He deserved worse than he got.
Fritz whined, and I opened my eyes. Aurora was standing on the back deck. She leaned on the rail, her blond hair tumbling over one shoulder. She was looking down at me. My window was open, but she didn’t call to me. Aurora, my angel. My protector.
“Come on, Fritzy,” I said. I opened my door. His manners were too good to climb over the seat. (Which was more than I could say for some of my fellow troopers.) He waited for me to open the back door and jumped down. He was enormous: on the very top end of acceptable height and weight for his breed. He waited for me. I grabbed my old green duffel off the seat. It had my name stenciled on the side. J. McColl. They had left off the last five letters. That was the army for you.
I slung the bag over my shoulder and headed for the steps. Aurora watched me. She smiled faintly. The most beautiful smile. I thought so even before I knew I liked girls. Aurora and I were never lovers, though. I always thought we were too close for that.
“Hey,” I called up to her.
She just stood there, leaning on the rail, looking all lazy and way too cool to hang out with someone like me. “Hey, sweetie.”
Fritz trotted over to a tiny patch of grass. Did his business. He didn’t raise his leg like most male dogs. I’d taught him to just squat and pee. Pee like a girl in fatigues in Afghanistan. He bounded up the stairs after me.
At the top of the steps, I stopped. Bag still over one shoulder. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I told Aurora.
“Your hair,” she said. “You’re growing it out.” She reached out and ran her hand down one side of my face, stroking my hair and my cheek at the same time. “I love it.”
I glanced at the open door, embarrassed by the attention. I’d worn my hair short since the morning after . . . after Buddy. I had cut it myself. Then my mom took me to have it cut properly for the funeral. I’d been wearing it short ever since. Well . . . until about six months ago. It looked shaggy now, but it was almost long enough to pull into a little ponytail if I used bobby pins.
“How’s she doing?” I whispered the words. I looked tough. I acted tough. Like a woman who’d seen men die far from home. But I wasn’t tough. Standing here right now, thinking of McKenzie dying, it was all I could do to keep my knees from buckling under me.
Aurora nodded. “Good. She’s tired, but . . . she’s good. For now, at least,” she added.
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t. “How about you?”
Fritz dropped to sit beside me. He was dying to greet Aurora. To run around the deck and smell the smells. But he wouldn’t leave my side until I gave him my okay. And even then, he’d watch me. The minute I called him, he’d come.
“You know me.” Another Aurora smile.
“Exactly,” I murmured. My gaze met hers. Her eyes were brown, but there were golden specks in them. Like a lion’s eyes. I saw her that way. A tawny lion. “Which is why I’m asking.”
We were both quiet for a minute.
I was close to all three of my girls, the sisters I never had: McKenzie, Lilly, and Aurora. No one relationship was more or less important. How could it be? It would be like saying one arm or one leg was more important to my body. To function, to live. But my relationship with Aurora was unique. I didn’t get her most of the time. She didn’t think like me. She didn’t think like anyone I’d ever known. But she was the one who saved me from that hell that was Buddy McCollister. I believed in my heart of hearts that Aurora saved my life. And for that reason, in my eyes, she could do no wrong. There was nothing she could say that I would criticize. I loved her more than I loved myself. Which she said was wrong.
“Italy was okay,” Aurora said slowly. “It got . . . a little crazy.”
I could tell there was more to the story. She actually looked worried . . . or scared. Which seemed impossible because Aurora wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.
I glanced at the door and shifted the duffel on my shoulder. “I guess I should . . .”
“Yeah.”
I let Fritz lead the way.
5
McKenzie
I couldn’t stop smiling. They were all here. We were all here. Sometimes I felt like I spent my whole life just passing time, waiting to be with Aurora, Janine, and Lilly again. Which was silly, of course. I had a life separate from them. Sort of. And even when we were apart, we were still together.
Later, on my laptop, I’d record my impressions of this first evening together. I would not only be responsible for the when, what, and how of the month we spent together, but also the why. The thoughts. Those expressed and those that bubbled just under the surface, waiting to spill over.
As I looked from one face to the next, I wondered what exactly we were to each other. I mean, I knew, but . . . how did I express it?
Friends. Sisters. None of the words I can think of really describe what we were. How did we get here? Could we have ever gotten to this place, found this closeness, without being together for days, weeks on end?
And then there was the tragedy that has shaped and reshaped our lives over and over again. Like it or not, there was no denying that Buddy had brought us closer together. This house, this refuge that was hell and heaven at the same time, had made us more than the sum of our parts.
Pretty deep thinking for a Friday night.
We sat on the front porch, the parts of me: Janine, Lilly, Aurora. The sun was setting behind us, behind the house. Dinner was done, and the plates were piled in the sink for someone to deal with later. Now we sat, lined up along the porch in our Adirondack chairs. But not our own. I was in Aurora’s white chair, she was in Lilly’s pink one, Lilly was in Janine’s blue one, and Janine was in mine. Fritz sat on the edge of the stairs, gazing out at the ocean, beyond the beach, the same way we are. I couldn’t tell if he was sitting vigil or considering making a run for the water’s edge.
Lilly was telling a funny story about being pumped up on IVF baby-making hormones, fighting a man for a parking space at the Annapolis Mall. It was a long story with a lot of gesturing. Janine and Aurora were laughing with her. I looked from one face to the next. I never realized how much I missed them, missed us, until we were all together again. Why was that? Was it because the pain would be too great if we fully realized it? Could we physically not survive if we felt the true depth of our desolation when we were apart?
I was so happy to be here with them. Who was I kidding? I was happy to be here at all.
I took a slow, deep breath, the way I had learned to do in my yoga-for-healing class. I inhaled the salty air. Oddly enough, my breathing seemed to be a little better this evening. I couldn’t imagine why. It was such a relief to have made it here again, to all be together at last . . . this one last time. In the weeks leading up to my arrival, I’d worried something bad would happen and I wouldn’t make it. My immune system was poor. I caught every cold, every stomach bug that went by. Last week I became almost paranoid about germs, washing my hands constantly with antibacterial soap. I was afraid the universe was going to turn against me, that lightning was going to strike, that something awful was going to happen to prevent me from seeing my Lilly, my Janine, and my Aurora.
But here I was, at last.
Lilly’s story came to an end, and she drank water from a glass. Her bracelets jingled on her wrist. She was delicate, our Lilly, even with her big belly. Her hands were small. Her wrists were small. I’d always been envious that she could wear bangle bracelets, and I, with my big manly hands, could rarely find any that fit.
I reached for my glass of wine. I was only going to allow myself one tonight. I was hoping to avoid a repeat of the previous night’s bed-spin.
Everyone was quiet for a moment. There was just the chirping of insects in the beach grass below and the rhythmic pulse of the waves. I could vaguely hear the whirl of the exhaust fan, left on in the kitchen.
Aurora sipped her gin and tonic. She and Janine had moved on to the hard stuff as soon as we ditched the dinner pl
ates. For Aurora, it was gin. For Janine, Jack Daniel’s. The girl can hold her whiskey like nobody’s business.
A minute or two passed before I realized that everyone was looking at me. At least stealing glances. I felt uncomfortable, and I adjusted my bony butt in my chair.
Aurora rose and went to sit on the porch rail, balancing on it, butt and feet on the narrow, white beam. “Okay, McKenzie. You might as well get it over with,” she said, not looking at me. “Tell us what’s going on with the tumors.”
I sensed she left the phrase open to give me a choice. I could tell them about the drug trial. Or not. I was standing with my decision. I wasn’t going to tell them. I wish I hadn’t even told Aurora. That was what I got for drinking too much.
That didn’t mean I didn’t feel a little guilty about it. I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. I settled my gaze on the slatted sand fence that protruded from the dune in front of the house.
I’d been having so much fun all day that I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to talk about me. About it. I just wanted to be here together with them and talk and laugh and pretend nothing had changed. That nothing would ever change. I wanted to pretend that we’d all be back next summer, and the summer after that. I wanted to go down to the beach where the sand was soft, dig a big hole the way I used to when my daughters were little, and stick my head in it.
“She doesn’t have talk about it if she doesn’t want to.” Lilly wrapped her arms around her belly the way pregnant women do. Protectively. Only I felt as if, somehow, she was trying to protect me with her arms.
Janine poured herself another two fingers and didn’t say anything. I wondered how long it would be before she’d be drinking directly from the bottle.
I glanced at the German shepherd. No word from him, either.
I wrapped my hand around the stemless wineglass. Squeezed. Released. Someone had lit a citronella candle, even though there were no mosquitoes tonight, and set it on a little round table. I liked the smell. Some people didn’t, but I did. It reminded me of this place. Summers here. Summers when we were all happy . . . at least fairly so.
I could feel them waiting. Compelling me to speak.
“There’s not much to say.” I looked down at my feet. I was wearing a pair of old canvas Toms that had once belonged to one of my daughters. I could feel the grit of sand between the big and second toes of my left foot. I took my time, pulling my foot out of the shoe and wiggling my toes. “The tumors are still growing,” I said softly.
“You don’t know that for sure,” said Lilly.
“For sure,” I answered, with little emotion. Was I just out of emotion? “My scans. They always compare them to the previous ones.” I didn’t identify the proverbial “they.” It didn’t much matter: Christiana Care, Johns Hopkins, Sloan Kettering.
Aurora cut her eyes at me. She thought I should tell them about the drug trial. But that wasn’t her call. It was mine. She could give me the stink eye all she wanted.
“There’s not anything anyone can do?” Janine’s voice seemed to come from far away.
We were all staring at the dark water beyond the dunes and the stretch of white sand. I shook my head slowly and stole a glance in Janine’s direction. “No.”
Janine was looking tough, but I saw tears glisten in her eyes. “Surgery?” she asked. “You can’t find anyone to cut the little bastards out?”
“They’re not those kinds of tumors. The kind that can be surgically removed.” I paused. Guilt washed over me to the same rhythm as the rising tide. How could I be doing this to them? To Mia and Maura? To Lilly and Janine and Aurora? “There are . . . too many of them,” I said.
Lilly was crying quietly into a tissue. I noticed earlier that she carried them around with her; this wasn’t the first time today she’d plucked one from the plastic pouch. Apparently, she cried a lot these days, with the hormone thing happening. More in my presence.
“You’ve done research? On the Internet?” Janine again. “Talked to people? I mean, just because doctors in the US don’t—”
“There’s nothing that can be done,” I interrupted. I didn’t want to talk about the options again . . . with anyone. Not even Janine.
I’d heard plenty about nonconventional treatments from everyone and their brother: acupuncture, salves, qigong. A nice enough girl from work wanted me to take some kind of vitamin concoction that had proved to cure cancer in South America. (Containing white-headed marmoset pee probably.) A gal in my hot yoga class wanted me to meet her spiritual advisor, who’d had good luck with healing mantras. (Ommm, kick this cancer’s butt, ommm.) Apparently, he’d cured someone of brain cancer. Or so the gal with the big, fuchsia tiger tattoo on her shoulder had told me.
Lilly was sobbing now. I reached over and took her hand. “Oh, Lilly, don’t.”
“I just . . . can’t . . . believe . . .” She was taking big, noisy gulps of air. “Believe this . . . is . . . happening to us.”
I wanted to get up and put my arms around her, but honestly, I was too tired. Instead, I rested her hand on the arm of my chair and laid my cheek against it. She crumpled over and rested her face on my shoulder, her hair falling over my face. I liked the feel of it, and for a moment, I pretended it was my own hair. The fantasy didn’t last long. Her hair was smooth and silky and smelled of expensive shampoo. My hair was longer, coarser . . . and I used Head & Shoulders. Or leftovers from the assorted bottles my daughters discarded on the floor of their shower.
Now Janine was crying. Crying without making a sound.
It was Aurora who broke the silence. She lit up a cigarette and sighed loudly with obvious pleasure.
Lilly popped up her head. “Really?” She sniffed, taking her hand from mine, and fumbled for the pack of tissues.
I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. I wasn’t going to be able to stay up much longer. I needed to climb into my pajamas, into my bed. I needed a nebulizer treatment. I needed sleep.
“You’re going to smoke?” Lilly demanded. “She’s got lung cancer, and you’re going to smoke five feet from her?” Her last words come out angry. Bitter.
I sometimes think that while Lilly loves Aurora, a part of her resents her. Resents what she did that night. The way it changed us all. The way it solidified our relationship, but broke us into little pieces, deep inside.
I patted her hand. “Lilly. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
I opened my eyes to see Lilly heaving herself up out of the chair. “Put it out, Aurora,” she told her, pointing her finger.
Aurora drew the cigarette, held between her fore and middle fingers, to her lips and inhaled dramatically.
Lilly reached out and plucked the cigarette from Aurora’s mouth.
Janine had gone from crying to laughing. No one messed with Aurora. No one but Lilly.
“I see a Tiger Mom in the making,” Janine declared.
Lilly ground the cigarette out on the top of the empty Coke can Aurora used for an ashtray. “No more smoking in front of McKenzie. I mean it. You go out on the back deck if you want to do that.” She pointed in the direction of the back of the house. The funny thing was, Lilly used to smoke.
I waited for Aurora to argue . . . or at least say something. Do something. I wondered if she’d light up again. Maybe blow smoke rings into Lilly’s face. But she didn’t. She just raised her glass to her lips and artfully deflected the attention. “Dating anyone, Janine?”
Lilly retreated to her chair. I was relieved to have been saved from any further discussion of me possibly taking a yak trip across Siberia to meet a medicine man.
“Actually, I am.” She was drunk enough to talk to us about her love life. She gave us a half smile. She had this way of turning her lip up on one side. Kind of like an Elvis smirk.
I like her hair the way she’s wearing it. Longer. It was less . . . severe. It was a pretty brown. Chestnutty. No gray. She’d worn it short since she cut it herself that summer. This was the longest
I’ve seen it in all these years. I wanted to tell her how much I liked it but hadn’t. If I did, I was afraid she might take the scissors to it again.
“Do tell,” Lilly said.
Janine sipped her Jack. “Nah . . . I don’t want to. Not yet. I don’t want to jinx it.”
Lilly’s eyes widened. “Does that mean it’s serious? After Betsy, you thought you’d never love anyone again. Janine, this is so exciting!”
“Always someone else out there to love.” Aurora prodded Janine with her bare foot. “Right?”
Janine just kept smirking.
“Is she hot?” Aurora asked.
“Pretty hot,” Janine agreed.
Lilly rolled her eyes and heaved herself out of her chair. “I’ve got to pee. Again. Don’t say a word until I get back.” She held up her finger.
All three of us held up our fingers at once, imitating her. And we all four burst into laughter.
6
Lilly
I looked at her, lying on the bed in a small circle of light cast from the bedside lamp. I just wanted to cry. She looked so pale. So skinny. She’d always been curvy with nice breasts. The turban covering her head looked so . . . not McKenzie. All that beautiful red hair, gone. Eyelashes. Eyebrows. Gone.
I wondered if that meant all of her hair fell out . . . everywhere. Pubic hair, too? I didn’t know why I cared, but I thought how weird that would be. It was such a part of our femininity, wasn’t it?
McKenzie saw me in the doorway, in my pink nightgown, and smiled. “Hey,” she said, closing her laptop. She sounded sleepy.
“Hey. I just came down to check on you before I went to bed.” I couldn’t stay up like I used to. I needed so much more sleep than I did pre-blimp. Janine and Aurora were still out on the front porch. Aurora was probably sneaking a joint, since I’d gone to bed. Which meant Janine was threatening to arrest her.
As Close as Sisters Page 5