Appearances

by Sondra Helene

  The phone rings, accompanied by a red light blinking to notify Elizabeth, a special phone for the hearing-impaired. A pop-up screen shows the words typed by an operator. Elizabeth can read it and respond back verbally. When she’s finished speaking, she’s supposed to say, “GA,” short for “go ahead,” to indicate that the operator should speak. But this proves difficult for her. “Hello, GA,” she says. “It’s Elizabeth.”

  I smile. Although it’s the wrong way to use “GA,” it’s cute. Elizabeth perks up whenever the phone rings, as if she has something important to do.

  “It’s Robin,” the operator types.

  “Hi, Robin, when are you coming over?” Elizabeth says loudly.

  “Half an hour,” the operator types.

  “Hurry up. You have to see my new phone,” my sister says.

  Soon Robin arrives in workout pants with a selection of fuzzy socks and a strawberry smoothie from J.P. Licks, Elizabeth’s favorite ice cream parlor. Robin takes a seat next to me on the bench by the window, across from the bed. We make small talk, and for a few moments the bedroom is full of laughter, including Elizabeth’s.

  Next, David arrives. My father sits on a stool by Elizabeth’s bed, rubbing her feet with lavender oil. My mother delivers a small lunch. Yesterday it was her homemade chicken soup. Today it’s lukshen kugel, a traditional family dish of noodles, cream cheese, cottage cheese, and sour cream. I serve myself a small portion, as if I could somehow summon childhood with my mother’s comfort food.

  That night when I get home, I put myself to work planning this important conversation with Elizabeth. I’m running out of time.

  David returns to the Gordons’ the next afternoon. The way my brother kisses Elizabeth on the forehead, I sense he needs to talk. We take a walk. It’s early spring, so we grab our jackets.

  “She’s trying so hard to hang on,” David says, wiping a tear.

  “Kathy says someone needs to talk to her about dying so she can say goodbye.”

  “Knowing you, Samantha, you’re trying to do it alone. I think Mom and Dad and I should all be there.”

  Relieved, I give David a hug.

  Later, Jane and Robin visit again, this time with two fourfoot cloth dolls.

  “This one is called Jane,” Jane says.

  “And this one is Robin,” Robin says.

  Elizabeth laughs as they lean each doll against the wall so that she can always see them from her bed. “They look just like you guys,” Elizabeth says.

  As the week goes by, Elizabeth loses her appetite, and she wastes. She can barely get out of bed. Her limbs are stiff, and her joints don’t move smoothly, as if they need oil.

  On Sunday, it is my turn to take Alexandra for her ski competition at Wachusett, a local mountain, an hour away. It’s a beautiful day for skiing, high forties and no wind. The snow glitters. Alexandra is psyched for the race.

  “This one is for Auntie,” she says, putting her goggles on.

  “For the win!” I say. “Love you. Good luck.”

  I take a video of Alexandra all the way down as her teammates cheer.

  While we are on the mountain, my mother takes Elizabeth for an MRI, one of the only medical appointments that I have missed. I think it’s ridiculous for the doctor to put my sister through this test—her condition speaks for itself. Alexandra and I drive directly to Elizabeth’s to check on her after the race. My mother phoned me to say it was awful.

  I peek in on my sister, peaceful beside her air purifier. She looks beautiful, in a way, cheeks rosy with natural blush. No plastic tubing or IV bag, no antiseptic smells. White orchids on the night table and bouquets of lilies on the windowsill perfume the air. I remove my shoes and, according to habit, crawl under the blanket to lie beside her, sighing with relief because there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here in this sanctuary.

  Holding my sister’s hand, I listen to her faint breathing until my heart stops pounding. We lie like this, drifting in and out of sleep, for what seems like a long time, until I feel her stir.

  “You’re here,” she says, her eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused.

  “Mom told me about the MRI.”

  She closes her eyes, and I can’t tell whether she has fallen asleep again. When she answers, she seems distant. “It was painful. The technician turned my head, even though it hurt.”

  “What a bitch,” I say, and Elizabeth manages a chuckle. How dare someone make things even harder. Sadly, she is one of those who see my sister as only half a person, one who needs assistance walking and understanding directions. She and the others who tend to my sister now know nothing of her as a once vital, beautiful, and independent woman.

  “How was the skiing?” she asks, and I’m enthused that she remembers.

  “First place. Alexandra dedicated her race to you.” I want to elaborate but can’t bear to tell my sister about the wonder of being out in the snow and watching Alexandra compete. I can’t say any of it, not because she no longer has the strength to listen, but because I don’t want to flaunt my life.

  “She always thinks of me,” Elizabeth says. “That’s why Jake and I call her Sweetness.”

  She drifts off to sleep. I kiss her and go downstairs. In the den, Alexandra, Brooke, Lauren, and Jake are talking quietly, sprawled in various poses on the L-shaped couch. The television is on, but no one is watching. I sit down beside Brooke, fifteen, dark hair framing her snowy face. “Your mom’s sleeping,” I say, and she nods, snuggling her head on my shoulder.

  I know that Jake can tell I’ve been crying, but I hope the children can’t. From the very beginning, we have tried to keep their life as normal as possible. “For the kids,” we say, but it’s been as much for the grown-ups. Now it’s time for all of us to face the truth we already know and fear.

  The next day, Brooke sits cross-legged on her mother’s bed with a family album spread on the quilt. She points to a spunky-looking toddler holding on to a chair.

  “How old was I when I learned to walk, Mom? When did I get my first tooth?” Brooke asks. She then points to a photo of herself holding newborn Lauren. “Tell me about when Lauren came home. What was I like?”

  She jots Elizabeth’s responses in a small notebook, an exercise the children’s therapist recommended. It’s brilliant, really. Bonding time, but it’s also a way of learning their family stories before Elizabeth can no longer tell them.

  Brooke flips to a photo of the four Gordons on the beach, arms intertwined, hair to the wind. “Remember Martha’s Vineyard?” she asks Elizabeth. “Look—a picture of us at Auntie Gloria’s for Passover. Are we going this year? Hers might be my favorite brisket.”

  Elizabeth looks at Brooke suddenly with a strange expression. “I have some jewelry for you to remember me by,” she chokes out, then begins sobbing.

  I swoop in to hug them both, and the three of us huddle together, crying, clinging to our lives. We stay that way until it’s Elizabeth who takes a deep breath and says, “Okay, don’t worry. I’m going to get better.”

  Brooke shoots me a look. We all know she’s not getting better.

  “Mom,” she says, “can I have your gold locket?”

  “Here, sweetheart,” Elizabeth says, taking it from her jewelry box and placing it in her daughter’s hand.

  “I’m going to put your picture inside. From when you were healthy,” she says.

  RICHARD CALLS AFTER I get home. I’m in the kitchen, making Alexandra dinner, feeding my own intense need for control and to enjoy my home with my daughter.

  Richard tells me that he’d like to stop by and talk.

  “What about?” I ask.

  “I’d like to see a mediator,” he says. “Try to get our marriage back on track.”

  “Richard . . .” I pause and speak with the most empathic tone I can muster. “Another time. I had a tough day with Elizabeth.”

  BY THE END of March, Elizabeth needs a wheelchair to get to chemo. Jake is stone-faced as we cross the lobby and take the elevator. Once in
side, Elizabeth says, “I don’t think I can come here anymore.” The cancer has won.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, as the elevator climbs. “You want to stop treatment? Do you still want to do today?” I figure since we’re here, we might as well have one more shot. I’m not ready to let go of my sister, but I’m also not surprised that she has reached her threshold.

  And, as if to comfort me, Elizabeth adds, “If I feel better, I’ll come back.”

  When we tell Dr. Hamilton, he nods his head sagely. He has kept Elizabeth alive for ten months, seven months longer than average. I can fully appreciate now what makes him an excellent neuro-oncologist: his necessary mix of optimism and arrogance, confidence and compassion.

  I call my mother after dropping off Elizabeth. “Mom, this is it,” I say.

  When she speaks, resignation filters through her voice. “I don’t want Elizabeth to be alone in the cemetery,” she says. “It’s haunting me.”

  “What do you mean, alone in the cemetery?” I ask.

  “Buried somewhere without family nearby. In a plot all alone, waiting for Jake one day. What if Jake remarries? Or lives another hundred years? I want her to be with family,” my mother says.

  I stare blankly at traffic. “I’ll speak to Jake,” I say.

  “Tell him that Elizabeth can have Daddy’s and my plots. That way she can be near Nana and Papa,” my mother’s parents, who died five and seven years ago, respectively. “I already called the cemetery and spoke to a man in the office. They’ll sell the plots to Jake.”

  “Mom!” I say.

  “Two empty plots close by. I just can’t stand the thought of Elizabeth being alone for so many years—she’s too young.”

  This is the first time anyone has said anything about a cemetery, but we can’t dance around it anymore. I call Jake and relay my mother’s conversation.

  “I’m not buying two plots near your grandparents. I don’t like that location,” he says, a clichéd realtor come to life.

  “It’s not a Stars.”

  “Call Sharon Memorial Park and make an appointment for us to see what else is available,” he says.

  A week later, Jake and I meet with Ira at Sharon Memorial Park. The cemetery is widespread, with roads in the middle. There are no headstones that stick up out of the ground, just plaques on the manicured grass, so that it truly resembles a park more than a cemetery.

  Jake and I follow Ira past rows of graves: Feinstein, Goldberg, Cantor. Finally we see Bloomberg, my grandparents. I bend down and find a stone to place, a Jewish custom that started when graves were merely mounds of stones. Visitors added stones to the mound to show that they’ll never finish building a monument to the deceased. It also serves as a reminder to others of all the visits to the grave. I imagine myself in the coming years visiting my sister at this plot, bringing tulips, placing stone after stone.

  I read Nana and Papa’s plaques. Their names are in capital letters, with their Hebrew names inscribed underneath, “Loving Husband, Father, Grandfather, Great-Grandfather.” “Loving Wife, Mother, Grandmother, Great-Grandmother.” Reading the dates they were born and died, I calculate that Elizabeth will live only half the time our grandparents did.

  Jake looks around, unsatisfied. “I want something more private,” he says. “Big enough for all the Gordons.” Although the cemetery has the beauty of a country park, its bushes and trees are out in the open; they do not enclose the space where my grandparents lie. Anyone can walk among the graves.

  “Follow me,” says Ira, and leads us to a pond. “This is our estate section.” Manicured shrubs and trees surround welltended family plots. It’s just the beginning of spring, and some of the azaleas are flowering. The estates are like small private rooms, some with benches bearing the family name. Ira shows us an available private plot with eight graves.

  Jake nods. “This is more like it.”

  “It’s lovely, but we don’t want Elizabeth to be alone,” I say. “That’s the point.”

  “Why not just move your grandparents here?” Jake asks. “Ira?”

  My jaw drops. I haven’t thought of that.

  “Absolutely,” Ira says. This is what Jake wants to hear, and, apparently, money is no object.

  If my parents and grandparents are now to be buried with Elizabeth, Jake, and the kids, there won’t be room for me. While I am grateful to Jake for accommodating my mother’s wishes, he never asks how I feel. I am too stunned to argue that these are my grandparents and parents, not, technically, his.

  “Send the paperwork to my office. Let’s move them right away,” he says.

  Elizabeth will have a water view, I tell myself. It will be a pleasant, private place for Brooke and Lauren to visit her. Beautiful and private, like she is. My parents will be with her when they die, and, most important, this arrangement gives the living a morsel of peace.

  On the way home, I call my mother and explain to her about moving the graves.

  “Oh my God, that’s wonderful,” she says.

  “I’ll take you and Daddy tomorrow so you can see the location. Location, location—that’s what Jake wanted. There are some papers you have to sign.”

  “My hero,” my mother says. “I can’t thank him enough.”

  “What about me?” I ask. “This means my whole family is buried with Elizabeth and the Gordons.”

  “Sweetheart, let’s get through this for now,” my mother tries to assure me. “Nothing has to be etched in stone.”

  “I know. I’m just upset.”

  If I stay married to Richard, he would never agree to be buried in or even near a Gordon plot, and I can’t say I blame him. Richard would want a different cemetery altogether. I nearly laugh to realize that Jake has extended my marital conflict into the afterlife.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next day, I visit Elizabeth to have the talk, which I have decided to do alone after all. It’s midmorning, and quiet in her bedroom. I switch off the TV and position myself on the bed so she can see my lips move.

  “We have to talk about how things might not work out the way we want,” I say, and she understands that I’m trying to talk about dying.

  “I told Jake to marry someone who will be good to the kids,” she says.

  “No one will ever replace you.” I say.

  I cringe to think how we believed, or pretended to believe, that Elizabeth would beat the odds and be a miracle. How naive that I once thought bad things happen to other people. And now my family has been humbled in the most devastating way.

  “That’s all I want us to say,” Elizabeth tells me. “I know what you’re trying to do, but I can’t have this talk. From the day I got that fax, it’s all been one big worry, treatment to treatment, test to test. It’s been tough to live my life like that.”

  “You are beautiful and so brave. I love you,” I say. I take her hands in mine. Elizabeth no longer weeps about not seeing her kids grow, no longer rails against the unfairness of her life being cut short. The rest of us are still pained, but for Eliza beth, now there is only this quiet room, perfumed by flowers, and whatever comes next. Illness has taught her what she can and can’t control.

  The next afternoon, Rabbi Goldberg visits. He sits in the chair that has remained at Elizabeth’s bedside for weeks, dressed in a suit, his beard neatly clipped, hands folded in his lap. I park myself at the edge of the bed like a chaperone and wonder how many house calls like this he makes in a week. Two or three?

  Elizabeth lies regally under the covers. I am amazed at her grace in receiving this distinguished visitor at her bedside.

  “Hi, Rabbi,” she says, as if speaking over headphones. “How are your children?”

  “My son is studying for his bar mitzvah.”

  “He’s already that old?” she asks.

  When he reciprocates with the same question, she tells him that Brooke and Lauren are doing well in school. She tells him how much she enjoys his services at the temple, especially his provocative sermons during
the High Holy Days. The rabbi accepts the compliment politely. Then they discuss the weather and she thanks him for coming to see her. He senses that she doesn’t want to talk about death, and he doesn’t push her. But I want her to have the chance to ask him questions about death, afterlife, angels—anything. So I push.

  “Elizabeth, do you want to ask the rabbi what the Jewish religion says about—”

  “Nope,” she says, straightening her posture.

  Rabbi Goldberg stands and recites the ritual prayer of confession, Vidui, in Hebrew. He asks God to forgive my sister any sins she may have committed in her lifetime, a Jewish death rite. He blesses her and kisses her on the cheek.

  I walk him to the door.

  “I know Elizabeth appreciates your visit,” I say, and we embrace.

  “God bless you,” he says, and walks to his car.

  The next night, Jake asks to meet me at the bar at Aquitaine. We drink medicinally, the same way we take Ativan or Ambien every night to sleep. Jake leans in; he’s here with a purpose.

  “It’s only a matter of days—or a week,” Jake says.

  “What have you said to the kids?” I ask.

  “That she’s dying,” he says. He takes a swig of iced Grey Goose. “I don’t want Richard sitting with the family at the funeral.”

  “I cannot respect that wish,” I say, sitting taller on the leather barstool. “I deserve to have Richard with me.”

  “You’re separated. Think of the message it sends to our guests,” Jake says.

  “We’re still married. Is that the message you’re worried about?”

  “I won’t speak to him. His presence will upset my kids. You’ll cause a scene—”

  “Of course he upsets your kids. You badmouth Richard to Brooke and Lauren all the time.”

  “Elizabeth doesn’t want him there, and you know it.”

  “You have it all wrong, Jake. She’s forgiven him. She loves me.”