IN THE MIDDLE of December, I’m snuggling with Elizabeth on a cold winter night. I announce that I’m hosting family and friends for Hanukkah and invite her to come. She’s propped on pillows, buried under a down comforter, holding but not drinking a bottle of Poland Spring. I haven’t entertained on a holiday in over two years, not since her diagnosis. I know it might be difficult to persuade my sister to come to a party in her condition; on the other hand, it might be her last Hanukkah.
Elizabeth’s eyes widen. “Richard loves Hanukkah. Will he be there?”
“Yes, actually.” Feeling a twinge of guilt, I add, “He’s Alexandra’s father,” as if his being my husband isn’t enough.
My sister scrunches her face like she’s sucking on a lemon. She scratches at her Ommaya reservoir, covered with new hair. I’ve come around to seeing her cognitive decline as a blessing, lessening her emotional pain, so that she appears sweet and innocent, not bitter and knowing. On rare occasions, she still has a surge of reality that something is dreadfully wrong, but mostly she appears content, lying in bed and watching Oprah.
“I’ll come,” Elizabeth says, and smiles demurely. “Who else will be there?”
“Debbie, Lynne, Nancy, Leslee, you know. Their husbands and kids.”
Elizabeth nods. “I like them. They’re always nice to me.”
“If it’s too cold, you don’t have to come. You won’t hurt my feelings,” I say.
“I’m coming,” she says, and I recognize my sister, her pure and basic loyalty.
My main reason to entertain is Alexandra. I have encouraged her to invite her closest friends and their families. For two years now, we have been at the Gordons’ house almost every day, using their computers, eating at their kitchen counter, hanging out with their friends. I sense my daughter’s need to be at the center of her own universe again. Hanukkah is the perfect occasion. Richard and I both embrace tradition. That’s the example we want to set.
“Mom, give me a job. I’ll arrange the dreidels and gelt,” Alexandra says when we decorate the house. She dashes into the kitchen, where I keep our collection.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I say, as she runs back with her arms full. “Spread it all out on the table first. See what you have.”
“I’ll make it look pretty, I promise,” Alexandra says, and starts sorting.
My laptop chimes with a new message. It’s from Jake. No greeting, just a tirade.
“The fuck are you thinking? A Hanukkah party for Richard? Shoot me now.”
“It’s not for Richard, it’s for Alexandra,” I type.
“Elizabeth insists on coming,” he types. “Are you nuts? Won’t set foot in your house if your husband is there. Neither will my kids.”
“It could be healing for everyone,” I respond, guilty of hope.
“You should have discussed this with me first. Why put such an idea in Elizabeth’s head? Selfish.” At Rosh Hashanah last year, Elizabeth invited my family to dinner, including Richard. Jake went ballistic beforehand, and at the meal he barely acknowledged Richard’s presence. If Richard sat in the living room, Jake went into the kitchen—a sad but familiar scenario.
“You know what?” Jake writes before I can defend myself. “I’ll call your parents. They can bring Elizabeth themselves.”
Observing such hollowness in my own family stuns me. I turn away from my computer as if it were an enemy. My mother calls within minutes. In my family, word spreads fast.
“Jake asked Daddy and me to pick up Elizabeth. What’s going on?”
“Good plan,” I say, ignoring her question, savoring the irony that Elizabeth now defies her husband to be with me. The circumstances may be vastly different, but at least one thing is clear: no partner will ever come between my sister and me—not Richard and not Jake.
“Do you honestly think Elizabeth can make it?” I ask my mom. “Her balance isn’t good.” I watch an icicle hanging from the eave. A gust of heavy wind combined with a slight thaw, and it will shatter.
“Sure, she can be there a little while,” my mother says. “She wants to please you.”
“I know, Mom. See you tomorrow.”
The night of the party, I place a silver menorah on the dining room table with a single candle. The rich smell of caramelized onion fills the house as I fry my signature latkes. Brisket and roast potatoes finish in the oven. Earlier I called Elizabeth to check in, and she sounded excited.
“But the kids can’t come,” she said. “Something big tomorrow at school.”
I know it’s a lie, and Elizabeth knows that I know, but she says it anyway. One thing my sister’s illness has revealed: my family—excluding Jake, Mr. Blunt—doesn’t know how to communicate directly. Rather than resent my sister’s halftruth, I begin to resent myself for blaming everything on Richard all these years. Clearly, Richard is not entirely at fault.
A few hours later, my parents open the door and usher in Elizabeth. Wearing her wig, her face swollen from steroids, unsteady on her feet, she plops down on a chair in the living room, where she will stay for the evening. “Phew,” she says. “Made it.” Her eyes radiate quiet pain.
My mother takes me aside. When she and my father went to pick up Elizabeth, Jake looked like he wanted to stop them. But Elizabeth was ready in her hat, coat, scarf, and gloves. My mother tells me that Jake said they’d better have her back in an hour—and closed the door.
My parents don’t deserve to be treated like this, certainly not when their daughter is dying.
“Where’s Richard?” my mother asks, shifting focus to a different troublesome son-in-law. She takes a seat protectively nearby.
I perch on the arm of Elizabeth’s chair. My friends gather.
“Do you want something to eat? A drink?” Leslee, one of my best friends, asks. I have made a big pot of matzo ball soup and took care to make the balls extra fluffy for Elizabeth to swallow.
I scan the room and see Richard in black jeans and a crisp shirt at the entrance. As he approaches us, I hold my breath.
“Hi,” Richard says to Elizabeth. He hasn’t laid eyes on her in months, not since the cancer spread to her brain. He crouches to see her eyes. “Good to see you.”
“Happy Hanukkah,” Elizabeth says, and smiles.
Richard kisses her on the cheek and pets her hand before standing and moving on to other conversations. With this moment of truth behind us, I sigh with relief.
“How are your kids?” Debbie asks.
“Brooke is checking out colleges. Her top choices are NYU, Syracuse, and BU. Communications major. Lauren might get recruited to play tennis for the Weston travel team.” She beams with motherly pride.
Because of a hearing deficit, Elizabeth’s voice is louder than normal. But we all ignore it.
It’s the last time Richard sees my sister alive.
Chapter Twenty-Two
For Christmas, Richard wants to treat Alexandra and me to a vacation in St. Barts. I’m flattered by the gesture, but I can’t shake my concern about being that far away.
“You stayed home with Elizabeth last year,” Richard says. “Alexandra and I missed you in Mexico. Come on. You and Elizabeth were together on Hanukkah.”
St. Barts is my favorite island—my Caribbean Nantucket— and the thought of getting out of snowy Boston for a week is always tantalizing. Even though we’re still separated, I’m happy that Richard insists I should go, hopeful that the trip will help us.
“On one condition,” I tell him. “I’m going to call my sister every day.”
“Deal,” he says.
With mixed emotions, I board the plane and fly two thousand miles from my sister’s sickbed. One big factor softens my regrets: Alexandra. I can tell that she needs a vacation as much as I do. Her schoolwork has been getting more difficult, and she’s constantly busy with after-school sports and clubs. Her auntie’s cancer has only added an extra layer of pressure.
On this trip, because my sister is steadily losing her hearing, I begin to have to talk to
Elizabeth through Jake, which slows down the process. Jake reports that she is having more trouble chewing, and now swallowing, but they can’t be sure whether it’s a result of the radiation or from the cancer.
We check into Le Sereno, an elegant beachfront resort that combines luxury and simplicity in St. Bart’s postcard-worthy Grand Cul-de-Sac. Our suite accentuates the island’s sexy-cool factor with white walls and espresso-dark floors, sliding glass doors that overlook the beach and crystal-blue waters. Each day the weather is more perfect than the next. After the interminable grays and whites of a Northeast winter, my eyes are greedy for color. I feel myself relax watching water ebbing and flowing from the white beach. I inhale the lush green plants, especially the pink hibiscus, and indulge in the taste of mango on my breakfast plate.
We sleep in, lounge on the beach, and have lunch at my favorite restaurant, Isle de France, overlooking the ocean. At night we enjoy ceviche and grilled branzino at Maya’s. Afterward, over a drink, we watch suntanned French girls dance on tables at Le Ti St-Barth, pounding glasses of Veuve Clicquot.
“Aren’t you glad you came?” Richard asks over dinner, squeezing my hand.
“I could move here,” I say, smiling at him and then at my daughter. Alexandra sips a virgin piña colada the size of her face, complete with an umbrella and a wedge of pineapple. After just a few days in the sun, her skin is glowing, her hair streaked with natural gold. But no matter where we are, my thoughts are on my sister. Here I am, on an island full of beauty and life, while she’s home in bed, recently bald, again.
Days later, we’re languid from the heat and spend a late afternoon resting in our room. Alexandra sits in the oversize armchair, uploading pictures to her laptop, and Richard is propped on three pillows, reading a novel by James Patterson.
“Think I’ll take a walk,” I say, after I listen to messages on my phone from Jake. “Elizabeth is crying. Elizabeth is eating scrambled eggs. Elizabeth had a hard night—she’s incoherent.” I want privacy to call him back. No matter how paradisiacal this island is, I begin to realize that I shouldn’t have come. I can’t let go; I know I should be with my sister, who seems to be fading quickly.
Two days before we leave, the three of us set up our lounge chairs around a blanket on the beach. We make a small picnic of fresh fruit and cheeses from the beachside restaurant, and Richard and I sip rosé. An elegant Middle Eastern family sets up their blankets next to us. The woman wears an exquisite gold bikini that shows off her bronzed skin. Her black hair shines in the sun. She’s with her husband and three children. I introduce myself and Alexandra while Richard is taking a swim.
The woman’s name is Yasmine, and they’re originally from Saudi Arabia but live in London. She’s forty-six, and I can hardly believe it—the same age as Elizabeth. I can’t help comparing this radiant, healthy woman of Elizabeth’s age with my sister in her condition. The contrast is painfully apparent.
“We’re from Boston,” I say. “Here for a week. We’re leaving New Year’s Day.”
“This is the first time with the children,” she says. “They are having quite a lovely time. Perfect place to practice their French,” she says in a British accent.
“Jadore parler le frangais aussi,” I say, and laugh.
“Tres bien!” she says. Her phone rings.
“Pardonnez-moi,” she says. “It’s my sister.”
I turn my head to give her some privacy as she speaks in Arabic for five or ten minutes. Her husband is on his laptop, and the kids are sunbathing. When she hangs up, she asks me if I have brothers or sisters.
“One of each,” I say slowly. “My sister is dying.” For a second, I regret sharing this with a stranger, but something about Yasmine allows me to trust her.
Yasmine stands and seats herself next to me on my lounge. She asks me if I want to talk about it. I do. I tell her I don’t want to burden her, but she insists, so I tell her the entire awful story, from the pain in Elizabeth’s hip to the cancer in her brain.
“I am anxious to get home,” I admit, quietly, so that Alexandra can’t hear. “I almost left last night.”
“I can’t blame you. I would feel the same way,” she says. “You’ll make it.”
For the last two days of our trip, this beautiful stranger becomes my friend. She and I meet on the beach after breakfasting with our families. Each day she wears gorgeous gold bikinis and sheer white cover-ups, her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that exaggerates her dark eyes. The men swim together, and Alexandra becomes friendly with the middle child, a girl one year younger. Yasmine and I stroll to the water’s edge. I confide in her about the problems between Richard and my family, how disturbing the conflict has become now that Elizabeth is so sick. I explain how I used to blame Richard entirely for not rising to my personal and idiosyncratic expectations of marriage, for not participating in my family’s private agenda. How I wish we could find harmony, I tell Yasmine, a marriage in which we both feel loved.
Yasmine listens and comforts me, praising my sisterly bond. I feel lucky to find such compassion in a stranger. One woman to another, she gives me some advice.
“Samantha, I have found that my husband needs to feel admired. Men want women to support them in their business and their struggles. They want a woman who is their biggest fan. Someone who makes them feel important.”
“I don’t blame Richard for all of the family feud, but he’s no peacemaker,” I say. “Then again, neither am I.” I am on the edge of my chair this time, my feet in the sand.
“I respect my husband. You might need to ask yourself: Do you respect yours?”
“I appreciate how hard he works. I just wonder if he really has our best interests in mind. Or just his.”
“Have you always had your family’s best interests in mind?”
“I think so,” I say, considering the word’s many meanings, what each shade of family includes and excludes.
“I have learned to listen to my husband, really listen, without being distracted,” Yasmine continues. “Maybe you can have a conversation with Richard in a different way than you’ve ever had before? Marriage is not about one person winning an argument over the other.”
“Maybe. He has stuck with me through this whole mess. I credit him for that.”
“Give your marriage one last attempt. You are a beautiful family,” she says.
“You are wise,” I say. “Thank you.” We hug. “I’d better start packing.” Yasmine and I exchange numbers and email addresses. As we say goodbye, tears prick my eyes.
I wait on the beach for Richard and Alexandra to join me after frolicking in the surf one last time. Then we’ll go up to the room, fill our suitcases, and prepare to continue the rest of our lives. Watching Richard at play, I realize how similar we are, struggling with the same confusion. I’m surprised to connect with him this way now, awed at how much a stuck marriage can shift. Maybe I have subconsciously been trying to re-create my parents’ or even Elizabeth’s marriage, and anything that’s come up short hasn’t been good enough. But Richard and I have a different dynamic. It’s not fair to compare.
The flights back to Boston take seven hours. I drop my bags and head straight to Elizabeth’s. I find her alert, propped up in bed, in good spirits.
“What happened to you?” I ask, chuckling. “Jake buy you another car?”
“You’re not going to believe who called me while you were gone,” she says.
“Who?” I ask.
“Your old boyfriend. Stuart Price.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Happy New Year,” Stuart greets me the next morning when I call. It has always felt good to hear his relatively high-pitched voice; it still squeaks when he’s excited.
I learn that his daughter is a freshman at Boston University and he’s in town to bring her back after the semester break. Stuart and I lost touch after college but reconnected the first time twenty years ago; he called me when he was up in Boston on business. Then, five or six years ago, I r
an into him at an event in Manhattan and congratulated him for making Barron’s Forty Under Forty, an exclusive list of successful New Yorkers.
“I just heard about your sister. I called her yesterday to check in,” Stuart says. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer person—I’m devastated.” He pauses. “How are you?”
“She was thrilled to get your call,” I tell him. “Very kind. Thank you. I’m okay.”
“Matt connected us. He lives in Weston, remember?” Matt was Stuart’s closest friend in college.
“Of course. His wife is famous around here,” I say. Matt’s wife is one of Wellesley’s most successful neighborhood realtors, even advertising in movie theaters. “I ran into her and Matt last year at a fund-raiser. I asked for you.”
“Meet me for dinner,” Stuart says. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
Of course I’m curious, and I make the date. We had an intense connection and an unresolved breakup.
“That’s my girl,” Stuart says when we settle on a night when Alexandra has a sleepover. Before we say goodbye, he tells me, “Sam, my wife and I are separated.”
I guess I’m not the only one struggling with my marriage, even if I am still on a high from St. Bart’s. But I don’t feel like telling Stuart that Richard and I aren’t living together, either. I’ll wait until I see him.
Friday night I dress in a pair of gray jeans, a clingy black sweater, and my favorite Jimmy Choo silver sling-back pumps. I don’t tell anyone where I’m going, except Elizabeth. When I step into Mistral, a high-end, dimly lit Boston restaurant, Stuart is at the bar. Upon seeing him, my body floods with emotion. He embraces me, and I breathe in his musky cologne. It’s been twenty-five years since we broke up. The timing wasn’t right. My family certainly loved Stuart, and he loved them. I honestly wonder if I could have avoided all of the conflict with my family in a marriage to Stuart, instead of to Richard. My college roommate later told me that he suffered our breakup intensely.
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