by Sarah Jio
The truth is, Ryan was—how do I put this nicely?—a douche bag. It wasn’t the first time he’d cheated, I learned later. Though Amy was also to blame, I blamed him more. Part of me actually feels grateful for that scene I walked into on Amy’s birthday, as awful as it was, because it changed the course of my life. I might not be here had it not happened. I look up at Gavin’s sure, strong face, the tenderness in his eyes as he glances my way.
Mom stops in front of room 523 and places her hand on the doorway. “Ready?”
I nod, and we follow her into the room. “Amy, it’s Mom,” she says. The curtain’s drawn around her bed, so I can’t see her yet. “I’ve brought a guest.”
“Mom, no,” she says. “I look terrible. I—”
Mom pulls back the curtain, and my eyes meet Amy’s.
Aside from the large swell of her belly, she’s very thin, thinner than I’ve ever seen her. Her face is extremely pale. I realize that when I saw her at the ferry terminal that day, any sign of her pregnancy was hidden away beneath her sweater. She looked a bit gaunt then, but now? It appears that the cancer’s vigorous growth has aged her ten years in a matter of weeks.
“June,” Amy says through tears. She holds her arms out to me, and right before me the sick woman disappears and there is my sister, the little four-year-old with pigtails and chubby cheeks, a doll clutched in her hand.
“Oh, Amy,” I say, bursting into tears. I lay my head on her chest and lean into her, weeping from a place deep down, a place where I never stopped loving Amy, where I’ve already forgiven her. No, my love for her never died, never withered on the vine. There was always a tiny green shoot that somehow managed to survive without sun and water. And now it’s found fertile ground.
“June, please forgive me, for everything I did, I—”
I place my finger to Amy’s lips. “I already have. I’m afraid I’m so thickheaded, it took the thought of losing you to realize that it was time I stopped sulking. Honey, let’s not waste precious time talking about things we’d both like to forget.”
She nods. “June, I’m going to have a baby. A little girl.”
“I know,” I cry. “Mom told me.”
“You’re going to be an aunt,” she says. “Aunt June.”
“Sounds nice,” I say.
Amy’s smile melts away then. “You know I don’t have much time left. And I have to make a plan for my baby girl.”
“Amy, don’t, let’s not—”
“But we have to,” she says. “We have to face the facts. I will die soon after her birth. There’s no way around it. And I have to make plans for her. She doesn’t have anyone.”
“What about . . . ?”
“Her father? He checked out. June, I met him at a bar. He’s not a bad guy; he just isn’t ready to face this. Mom helped me draw up some legal papers. He signed away his rights to paternity. It’s better that way. I needed to know that in five years, after I’m gone, he’s not going to show up out of nowhere and say, ‘That’s my daughter,’ and uproot her from her life. I won’t have that.”
“Then what do you want, Amy? Tell me, and Mom and I will make it happen.”
She looks at Mom, then back at me. “June, I want you to raise her.”
“Me?”
She smiles. “You raised me, just about.”
Mom nods. “You did, and you did a wonderful job.”
“But I—I don’t know anything about babies.”
“No one does, at first,” Amy says.
“And I worry I couldn’t give her the life she deserves. I don’t know if Mom told you, but the bookstore’s facing serious financial hardship. What if I—”
“You’ll find a way, June,” Amy says. “You always do.” She smiles to herself. “Remember the time the refrigerator broke in the middle of August? Mom was gone, so you pulled out the phone book and called a repairman. He fixed the thing for free. What were you, like, ten years old?”
“Nine,” I say, remembering the way I attempted to pay the man in pennies from my piggy bank.
“June, I want you to raise my daughter.” A single tear streams down her face, a strong, sure tear. One thirty-one years in the making. It falls onto a tube attached to her arm. “Will you?”
I swallow hard. “Amy, it would be the greatest honor of my life.”
She squeezes my hand. “Thank you.”
I nod, and lay my head on Amy’s belly. “Hello, little missy,” I say. “This is your Aunt June speaking. We’re in for a lot of fun in this life, you know that? I’m going to tell you all about your mommy.” I feel Gavin’s arm around my shoulder as I wipe away fresh tears on my cheek. “I’m going to tell you about the time she gave her doll a haircut, and the time she made me a gingerbread cake for my birthday but used garlic powder instead of ginger powder.”
Amy laughs.
“And we are going to walk around Green Lake like your mom and I used to, and we’re going to feed the ducks and read books and listen to music and dance. Your mommy loves to dance. She’s the best dancer I know, and you will be too. And she’s a great singer, too, even if she occasionally gets the lyrics wrong.” I turn to Amy and smile. “Remember how you used to sing ‘What a Wonderful World’?”
She grins. “Bright blessed days; dogs say good night.”
“And I think to myself,” I sing in a faltering voice, choking back tears, “what a wonderful world. I’ll give her a wonderful life, Amy. I promise I will.”
She nods. “I know you will. You’ll be a better mom than I ever could.”
“That’s not true, honey,” I say.
“It is,” she insists.
“What will you name her?”
Amy takes a deep breath. She looks at Mom, then at me. “I’d like to call her Ruby.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s perfect.” I place my hand on her belly and imagine my niece, fiery like her mama, determined like her great-great-aunt. “Yes, Little Ruby.”
Chapter 21
It’s a bright Tuesday morning when Little Ruby arrives, and when the nurses finally let me in the hospital room to see her, Amy jokes that we all should go out for lunch at Ruby Tuesday.
She’s a beautiful child, with lots of dark hair, and blue eyes like her mom’s. She has her aunt Ruby’s high cheekbones. “I love her already,” I say to Amy.
“I can’t nurse her,” Amy says through tears. “They won’t let me because of the medications. It’s killing me not to be able to feed her.”
“Honey, don’t think about it for a moment,” I say.
“But I wanted everything to be perfect for her,” she cries. “And she won’t even—”
“There is no perfect,” I say. “Better she learns that now than to cling to some false misconception that life should, and one day will, be perfect. Life is a big, beautiful mess. Chaotic and tragic and wonderful and weird. At least, that’s how it seems to me, anyway.”
“You should write that down,” Amy says. “It sounds like a children’s book.”
I nod. “It does, doesn’t it?” I watch Amy hold her infant, and I see she’s still crying. “You know what we have to do? We have to focus on the good things, the beautiful things. We have to savor them.” I point to Ruby’s tiny feet. “Starting with these toes. Have you ever seen a more adorable set of toes than these?”
Amy giggles. “No, they’re absolutely perfect.”
“And these hands,” I say, summoning the courage to steady my voice and charge ahead into unknown territory, for Amy. I can do this for Amy. “Now, she’ll need a manicure in time, but look at those gorgeous long fingers. Look at the way she holds her index finger out.”
Amy grins. “Like she’s about to start bossing us around.”
I nod. “She is a firstborn.”
I remember the gift I brought for Little Ruby, and I reach inside my purse, then hand the
box to Amy.
“Do you want to hold her?” Amy asks. She looks frail today, more so than yesterday. Her cheeks are colorless and hollow.
“I’d love to,” I say, taking the swaddled newborn into my arms. I feel nervous, but somehow, when I hold her, it’s as if I’ve done this before, a thousand times, perhaps. My arms fall into place naturally, and I nuzzle her cheek with my nose. Little Ruby smells sweet, like pears and fresh laundry. She sleeps soundly, but as I begin to rock in the rocker beside Amy’s bed, she wakes and looks up at me with wide, alert eyes.
“Well hello, Miss Ruby,” I say. “I’m your Aunt June. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, you and I.” I try to be strong, for Amy, but my heart is breaking with every second that passes. For both of them.
Amy tears the wrapping paper off the gift I brought, and pulls out a copy of Goodnight Moon. “You remembered,” she says to me.
“It was the only story that would calm you at night,” I say.
“Remember how we used to look for the mouse on each page?”
“You loved that,” I say, reminiscing. “I did too.”
“Will you read it to her, June?” Amy asks, handing me the book. “Just like you used to read to me.”
I gently turn Little Ruby around in the crook of my arm so she can see the pages, and I begin reading my precious niece her very first story.
“In the great green room . . .” I begin.
Amy is crying. And I try not to let her see that I am too.
Two weeks later, Gavin and I are heading to the hospital when Mom calls my cell phone, frantic. “She’s gone,” Mom cries.
I hate that I wasn’t there beside her. I hate that I chose this morning to go home and shower when I might have seen her last breath, the last flutter of her eyes.
“Oh, Mom,” I wail into the phone.
I hear the baby cooing in the background. “We have to be strong,” Mom says. “For Little Ruby.”
“Yes,” I say, collecting myself. “You’re right.”
“It’s what Amy would have wanted.”
I set the phone down, and Gavin reaches for my hand. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
“Me, too.”
Amy is gone. My baby sister. I think of all the times I protected her from bullies on the playground at school when we were kids. And now a bully got her. Cancer. It lingered during the pregnancy, then pounced at the end. At least it had the decency to wait until Little Ruby was safe in the world.
Amy didn’t want a funeral, so we save our remembrances for the burial ceremony, and instead of speaking to the handful of friends and family gathered around, I set a bouquet of pink roses on her coffin, kneel down, and speak directly to her.
“My darling sister,” I say through tears. “I never thought this day would come. Don’t you know that I was supposed to die first? Big sisters aren’t supposed to bury their little sisters.” I smile to myself, wiping a fresh tear from my cheek. “But I’ll forgive you for that, just as I forgive you for stealing my stuffed animal, and scribbling in my favorite book, and taking a pair of scissors to my red corduroy dress. You know what I’m talking about. And I forgive you for the big things, too, the things that caused a silence between us for too long. But there is no hurt between us, not anymore. What happened was a part of my story, my journey. And, you know, I’m almost grateful for it. Actually, I am grateful for it. And I’m grateful for you. You didn’t deserve to be shut out of my life. I wish I could have those years back, please know that. I will wish that every day for the rest of my life. And now I must say good-bye. Honey, don’t worry about Little Ruby. Not for a moment. I will tell her all about you. I’ll take her to your favorite places in Seattle, the places where we made memories. She’ll grow up listening to your favorite music. I’ll teach her the words to ‘Billie Jean’ as soon as she’s old enough to talk.” I laugh through my tears. “And I will love her, Amy. I will love that little girl with every ounce of my being. I will love her for the both of us. She will never know more love. You don’t have to worry about that for a moment. And I’ll read to her too, Amy, just like I read to you.” I reach into my purse and pull out the tattered copy of Goodnight Moon I’ve kept all these years, and I open to the first page, and read to my sister her favorite book, for the last time.
“Good-bye, my darling sister,” I cry, placing my hand on her coffin. I think of Ruby and Margaret. They’d be proud. Operation Sisterhood. I smile through my tears. “I love you, Amy, and will always love you.”
I feel Gavin’s hand on my waist, and I let him walk me back to the folding chairs a few feet away. I bury my face in his jacket and weep.
A moment later, I look up when I hear my mom’s voice in the distance. “June,” she cries. “Look at Little Ruby, come quick.”
I run to her side, and I see what Mom is so excited about. Ruby’s eyes are wide; her mouth is big and it forms a little O before the corners turn upward. “See that?” Mom says through tears. “I think she’s just learned to smile.”
I look up to heaven. “See that, Amy?” I whisper. “Your little girl just smiled for you.”
Chapter 22
Mom stayed with me upstairs in the week that followed. The days and nights blurred together, the way they do when you’re sleep deprived, or grieving, or both. Little Ruby kept us going, though. She gave us a purpose. Diapers and bottles and smiles. Repeat.
“I think you can handle this,” Mom says as I feed Ruby her morning bottle. She leans down and tucks a pair of jeans into her duffel bag.
“Wait, you’re not going, are you? Not yet!”
Mom smiles. “You don’t need me anymore, sweetie. It’s time you two fly solo.” She pauses, and I can see the regret in her eyes. “Besides, you’re already a better mother than I ever was.”
Little Ruby yawns after she finishes the last drop of her bottle, and I set her in the Pack ’n Play contraption Gavin found at Babies R Us. It isn’t the beautiful white crib I envisioned for her, with a ruffled bumper and matching sheets, but it works.
“But I—”
“You’ll be fine,” Mom says again. “I’m going out of town with Rand for a bit, but I’ll be back for the fund-raiser, I promise.”
At first I’m annoyed with Mom for leaving at this moment. We only sent out the press releases for the event yesterday, and we still need to get the invitations in the mail and make plans. And I’ll have to do this while taking care of a baby. But none of this is Mom’s fault. She has her life to live, and this is mine. If I’ve learned anything from Amy’s tragic passing, it’s to stop holding silent grudges against family members. Mom is just being Mom—often selfish, sometimes spacey, a little unpredictable. But I can love her, flaws and all. And I can forgive her for the small, annoying lapses, and the big ones too.
“OK,” I say. “I guess I’ve got to pull the bandage off at some point, right?”
“What are you afraid of, honey?”
“Screwing up,” I reply honestly, peering over at Ruby, sleeping soundly. “Look at her. She’s so delicate. What if I drop her? Or forget a feeding? Or—”
“You won’t,” she says. “And if you make a mistake, you’ll both be fine.”
I nod as she picks up her bag and walks to the stairway.
“I’ll call you and check in,” she says. “And I’m sure Gavin will be a big help.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s great with her. And she loves Antonio’s. Remember when she was having a crying fit yesterday afternoon when you were leaving for yoga? Well, I brought her over to the restaurant and it totally soothed her. I think she’s going to love Italian food.”
Mom smiles. “You’ll be great at this, honey; I know it.”
I nod. “Bye, Mom.”
And then she’s gone, and it’s just Ruby and me.
That night, Gavin brings over dinner, and instead of eating at the tabl
e, we lay a blanket on the floor and eat beside Ruby, who’s having her daily allotment of “tummy time.” (I read about it online this morning, and freaked out when I realized she’s missed nearly three weeks of valuable neck strengthening; Gavin assured me that she won’t be a hunchback.)
“I brought lasagna,” he says, dishing up a sizable helping on my plate.
I smile. “And lasagna aids in what temperament issue?”
“Nervousness,” he replies with a grin.
“I’m not nervous!” I say. “OK, maybe a little.”
“Eat up.”
I take a bite. “Wow,” I say, covering my mouth. “So good.”
Gavin smiles. “Any bites from the press release yet?”
“Actually, yes!” I say. “I was so busy with Ruby this afternoon, I almost forgot to tell you that the Seattle Times loves the idea, and they want to do a piece on the store and our fund-raiser in Friday’s paper!”
“Wow,” he says. “That’s in . . . two days.”
“Yeah, they’re coming over tomorrow afternoon to do an interview. Fortunately, the walls are painted. And the shelves look good, thanks to a certain someone.”
Gavin grins. “Did you see how I organized the newer books in those rows?” While the store is adequately stocked, there’s a shortage of newer inventory, so Gavin displayed the new books for greater visual appeal.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s perfect. And don’t the curtains look fantastic?” I run my hand along the edge of the new drapes.
“They do,” Gavin says, scooping a helping of roasted vegetables onto my plate.
We eat in silence for a few moments. Ruby coos on her tummy, and I feel the familiar twinge of anxiety creep in. “What if no one comes?” I say. “What if the event is a failure? Then what?”
“Then we’ll think of Plan B,” Gavin says, lying down beside Ruby. He coos and babbles along with her.
“You’d make a great dad, you know,” I say, swelling with pride.