A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “Excellent.” Jane turned to me. “You’re here,” she said again. I caught an unspoken finally hovering above us.

  “Hey, Jane.” I pulled her into a hug. “I don’t know what to say about all this.”

  She patted my back and stepped away. “Later. Come in and have some lunch and catch up. There will be time.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Of course.”

  “I’ve put you in the guest room and, Dad, you’re in Danny’s. He gets to sleep in the basement. Peter even bought an air mattress, so he’s thrilled and not exactly roughing it.”

  “That was good of him—both hims.” Dad chuckled.

  “It’s the least Peter could do.”

  Jane’s dismissive tone surprised me. She’d always seemed softer, nicer around Peter.

  She rushed on. “I made chicken salad and some soup today. We can have the salad now and the soup can stretch for a few days. I’m at chemo tomorrow, and then I’m pretty useless until Friday, so soup seems to work best.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Dad assured her.

  “I can cook, you know.” I threw the lob before thinking.

  A flicker in Jane’s eyes indicated she caught it, but she stayed silent and led us into the house.

  Her chicken salad was remarkably good. She had complemented the chicken with a good mayonnaise, slivered almonds, finely chopped celery, fresh tarragon, purple grapes, and a hint of Dijon mustard. I was impressed. I would’ve added more salt and pepper, but couldn’t think of much else missing.

  As Dad and Jane sat chatting at the table about a million things of which I knew nothing, I pulled out my phone to e-mail Tabitha and check on Feast.

  “Lizzy, are we bothering you?”

  I compressed a smile at Jane’s irritation, but didn’t look up. “Not at all. Keep talking. I’m finishing an e-mail.”

  “I gathered that. I asked if you wanted to go for a walk.”

  I glanced up. Dad looked expectant, like a kid awaiting a cookie. Jane looked ticked, like Dad got the bigger cookie.

  I lowered my phone to my lap. “Sure, Jane, I’d love to go for a walk.” I sounded perky and eager—an attempt to seize the high ground. “Dad?”

  “You two go. I’m going to sit in the living room and read. I may even take a nap before the kids come home.”

  I shifted back to Jane. “Can you give me a sec to finish this? Then I’m all yours.”

  As I signed off on my message, I recalled the last time Jane had asked me to take a walk. I was ten years old; she was eighteen and soon leaving for college.

  “I’m walking to town. Do you want to come along and get an ice cream?”

  “Yeah.” I had tried to match her tone, and the word came out like Duh. I mimicked all things Jane back then.

  I raced to grab my shoes and flew out the front door, expecting to find myself alone with my gorgeous big sister. Instead I saw a few of her friends waiting on the sidewalk with her.

  Molly, her best friend, turned to me. “I’m babysitting Will today. Why don’t you walk with him, Lizzy, and hold his hand? You can be in charge.”

  “Okay.” A wave of defeat had washed over me as Will Bolton’s sticky, chubby hand slid into mine.

  And that was my last real memory of life with my sister. She rarely came home from college, and years later, when Mom was dying, she never came home at all.

  Lost in the memory, I caught only the end of Jane’s sentence. “. . . positive, invasive carcinoma.”

  “What?”

  “The cancer. That’s what it’s called.” She shot me a look. “Are you even listening?”

  “Of course. Is it what Mom had?”

  “Hers was triple negative, that’s the most aggressive, and hers was advanced by the time they found it. But mine we caught early. I’ll have one kind of chemotherapy cocktail twice more, then a different one four times, then I’ll have surgery and radiation, but the radiation’s not definite. If all goes as well as expected, I may not need it.” She listed it so clinically. Quintessentially Jane.

  “Okay, then.”

  She let a small sigh fall in tandem with her shoulders. Finally, there was the truth.

  We walked in silence for a few minutes.

  “I don’t . . . you know . . .”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Have confidence this will go as well as expected.” Her voice cracked.

  “Nothing ever does.”

  We drifted back to silence as we turned into the park. She opened her mouth to say something when we heard a voice yell her name.

  “Bright smile, Lizzy.” She pushed the words out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Of course,” I mumbled as a man more my age than Jane’s strode toward us. He was tall and good-looking in a loose, lanky, Seattle way. My gaze dropped to his shoes—flip-flops.

  “Hey, Nick. Is Matt here?” Jane stood straight and boomed out a voice too bright.

  Nick pointed across the playground. “He had a half day at school and Mom couldn’t take him. So work is effectively done for the day.” He shrugged.

  “Nick, meet my sister, Lizzy. She’s visiting for a couple days from New York.”

  Nick’s gaze briefly surveyed me, and I felt overdressed in my black cashmere sweater, pencil skirt, and Prada boots. His bright green eyes danced, implying that he agreed. He reached out and we shook hands.

  “It’s Elizabeth.” His hand was warm and, for some reason, that bothered me. I pulled away brusquely.

  Nick threw a glance at Jane, who rolled her eyes.

  “Jane didn’t have a silly nickname to shed, so she keeps forgetting.”

  “Elizabeth suits you.” He turned back to Jane. “I’ve talked with Gordon Holman and finished his website. Could I come by tomorrow to show you the new design and discuss next steps?”

  Jane looked into the distance. “Tomorrow I . . . It’s not great, Nick. Can it wait till Thursday?”

  “Sure. I’ll drop by in the morning.” He glanced back to me. “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth from New York.” He added my name and city slowly and distinctly, accompanying it with a small bow. I couldn’t help but smile before ducking my head, embarrassed. He loped across the playground, glancing back once, to where he’d left his computer and a bag on the bench.

  “I can’t believe that. He was actually flirting with—”

  I cut her off. “Who’s Gordon Holman?”

  She sighed. “I had a consulting company. Not much, about ten clients—social media, website development, and stuff.”

  “Had?”

  “Peter convinced me to step back, so Nick folded them into his business.”

  “It’s only ten clients. He’ll give them back, right?” I heard the panic in my voice—as if my story at Feast would parallel hers.

  “Gee, Lizzy, why would I bother? It’s only ten clients.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant he wouldn’t sacrifice much to give them back when you’re ready.”

  “You just meant it was small and insignificant. Not nearly as glamorous and important as what you do.” Jane turned out of the park.

  I followed, feeling ten years old and wishing for someone, even chubby five-year-old Will Bolton, to hold my hand.

  Chapter 7

  THE KIDS GOT HOME RIGHT BEFORE DINNER. I WAS EXITING the powder room and stood stunned as they burst through the hall before me. I instantly rethought my stance on social media. I’d missed so many changes. I remembered short, cute, undefined children—a gorgeous mix of their fair-skinned mother and Korean father—but still on par with the amorphous small fry generally found at parks, malls, and behaving badly in restaurants. I was unprepared for these tall, leggy individuals. Almost thirteen-year-old Kate was just a few inches shorter than I, probably five feet five, with long, dark-brown almost black hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her dark complexion, as compared to her mother and to me, seemed exotic, but she had our smattering of freckles across her nose. Ten-year-old Daniel was not much shorter, and sp
unky. He was the spitting image of Peter but with lighter hair. They charged into the kitchen ahead of their dad.

  “Mom, soccer practice ran fifteen minutes late.”

  “Dad was late. Mr. Shugart was not pleased.”

  The kids dropped their verbal bombs simultaneously and scurried to the basement without asking about me or Dad.

  Jane looked irritated. Peter rounded the corner in time to catch her expression. “I went to get Danny first. The coach held over practice.”

  “Did you call the piano teacher?”

  “You didn’t give me his number.”

  “You—”

  Wisely or not, I stepped into the fray. “Peter, it’s so good to see you.” It took him a second to drag his gaze from Jane and rest it on me.

  “Elizabeth? I didn’t see Jim’s truck. Weren’t you coming tomorrow?” He glanced around for Dad.

  “I told you today . . . Never mind.” Jane turned back to her carrots.

  “Today. Tomorrow. I’m just happy to be here.” I sounded magnanimous, even to myself.

  Peter quickly hugged me. “Good to see you. I’m sorry I won’t be around. I head to China tomorrow, but I’m glad you’re here. This week will be hard on Jane.”

  “Every day is . . . ,” she murmured.

  “We’ve got it covered.” Now I sounded too bright. This was exhausting.

  Peter smiled small and flat at me. “I’m going to go put down my bag and get out of this coat. Where is Jim?”

  “I think he’s in Danny’s room reading. I bet he didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I’ll go find him.” Peter threw one last look at Jane, who was concentrating on her carrots. “I brought you these.” He laid two chocolate bars on the counter—Theo Dark Chocolate and Orange. He shrugged and left the room.

  Jane glanced at the bars. She didn’t look at me, but I could see her eyes soften and her lip tremble.

  “I’m going to find my niece and nephew. I can’t believe they didn’t notice me.” I took a last look at Jane as well—still focused on those carrots. Her movements were slow and laborious, and I tamped down the urge to grab the knife and finish the job.

  As I walked down the basement steps, I absorbed a taste of the pressure squeezing Jane’s family. When I was seventeen it had felt more cut-and-dried: Mom got sick and the world tilted sideways and never righted itself.

  But was that the reality? For months, as Mom endured chemotherapy, she had kept up a cheerful prattle. She had moved more slowly; she was tired; she lost her hair; her skin changed color; hospice arrived . . . That was my story, and the memories had blurred to accommodate, but now I suspected there was much I had missed: nuances, pressures, despair, fear, angry words that never penetrated my world. Recalling those months, I would say Mom had been oddly joyful. I missed her all the more with that memory—real or not.

  Kate and Danny were pulling books and papers out of their backpacks at a table in the center of the basement. It was a lively, cheerful space with calendars and maps on the wall, posters, computers, a printer—the perfect kid and homework sanctuary.

  “Danny, do your math first; the other is just drawing.” Kate sounded bossy, like her mother.

  “You two have a lot of work tonight?”

  “Aunt Elizabeth?” Two heads spun around, two voices questioned.

  “Oh come on, it hasn’t been that long.”

  Kate frowned. “It’s not that. Dad said you and Grandpa were coming tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’m here. Can I get a hug?” After a round of hugs and Danny-giggles as I mussed his hair, we turned our attention back to their work. Kate kept glancing at me.

  “What’s up?”

  “Were you in the kitchen when we got home?”

  “No, I was in the back hall. It was dark; you wouldn’t have seen me. And I couldn’t move; I was stunned to see how you’ve grown.” I expected her to smile, but she pressed her lips together.

  “I shouldn’t have said Dad was late.”

  “Sweetheart . . .” I reached over and tugged at her ponytail. “You said nothing wrong. We grown-ups sometimes boil too hot. Do you ever do that?”

  She nodded but seemed unconvinced.

  I pulled her in for a squeeze as Peter came down the steps. He looked at me hugging Kate and furrowed his brows. “You work,” I said. “I’m going to talk to your dad.”

  I crossed the room to the washer and dryer, where Peter stood sorting laundry.

  “Packing?”

  “I’ll be gone a week.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He threw me a glance as if trying to assess why I was sorry—there were so many options from which to choose.

  “It’s my job. We need the income, the health insurance . . .”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I wish she could see that.”

  “I don’t know my sister that well, but I bet she knows at least that.” I tried to sound light and logical.

  “Perhaps.”

  He gathered his laundry and I trailed him up the stairs. Halfway up he stopped and turned around. “She likes to be read to during chemo. The Adriamycin is red—you can see it—and when you read, she’ll close her eyes to listen. She doesn’t like to watch it thread its way into her. And make sure she drinks tons of water. Some people get nauseated and throw up. She’s on tons of antinausea meds, so I doubt that’ll happen. It hasn’t yet, but she feels so sick that she doesn’t eat or drink. Last time she got constipated and suffered horrible stomach pains. And the headaches . . . they’re pretty bad. I think that’s the antinausea meds, not the chemo. I’ve read they can do that, which is another reason she likes someone to read to her. She says it hurts to track the page.”

  “Got it.”

  Peter looked at me—hard. “I’ll leave you my notes.” And he continued up the stairs.

  Chapter 8

  THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE MORE EASILY. WEST COAST time made the kids’ seven a.m. wake-up call feel luxurious. I could hear Danny happily howling about something, and when I peeked in, I found Peter pouncing on him.

  “You go wake Kate.” Peter grinned at me. “It’s hilarious. Just poke her stomach.”

  I went into Kate’s room and found her stretched on her back as wide as she could go. She looked so long and grown-up. With Peter and Danny standing in the doorway, I took one finger and poked her stomach. She crumpled in like a sea anemone, then splayed back out. Peter was right—it was hilarious. I couldn’t believe she didn’t hear all the snorting and chortling around her. Three more pokes and I couldn’t take it anymore. I simply tickled her awake.

  “Breakfast in a few minutes, kids,” Peter said.

  “Can I do that for you?”

  “I’d appreciate it. I’ve got to finish packing.” Peter headed back to his room, and I lumbered down the stairs to scrounge around.

  Danny bounced into the kitchen twenty minutes later. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Oatmeal.”

  “Oatmeal?” He scrunched his face.

  I started my sell job. “I’ve got brown sugar, almonds, raisins, and cut strawberries for it. I couldn’t find honey—that’s what I like—but you’ll still love it.”

  Kate joined us. “What’s burning?”

  “Oatmeal!” I ran to the stove and dragged the pot off the flame. “Your breakfast.” I lifted the lid. “It’s ruined. I never do that.”

  “So what’s for breakfast?” Danny asked in precisely the same tone he’d used before.

  “How about toast? I bet there’s jam.”

  “Toast?”

  I wanted to ask, Must we go through this? but he’s ten. Maybe that’s what they do. I nodded. “Toast.” I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.

  “Danny, we’re late. Eat it on the way. The bell rings in ten minutes.”

  “Where’s school?”

  “Four blocks that way.” Danny pointed.

  “Go then. I’m sorry this is late.” I pushed them toward the door, shoving
the toast into their hands. “Am I supposed to drive you or something?”

  “We run.”

  “Get to it then.”

  Danny rolled his eyes and took off. Kate had already dashed away.

  “Late?” Peter said behind me.

  I turned around. “Not sure. Are they?”

  He looked at his watch. “Only by a couple minutes. Kate’s a fast runner and Danny’s a smooth talker. They’ll be fine.”

  Dad came in and grabbed the car keys off the counter. “Peter, you ready to go?” He moved toward the back door.

  “I thought I’d make the airport run and you’d take Jane to chemotherapy.” I looked between the men, hoping one of them would agree.

  “No, you’ll do.” Jane marched into the room.

  “I’ll do?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” She dug around in a drawer for something.

  Peter rolled his suitcase past me. “I left my notes on your bed.”

  “Got it.”

  “What notes?” Jane barked.

  I looked between them. “Just some tips to keep you comfy.”

  Jane snorted. Peter shrugged and reached to kiss her good-bye. She turned her head, and he ended up kissing her temple. My heart hurt for him as I rolled my eyes at Jane. Then I noticed Dad watching me—my turn to tilt and duck my head away.

  Peter and Dad went out the back door while Jane led me to the front hall.

  “Tonight I’m cooking,” I said. “You wouldn’t let me do anything last night.”

  She pulled out her keys. “I didn’t want to be shown up in my own kitchen. Besides, I felt good. You can cook tonight and tomorrow, even Thursday, if you want. I think Dad said you’re leaving Friday. That’s when I start to like food again.”

  “You won’t eat until Friday?” We climbed into her car and backed out of the driveway.

  “My stomach feels closed. Actually it’s my nose and mouth that shut down. Nothing smells or tastes good.”

  “I’ll make you something so yummy you won’t be able to help yourself.”

  I started running menu options in my brain, mixing and matching until the exercise completely absorbed me. A few new recipes developed in my head, and I was pleased with my visualizations.