Elizabeth asked. “Have you tried praying to God?”
“In some kind of strange way, I have,” Mama said. “You should try to if you can … I mean, don’t let this stop you.” Her eyes scanned her own body, then welled up. It had become difficult to know for sure when she was crying. Her eyes were always swollen and tearing, from the drugs, from the chemo, from her late-night talks with Nick.
Elizabeth paused, straining toward Mama and waiting for more; it hadn’t been the response she’d hoped for. She cleared her throat and proceeded, “This question might make you sad,” she said.
Mama pulled the box of tissues on to her lap, “Ready.”
“What are your favorite names? You know, for children?”
“I gave you girls my favorite names,” she smiled to herself. “As different as they are. Tilden. Elizabeth.” She spoke our names slowly. “Whatever you do, don’t use my name if you girls have children. I mean it. Please, please don’t use Frances. It’s … It’s not beautiful. It’s not romantic or anything at
all.” She started coughing, dropping her face into her fist and gasping for air. She reached for a cough drop from the box on her nightstand.
Elizabeth picked up a glass of water and held it out to her. “Am I making you tired?” she asked.
Mama shook her head and drank down a sip.
“How do you feel about living with someone before marriage?” Elizabeth continued.
“Fine by me,” Mama said, laughing a little and gesturing around the bedroom to include herself.
“What about sex?” Elizabeth giggled.
“My views on that have not changed.” Mama said. She lowered her voice a little. “Wait if you can. Make it special. But don’t expect too much. The other stuff matters more. And remember … it gets better as you get older.” She stopped, lost in her thoughts, and then looked up. “Go on you two, get some rest. I have to save my voice.”
Elizabeth stood up and moved toward the door, bending on her knee to check the sound on the recording before leaving.
“I have one question for you, Mama,” I said, leaning near to her so that Elizabeth wouldn’t hear. The familiar smell of her wig made me realize how long it had been since I had gotten close. I paused briefly, taking in the mix of lotion and shampoo. “What do you want me to be?” I asked, finally.
She settled back on her pillow. “Anything,” she answered quickly. “Anything you want.”
When I started kindergarten and brought home my first schoolwork, Mama always took my assignments seriously, clearing off the table, and sitting next to me as I traced my letters, making the spaces exact, or practiced addition, two lines between each equation. Once, I was given an assignment about careers and told to choose a profession and write a one-paragraph essay. Mama took me for a walk in town, pointing out all the things there were to be. Florist. Baker. Postman. Cashier.
“What are you?” I asked her.
“A little bit of everything,” she said.
She showed me where she had worked in a frame shop, taking measurements and helping people choose colors for the background matting. And the bank where she’d been a teller just after I was born. She pointed to a “For Sale” sign in someone’s yard and told me that what she had been doing since I started school was helping people find places to live.
“What did my father do?” I asked.
“Carpentry,” she said, “he made things for people.”
“Did he ever make anything for you?”
“Twice,” she said, tipping my head with her hand and smiling down at me. “First you. Then, Elizabeth.”
On Friday, Lainey showed up with her suitcase full of lip gloss, blusher, and polish. She sent me on ahead to let Mama know that she was coming up for some girl time. I expected Mama to refuse, but she surprised me by softening at the prospect of a pedicure. Elizabeth and I watched from the end of the bed as Lainey rubbed Mama’s feet in soapy warm water and placed wet cotton balls on her eyelids. Mama relaxed into the treatment, letting Lainey talk without feeling the need to respond.
“You just can’t go isolating yourself up here,” Lainey chastised. “There are people who love you in the world and want to be near you.”
She named each lotion and implement as she used it, talking us through the ritual. Elizabeth and I traded off doing each other’s nails, picking up each item as Lainey put it down. We fell into a rhythm, the sounds of clipping and splashing taking the place of conversation. It was a relief to have this to turn to. There will always be this between women, I thought.
By the time Lainey had rubbed Mama’s calloused feet smooth with a pumice stone, she had dozed off. While she slept, Lainey painted her toenails coral. She tucked the blankets close around Mama’s legs, leaving her feet out in the air to dry. I wondered what Nick might think finding her like that when he took up her dinner. It would give him pleasure to see those bright spots at the end of her pale body, like finding candy in the bottom of a coat pocket.
Saturday night, I crept into Mama’s room and lay down on the floor. I listened to her breathe from five in the morning until eight when she sat up in bed.
“Who’s this person?” she mumbled to herself.
I pushed my face against the floor and tried not to move. I started to peek at her, but felt guiltier than anytime as a child when I had watched her dress. The sheets rustled as she shifted in the bed. I lay immobile, and found myself thinking about time. The week since Dove Island had gone slowly, almost as if I was the sick one, not showering or changing clothes, disconnected from the outside world. Each morning I checked the calendar in my room, placing myself firmly in the day, but always with an eye back at how many had passed. It was the opposite of the way I normally kept time, counting forward toward an event, imagining myself in the future, falling asleep with the knowledge that when I woke, I would be one day closer.
Dr. Lichner had said anywhere from two weeks to six months. I was keeping track in part to prove him wrong. It was a ridiculous range. Two weeks was scarcely enough time to prepare for an exam or write a paper. Six months could mean the difference between junior high and high school. It was the equivalent of three summers off.
Lying there listening to Mama’s rhythmic breaths, I realized how in the last few months, Mama had also become preoccupied with time. She’d asked Nick to buy her a digital alarm clock which she placed on the top of her dresser. She divided her days into fifteen minute segments to keep track of her pain medication. The days didn’t seem to matter as much as the hours. She checked the time whenever we entered the room.
I stood up and smiled at her.
“Good morning, glory,” Mama said, blinking at her clock.
I thought about something adult I’d learned from Samantha and decided to risk telling her about it. “Mama, did you know?”
“Know what, honey?”
“Well … Morning Glory refers to the erection men wake up with.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “Now that is very funny.”
The afternoons began to mirror one another. Mama, three-quarters up in bed jotting in her notebook, requesting trays with Jell-O, boiled chicken, and Lorna Doone cookies—always her favorite. She drank a quart of milk during the day to coat her stomach against her multiple doses of pain killers, but rarely ate. The full plates grew cold on the table beside her. She kept a careful record of her pills, scheduled as much as a day ahead so that she would never have to experience the lull between medications.
On the inside cover of her journal were some of her thoughts written in jagged prose. I hate my body, weak and atrophied. I want to work with the dying, but I can’t stand to be around sick people. And on the cardboard inside back cover of the journal it said, I want to be part of a dangerous mission in which lam shot in the end.
“Read me my horoscope,” Mama suggested to Nick as he sat in a chair with the paper. “I don’t want to hear about what’s going on in the world. It’s too depressing.” Initially he refused, but at her insistence we all decided to bear it out. He read hers first.
“Pisces—superfluous material will be junked,” it said.
“What does ours say?” we asked in unison.
“Geminis: Relative could have wires crossed.”
“That’s for sure,” Mama whispered, a ghost of a smile on her face.
When I cleaned up her room on Monday, I got rid of all the newspapers. Seeing them stacked in the corner signified how many days were passing. The empty place in the bed next to Mama’s looked like the tabletop at a garage sale. I wanted to clear that side off so that I could sleep there with her. But she needed those things—lemon cough drops, a box of photos, and her journal. On the bed, too, was a book with the cover torn off. On Death and Dying, it said on the binding. She shrugged and smiled at me. She had been reading it alongside my choices from Seventeen and Catcher in the Rye. In a shoe box, were her envelopes, as she called them. In each, were the papers involving legalities—her marriage license, our adoption papers, and our birth certificates. She’d sent Uncle Rand to make extr
a copies which she referred to in conversation, but never said anything specific about what we would use them for. Her breathing had begun to sound wheezy and strained. It was all happening so fast.
On Tuesday, the hospital delivered a Home Oxygen System. With that and the angry red bump on Mama’s neck, I could now picture what cancer looked like. Its long tendrils, inside, feeding on her lung and penetrating her bones—the lower back, twelfth rib. I imagined it wrapping around her heart and squeezing the life out of her. I ran my hand over her arm and beneath her smooth, freckled skin, I felt clusters hardened to the bone. She moved her arm away from my touch and pretended to be reaching for a glass of water. I pretended she was no sicker, that the oxygen was for her added comfort. But there was panic on her face every time someone stepped near the machine.
“Careful of my umbilical cord,” she said, her face pinched and cross.
There was a hundred feet of clear tubing—enough to reach from her room to the den where Nick often slept—that she gathered and looped around her arm on her journeys. The droning of the breathing machine made the environment sound hollow. The pump moved upward like a gasp and plunged down like a wave. Over and over again. It was the first thing I heard when coming inside the house. After that day, I was afraid to go out and come back up the front steps into an inevitable silence.
The days passed in long moments of stillness. I would talk to no one. Elizabeth was off in some other room, whispering constantly into the phone. She was recruiting her friends, especially the Catholic ones, to pray. I didn’t see what good it would do. “Otherwise,” I heard her say, “my mom may never see me get to junior high school.”
Elizabeth’s fears made me realize that I had imagined Mama’s absence in a larger way, years off in the future, but not in terms of my life as I knew it. That I would own clothes she had never seen, get a driver’s license, and know people she had never met seemed somehow not as sad as the knowledge that she had goals and aspirations of her own.