Two by Two

CHAPTER 24: December

When I think back on Marge as a teenager, two things come to mind: roller skating, and horror films. In the late eighties and early nineties, roller skating was giving way to Rollerblading; but Marge stayed true to the old-fashioned skates that she had owned as a child-I think she had a soft spot for the disco roller rinks of her early childhood. Weekends during her teenage years were spent almost entirely on skates, usually with her Walkman and headphones on… even, remarkably, after she got her driver’s license. There were few things she loved more than roller skating-unless it was a good horror film.

Although Marge loved romantic comedies like I did, her favorite genre was horror, and she never missed seeing the latest horror movie in its first week of release. It didn’t matter to her if the film had been panned by critics and the public alike; she would happily watch it alone if she couldn’t find a fellow enthusiast, as devoted to the genre as a groupie to her favorite band. From Nightmare on Elm Street to Candyman to Amityville 4: The Evil Escapes, Marge was a true aficionado of horror, highbrow and low.

When I asked her why she loved horror movies so much, she merely shrugged and said that sometimes she liked to be scared.

I didn’t get it, any more than I did the allure of rolling around with wheels on your feet. Why would someone want to be scared? Weren’t there more than enough scary things in real life to keep us awake at night?

Now, though, I think I understand.

Marge liked those films precisely because they weren’t real. Any fright she felt in the course of the film was quantifiable; it would begin, and then it would end, and she would leave the theater, emotionally spent yet relieved that all was well in the world.

At the same time, she’d been able to confront-albeit temporarily-one of the hardwired emotions of life, the root of our universal instinct toward fight or flight. By willing herself to stay put despite her fear, I think Marge felt that she would emerge stronger and better equipped to face down whatever actual terrors life had in store for her.

In retrospect, I think that Marge might have been onto something.

Vivian had returned with London on Sunday evening. Before she left, she hugged me, a longer hug than I’d expected. In it, I could sense her concern, but strangely, her body no longer felt familiar to me.

London had enjoyed her visit, but this time she mentioned that she had missed both her fish and Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles. As soon as she got home, we went up to her room, where she told me that she’d had Thanksgiving dinner in a mansion. I guessed that Vivian had introduced our daughter to Spannerman in reaction to seeing London hug Emily at the art studio. To Vivian’s mind, no doubt, I’d violated the taboo first, which gave her the right to do so as well.

I suppose I should have cared more, but in that moment, I didn’t. I was worn out, and I’d known that London would meet Spannerman sooner or later anyway. What did it matter if it was this weekend, or the next time she was in Atlanta?

What did anything matter anymore?

While London was occupied with the fish, I decided to clean the hamster cage, since I’d let it slide while London was gone. By then, I was accustomed to it, and it took no time at all. I ran the mess to the outdoor garbage can, washed up, then went back upstairs, where London was holding Mr. Sprinkles.

“Are you hungry, sweetie?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Mommy and me ate on the plane.”

“Just making sure,” I said. I took a seat on the bed, watching her, but mainly thinking about Marge. My sister wanted me to keep living my life, to act as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed and I felt hollowed out, as empty as a junked oil drum. I wasn’t sure I was capable of doing as Marge asked, and wasn’t sure I even wanted to.

“Guess what?” London said, looking up.

“What, sweetheart?”

“For Christmas, I’m going to make Auntie Marge and Auntie Liz a vase, like I did for Mommy. But this time, I want to paint fishes on it.”

“I’m sure they’ll love that.”

For a moment, London seemed to study me, her gaze unaccountably serious. “Are you okay, Daddy?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “I’m okay.”

“You seem sad.”

I am, I thought. It’s all I can do not to fall to pieces.

“I just missed you,” I said.

She smiled and came toward me, still holding the hamster.

“Would you like to hold Mr. Sprinkles?”

“Sure,” I said, as she gently placed him in my hand. The hamster was soft and light, but I could feel his tiny claws scramble for purchase as he shifted into place. His whiskers twitched and he began to sniff my hand.

“Guess what?” London asked again. I summoned an inquisitive look. “I can read now.”

“Yeah?”

“I read Two by Two all by myself. I read it to Mommy.”

I wondered if it wasn’t so much reading, as reciting from memory-after all, we had read it a hundred times together. But again, what did it matter?

“Maybe you could show me later?”

“Okay,” she agreed. She put her arms around me and squeezed. “I love you, Daddy.”

I caught the scent of the baby shampoo she still used and felt another ache in my heart.

“I love you, too.”

She squeezed harder before letting go. “Can I have Mr. Sprinkles back?”

Marge quit work on Monday. I know because I got a text from her saying, I’ve decided to retire.

I went by her house after I dropped London off at school. Work could wait. I didn’t care what she wanted; what I wanted was to see my sister. Liz answered the door, and I could tell she’d recently been crying, though only a trace of redness in her eyes remained.

I found Marge propped on the couch with her legs tucked up, wrapped in a blanket. Pretty Woman was playing on the television. It brought back a flood of memories, and all at once, I saw Marge as a teenager again. Back when she had an entire life in front her, a life measured in decades, not months.

“Hey there,” she said, hitting the pause button. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I know the boss,” I answered. “He says it’s okay if I’m a little late today.”

“Smart-ass.”

“I learned from the best.” Marge made room, and I plopped down on the couch next to her.

“Admit it: You got my text, and you came over because you’re jealous that I’ve finally quit the rat race.” She gave a defiant grin. “I figured it was time to live a little.”

I struggled in vain for a snappy comeback, and in the silence, Marge poked my ribs with her feet. “Lighten up,” she said. “No doom and gloom allowed in this house.” She peeked over her shoulder. “Was Liz okay?” she finally whispered.

“I guess so,” I answered. “We didn’t really talk.”

“You should,” she said. “She’s actually a very nice person.”

“Are you done?” I asked with a halfhearted smile. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

“A lot better than yesterday,” she answered. “Which reminds me-can I take London roller skating this weekend?”

“You want to take London roller skating?” My disbelief must have shown, because Marge bristled.

“Believe it or not, I refuse to let all of you keep me cooped up in the house, and I think London will enjoy it. I know I will.”

Left unsaid was that it would likely be something that London would remember forever, since it would be her first time. “When was the last time you even went roller skating?”

“What do you care? It’s not like I’ve forgotten how to do it. If you recall, I used to be pretty good.”

It’s not that, I thought to myself. I’m wondering whether you’ll have the strength. I looked away toward the screen, convinced that Marge was in denial. In the freeze-frame image on the television, Julia Roberts was in a bar, confronting her roommate about money. Though I hadn’t seen the movie in years, I could still recall the film practically scene by scene. “Okay,” I said. “But only if you hit play so we can watch the movie.”

“You want to waste your morning watching Pretty Woman? Instead of earning money?”

“It’s my life,” I said.

“Well, just don’t make it a habit, okay? You’re welcome to come by after work, but not before. I’ll probably start needing my beauty rest.”

“Just hit the play button already.”

She lifted her eyebrow slightly and pointed the remote. “I just started it a few minutes ago.”

“I know.”

“We used to watch this together.”

“I know,” I said again. “Just like I also know you’ve always had a crush on Julia Roberts.”

She laughed as the movie started up again, and for the next couple of hours, my sister and I watched the movie, calling out lines and sharing a running commentary, just like when we were kids.

After the movie, Marge went to the bedroom to take a nap while Liz and I drank coffee in the kitchen.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Liz admitted, with the expression of someone overtaken by events she can hardly comprehend. “In Costa Rica, she seemed fine. She barely coughed and it was hard for me to keep up with her. I don’t understand how she could seem so healthy a month ago, and now…” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I canceled my appointments today and tomorrow, but Marge basically forbade me from taking a leave of absence. She wants me to continue working at least a few days a week, insisting that your mom can fill in as needed. That we should work out a schedule, or whatever.” When she raised her eyes, they were full of pain. “It’s like she doesn’t want me around.”

“It’s not that,” I said, covering her hand with my own. “She loves you. You know that.”

“Then why is she essentially telling me to stay away? Why can’t she understand that I just want to be with her as much as possible, for as long as possible?”

She squeezed my hand in return as she stared out the window, unseeing.

“She still wants to go to New York next week,” she finally added.

“You’re not seriously thinking of going, are you?” Roller skating was one thing, but a sightseeing trip to one of the busiest cities in the world?

“I don’t know what to do. She asked the doctor about it last night, and he said that if she was feeling up to it, there was no reason for her not to go since it’s between chemo sessions. But how can I go and not think to myself, This will be the last time Marge sees this, or, This will be Marge’s only chance to do that that?”

She was looking to me for an answer, but I knew there wasn’t anything I could say.

Most of her questions, after all, were the same as my own, and I had no answers, either.

On Tuesday morning, the first day of December, I got a text from Marge, asking London and me to dinner that night. It was a subtle way of telling me not to swing by the house before that.

The thought depressed me, and after dropping London off at school, I arranged to meet Emily for coffee. In jeans and a thick turtleneck sweater, she looked as fresh-faced and youthful as a college student.

“You look tired,” she observed. “Are you holding up okay?”

“I’m surviving,” I answered, pushing a weary hand through my hair. “I’m sorry for not calling the last couple of days.”

She raised her hands immediately. “Don’t be. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’ve been worried about you.”

For whatever reason, her words were a comfort. “Thanks, Em,” I said. “That means a lot to me.”

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” she said, touching my arm.

For the next hour I rambled on, my cup of coffee gradually cooling to room temperature. Listening to myself, I realized that since Emily had come back into my life, I’d been careening from one emotional catastrophe to the next. Even as she held me later, I found myself marveling that she was still willing to put up with me.

For dinner that night, Liz went out of her way to cook something she knew London would enjoy-Shake’N Bake chicken, seasoned potatoes, and a fruit salad.

My mom was just leaving as we arrived, and I walked her out to her car. Before she got in, she paused.

“Marge is refusing to let me give up any of my clubs,” my mom said. “In fact, she insisted that I stick to the very same schedule, but Russ…” She frowned in concern. “She doesn’t how bad it’s going to get. She’s going to need help. It’s like she’s in denial.”

I nodded, signaling that I’d been thinking the same thing.

“Do you know what she said to me just now? She wants Dad to come by to fix a few of the railings on the porch because they’ve got some dry rot. And some of the windows are sticking. And there’s a leaking sink in the bathroom. She was so insistent about getting these things fixed. As if that even matters right now.” She gave me a baffled look. “Why would she be making such a fuss about a few porch railings? Or the windows?”

Though I didn’t respond, it finally dawned on me, what Marge was doing. I suddenly knew why she wanted me to only come by in the evenings; why she was having Liz and my mom split time with her. I knew why she wanted my dad to come over and make repairs on the house, and why she was insisting on taking London roller skating.

Marge, more than anyone, knew that each of us not only wanted private time with her, but were going to need it, before the end.

With the side effects of the initial chemotherapy treatment diminishing over the course of the week, Marge grew steadily stronger. And all of us wanted to believe her treatment was working, because we so desperately craved even a few more months with her.

I know now that only Marge understood on some intuitive level what was really going on inside her body. She bowed to treatment in the first place simply because it was what all of us wanted her to do. In hindsight, I realize that she understood, even as she’d said yes, that it wouldn’t slow the progress of the disease at all.

To this day, I still wonder how she knew.

Liz and my mom organized a schedule, such that one of them would always be at the house during the day, once Marge and Liz returned from New York.

The Friday following my dinner at Marge’s, my dad took a morning off work and showed up at Marge’s with his tool chest and a pile of precut railings in his trunk. He began the slow process of repair and took a break at lunch; Marge and my dad had sandwiches and sweet tea on the back porch, admiring my dad’s handiwork to that point and discussing the Braves’ prospects for the following year’s season.

On Saturday, Marge arrived at my house after art class-the very same art class where unbeknownst to my sister, London had fashioned her Christmas gift-to take London roller skating. Liz and I tagged along with them, watching from the gallery as Marge helped London inch around the rink. London, like most kids, kept trying to walk in the skates rather than glide, and it took a good half an hour before London began to master the motion. Had it not been for Marge holding both of London’s hands-Marge was skating backward-my little girl would have wiped out at least twenty times.

However, by the end of the session they were able to skate side by side, albeit slowly, and London was visibly proud as she finally untied the laces with Liz’s help and turned in her skates. I took a seat next to Marge while she bent over and removed her own skates.

“Your arms and back are going to be sore tomorrow,” I predicted. To my eyes, she looked tired, but I couldn’t tell whether it was because she was sick, or because catching London over and over before she fell was understandably exhausting.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “London’s not very heavy. But she is a chatty little thing. She talked and talked the whole time. She even grilled me on what my favorite color of fish was. I had no idea what to tell her.”

I smiled. “New York will probably seem restful by comparison. You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Yeah-I can’t wait,” she said, perking up. “I’ve told Liz that our first stop is the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. I want to get in the spirit of the holidays.”

“Text me some pictures,” I said.

“I will,” she promised. “By the way, I know what I want for Christmas,” she said pointedly. “From you.”

“Do tell.”

“I’ll tell you when I get back. But here’s a little hint: I want to go somewhere with you.”

“Like a trip, you mean?”

“No,” she said. “Not a trip.”

“Then where?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t be surprised.”

“If you don’t tell me, then how can I do it?”

“How about you let me figure that part out, okay?”

With her skates off and her shoes back on, I saw her cast a last, wistful look toward the rink. It was getting crowded now, filling with children, groups of raucous teenagers, and a few nostalgic adults. By Marge’s expression, I knew she was thinking to herself that she was never going to have the chance to skate again.

Today, I realized, hadn’t simply been about teaching London to roller skate, or making a memory that London might hold on to forever; Marge had begun the process of saying goodbye to the things she loved, too.

Marge and Liz were gone for six days. While they were away, I worked long hours, wanting to get as much done on the new ad campaigns as possible, but mostly trying to keep myself from dwelling on my sister. As promised, she’d texted me photos of the Rockefeller Christmas tree: one of her and Liz together, and another shot of her by herself.

I had the pictures Photoshopped, printed, and then framed, with the intention of giving one set to Marge and Liz as a Christmas gift, and keeping another set for myself.

Meanwhile, I was contacted by two more law firms, including a small firm in Atlanta that had stumbled across my recent work on YouTube. As I started to put together the requisite presentations, I found myself reviewing the past six months.

When I’d started my agency, it seemed as though all my worries were business- or money-related, and at the time, I’d found the stress overwhelming. Things, I’d thought, couldn’t get much worse, yet I could distinctly remember Marge reassuring me that everything would turn out fine in the end.

She was right, of course.

On the other hand, she couldn’t have been more wrong.

The holidays continued to approach.

“What are your plans for Christmas? With London?” Marge asked me. It was Sunday afternoon and she’d just woken from a nap, but still looked tired. We were on her couch, where she’d wrapped herself in a blanket, even though the house felt warm to me. She and Liz had returned from New York the day before, and I wanted to see her before London returned from Atlanta. “Have you and Vivian discussed that yet? Christmas is only two weeks away, you know.”

As I stared at my sister, it seemed to me that she’d lost even more weight since I’d seen her at the skating rink. Her eyes had a sunken look about them, and her voice sounded slightly higher and thinner, somehow.

“Not yet,” I said. “But again, it’s falling on one of her weekends.”

“Russ, I know I’ve said it before, but it’s not fair for you not to have any holidays with London.”

No, it wasn’t. But there wasn’t much I could do about it, so I attempted to change the subject.

“How was New York?”

“It was amazing,” Marge sighed. “But the crowds… wow. There were lines down the block just to get into some of the stores. The shows were fantastic, and we had some truly unforgettable meals.” She mentioned some of the musicals they’d seen and restaurants where they’d eaten.

“It was worth it, then?”

“For sure,” she said. “I had the hotel arrange a couple of romantic evenings while we were there, too. Champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries, rose petals trailing to the bed. I’d also brought along some new lingerie to show off my newly svelte figure.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I think I blew Liz’s socks off.”

“Why didn’t you want her wearing socks?”

“Really? That’s your thought process?”

“When my sister starts talking about her love life, I choose to retreat into naïveté,” I explained. “It’s not like I share details about my love life.”

“You don’t have a love life with Emily yet. And if you ask me, it’s about time you did something about that.”

“We’re in a good place right now,” I insisted. “We talk every night on the phone, see each other for coffee. And we went out on Friday night.”

“What did you do?”

“Dinner. And karaoke.”

“You did karaoke?” That caught Marge by surprise.

“She did. Then again, it was her idea. She’s pretty good, too.”

Marge smiled as she burrowed deeper into the couch. “That sounds like fun,” she said. “Not really sexy or romantic, but fun. Any bites on your house yet?”

“There have been a few nibbles here and there, but nothing official yet. My Realtor says that December is always slow. She wants to do an open house in January.”

“Let me know when. Liz and I will come by as ringers, and talk up the place in front of potential buyers.”

“You have better things to do than go to an open house.”

“Probably,” she conceded. “Then again, you always seem to end up needing my help in one way or another. I’ve had to take care of you my whole life.” She glanced in the direction of the kitchen, where Liz was preparing lunch. “I’m supposed to have more chemo this week. Next Friday, I think. I’m not looking forward to that at all.” She sighed, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face. She turned to me. “With that in mind, we should probably do our thing on Thursday.”

“What thing?”

“Our trip, remember?” she said. “My Christmas present?”

“You do realize that I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s okay. I’ll pick you up at seven. Liz can get London ready for bed, if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course,” I said. She stifled a yawn and I knew it was time for me to go. “I guess I should take off. I’ve got a ton of work I want to get done before London gets home.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’m looking forward to Thursday night. Make sure you dress warmly.”

“I will,” I promised. I rose from the couch, hesitated, then leaned back over to kiss my sister on the cheek. Her eyes were closed. “See you later.”

She nodded without answering, and by the sound of her breathing, I knew she had fallen asleep again, even before I’d reached the front door.

Vivian delivered London around 7:00 p.m. that evening. While the limousine idled out front and London was in the bath, we spoke briefly in the kitchen.

“About Christmas,” she said, cutting to the chase. “I think it would be best if we spend it here. For London, I mean. It’ll be her last Christmas in this house. I can just stay in the guest room, if that’s all right with you.” She reached for her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. “I’ve already bought some things, but it might be easier if you picked up some of this other stuff, so I don’t have to haul everything back here. I made a list. Just save the receipts and we can split it all up at the end.”

“Whatever’s easiest,” I agreed, thinking back to what Marge had said about the holidays, knowing she’d be pleased. “I saw Marge today,” I said, leaning against the counter.

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s already beginning to sleep a lot.”

Vivian nodded, lowering her gaze. “It’s just awful,” she said. “I know you think Marge and I didn’t get along that well, but I always liked her. And I know she doesn’t deserve this. I want you to know that. She’s always been a great sister.”

“She still is,” I said, but even as the words came out, I wondered how much longer I’d be able to say them.

After school on Wednesday, Emily and I planned to take the kids out to a Christmas tree farm, where you could choose and have your own tree cut down. Much of the place was decorated like Santa’s village, and kids could meet Santa before visiting his workshop, where hot chocolate and cookies were served. Even better, the farm would deliver and set up the tree in its stand, something I needed since I suspected that my Prius would otherwise be crushed beneath the weight of the tree.

When I mentioned the plan to Marge, she insisted that she and Liz meet us there.

It was nine days until Christmas.

In the gravel parking lot, Marge emerged from the car. When I hugged her, I could feel the sharp ridges of her ribcage, the cancer slowly eating away at her from within. She seemed to have more energy, however, than she had just after she returned from New York.

“And this, I take it, is Bodhi,” Marge said, shaking his hand with touching formality. “You’re so tall for your age,” she remarked, before proceeding to ask about his favorite activities and what he wanted for Christmas. When the kids became visibly antsy, we let them run off toward the farm, where they were quickly lost between evergreen triangles.

Emily and I trailed after them, strolling with Marge and Liz.

“How is your holiday season shaping up, Em?” Marge asked. “Are you going anywhere?”

“No,” she said. “We’ll just do the family thing like we usually do. See my sister and my parents. Ever since London learned to ride a bike, Bodhi’s been begging for one, so I guess I have to get him one-even if I’m not so confident about my ability to teach him to ride.”

“You’ll help her out, won’t you, Russ?” Marge said, elbowing me.

I grimaced. “Marge has always been good at volunteering me for things.”

“I seem to recall that,” she laughed. “Russ said you had a good time in New York?”

The two of them fell behind a bit, engrossed in their conversation. I looped my arm through Liz’s, and followed the path the kids had taken.

“How’s the schedule working out with Mom?” I asked.

“It’s working, I guess. I cut back to three days a week at work, so your mom is going to come on the other two weekdays.”

“Marge seems to be doing well today.”

“She was a little fatigued this morning, but she perked up on the ride over. I think doing things like this makes her feel like there’s nothing wrong with her, if only for a little while. She was the same way when we were in New York.”

“I’m glad she wanted to come. I just don’t want her to get run down.”

“I’ve said the same thing to her,” Liz said. “And do you know what her response was?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“She told me not to worry so much, because she ‘still has something important to do.’”

“What does that mean?’

Liz shook her head. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

As we stopped and waited for Emily and Marge to catch up, I pondered my sister’s cryptic words. She had always been one for surprises, and I wondered what last mysteries she had up her sleeve.

The next evening, Marge and Liz arrived at my house at seven on the dot. As soon as Liz walked through the door, London took her hand and led her up to the bedroom to show her the aquarium.

Marge was bundled in a scarf and hat, despite the relatively mild temperatures. She also wore gloves and the oversize down jacket I’d brought to the hospital.

It seemed impossible that less than three weeks had passed since she’d been rushed to the hospital.

“Are you ready?” she said impatiently, clearly ready to leave.

I grabbed my jacket and dug out a pair of gloves and a hat, even though I couldn’t imagine needing them. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” she said. “Come on. Before I chicken out.”

I was still mystified, but as we began to turn down roads I recognized, I suddenly understood what she had in mind.

“You’re not serious,” I said as she pulled up to the gates and shut off the engine.

“I am,” she said firmly. “And this is your Christmas gift to me.”

As I looked up, the water tower loomed-impossibly, immeasurably tall.

“It’s illegal to climb the water tower,” I said.

“It’s always been illegal. That never stopped us before.”

“We were kids,” I countered.

“And now we’re not,” she said. “You ready? Get your hat and gloves. It’ll probably be windy up top.”

“Marge…”

She stared at me. “I can make the climb,” she said in a voice that left no room for dissent. “After another round of chemo, maybe I won’t be able to. But right now, I still can, and I want you to come with me.”

She didn’t wait for me to answer. Getting out of the car, she strode toward the steel maintenance ladder, leaving me paralyzed with indecision. By the time I scrambled after her, she was already six feet in the air. Which meant, of course, that I had no choice but to start climbing. If she got tired, if she became weak or dizzy, I had to be there to catch her. In the end, it was fear for her that spurred me to follow.

Marge hadn’t been lying. Though she had to take a break every twenty feet or so, she would inevitably start up again, moving relentlessly higher. Below me, I could see rooftops, and I caught the scent of chimney smoke. I was grateful for my gloves, as the metal rungs were cold enough to make my hands stiffen up.

When we finally reached the top, Marge inched her way over to the spot where I’d found her on that terrible night back when she’d been in college. Just like then, she let her feet dangle over the narrow walkway, and I quickly moved to her side. I put my arm around her again, in case she got dizzy.

“You must be feeling the cold,” I said.

“Speak for yourself,” she retorted. “I put on long johns before I came.”

“Fine,” I said. “Then slide your butt closer to me so I can get warm, too.”

She did, and for a while we took in a bird’s-eye view of the neighborhood. It was too cold for the nighttime sound of crickets or frogs; instead, I caught the faintest murmuring of wind chimes and the sound of the breeze as it rustled the branches of trees. That, and the sound of Marge wheezing, low and wet. I wondered how much pain she was in. The cancer, after all, always brings pain.

“I remember when you found me up here, drunk as a skunk,” she said. “Well, not all of it-I actually don’t remember much at all about that night, other than that moment, when you suddenly appeared.”

“It was a rough night,” I said.

“I sometimes wonder what would have happened had you not shown up. I wonder if I really would have jumped, or maybe fallen. I was so heartbroken about Tracey at the time, but I look back now, and can’t help but think it was a good thing. Because in the end, I found Liz. And what Liz and I have is nothing like what I had with Tracey. Ever. She and I just work, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. You guys have something that everyone wants.”

“I’m worried about her,” Marge admitted. “She’s so good at helping other people get through their problems, but I think she gives so much at work, she doesn’t have much left for herself. And it scares me. Because I want her to be okay. I want her to be happy.” She stared out into the distance, almost as if trying to see into the future. “I want her to one day find somebody new, someone who loves her as much I do. Someone she can grow old with.”

I swallowed, forcing the tightness from my throat. “I know.”

“When we were in New York, she swore she has no interest in ever finding someone else. And I actually got really mad at her. We had an argument, and afterward I felt so bad about it. We both did, but…”

“There’s a lot going on, Marge,” I said, my voice soft. “She understands. And she’ll be okay.” If Marge heard me, she gave no sign.

“Do you know what else scares me?”

“What’s that?”

“That she’s going to lose contact with London. She loves that little girl so much… London is a big part of the reason we wanted to have kids of our own. And now-”

“Liz is always going to be part of the family,” I cut in. “I’ll make sure that Liz plays a big part in London’s life.”

“What if London moves to Atlanta?” Marge pressed.

“She’ll still see Liz regularly,” I assured her.

“But you’re only going to have her on the occasional holiday and every other weekend, right? Maybe a couple of weeks in the summer?”

I hesitated. “I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen with London,” I said. Vivian had been more generous, and less volatile, since learning about Marge. But then, she was the least predictable person I knew, and I was leery of making specific promises I couldn’t keep.

She turned toward me. “You have to fight for her,” Marge urged. “London should live with you.”

“Vivian won’t let that happen. And I doubt that the courts will, either.”

“Then you have to figure something out. Because let me tell you something-girls need their fathers. Look at me and Dad. He might not have been the most expressive guy in the world, but I always knew at some really deep level that he was there for me. And look at what he did for me when I came out. We stopped going to church, for God’s sake! He chose me-over God, over our community, over everyone. And if you’re not around for London when she comes to her own crossroads in life, she’s going to feel abandoned by you. You have to be there for her-every day, not just now and then.” She fell silent for a moment, as if winded by her efforts. “Anyway, she’s used to you being the primary parent now,” she added. “And you’re great at it.”

“I’m trying, Marge,” I said.

She grabbed my arm, her voice fierce. “You have to do more than that. You need to do whatever you can in order to remain in London’s life. Not as a weekend or vacation dad, but as the parent who’s always there to hold her when she cries, pick her up when she falls, help her with her homework. To support her when she can’t see a way forward. She needs that from you.”

I stared down at the empty streets below, washed by the halogen glow of streetlights.

“I know she does,” I said quietly. “I just hope I don’t fail.”

On Sunday morning, the Christmas tree was delivered and London and I spent the first part of the day decorating it, stringing lights among the branches and conferring over the placement of every single ornament. When I called Marge and Liz later that afternoon to see if they wanted to come by for some eggnog, Liz answered the phone and said they wouldn’t be able to make it.

“It’s been a pretty bad day,” Liz said. Marge had undergone her second round of chemo on Friday, the day after the trip to the water tower, and I hadn’t seen her since. According to Liz, the nausea and pain were worse than the first time, and Marge had barely been able to leave her bed.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” she answered. “Your mom and dad have been here pretty much all day. They’re still here.” She lowered her voice. “Your dad-I think it really kills him to see Marge like this. He keeps finding new things to repair. It’s hard for your mom, too, of course, but she’s been through it so many times that at least she knows what to expect. He’s trying so hard to be strong for Marge, but it’s destroying him inside. He just loves her so much, his girl. They both do.”

I found myself thinking about what Marge had said that night on the water tower, about being the kind of dad who is there for everything, always. Even, it seems, at the end.

“He’s a great father, Liz,” I said. “I hope I can be half the dad he is.”

On Monday, London’s last day of school before winter break, I finally got around to the Christmas list that Vivian had left me. Work had kept me busy most days, and in my binary focus on “clients” and “Marge,” Vivian’s list had slipped off my radar. Luckily, Emily still had some last-minute shopping to do, so the two of us drove from store to store late that morning. With Christmas only four days away, I was worried that some items would be sold out, but I was able to find everything on Vivian’s list.

Halfway through our shopping, Emily and I took a break for lunch. There was a café at the mall and though the food smelled good, I had little appetite. On the scale that morning, I saw that I’d begun to lose weight again. I wasn’t alone; Liz was losing weight as well, and I noted that she sometimes looked disheveled, as if she no longer cared about her appearance. Her hair, often tied back in a careless ponytail, was losing its luster. My mom and dad, too, were suffering. My dad seemed to have acquired a defeated hunch in the past few weeks, and my mom’s face was more deeply lined with worry with every passing day.

But our suffering was nothing compared to Marge’s. Walking was becoming painful for her, and often, she struggled to stay awake for more than an hour. When I visited, I sometimes sat with Marge in her darkened bedroom, listening as she seemed to struggle to draw breath, even as she slept. Occasionally she whimpered in her sleep, and I wondered if she were dreaming. If only, I thought, she could dream the kind of dreams that would make her smile.

Thoughts like these preoccupied me, even in Emily’s company, no matter what the surroundings. When my lunch arrived, I stared at it blankly, picturing Marge’s emaciated face. I took only a single bite before pushing the plate aside.

If Marge couldn’t eat, I guess there was a part of me that felt like I didn’t deserve to, either.

“You need to come by the house,” Marge said without preamble, right after I answered her call. I’d just dropped Emily off a few minutes earlier.

“Why? Are you okay?”

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” she said, with a trace of her old sardonic humor. “But yes, I’m feeling better than I was, and I’d like you to come by.”

“I have to pick up London from school in a little while. And drop off the gifts beforehand.”

“Swing by here on the way and leave the gifts with us,” she said. “London won’t find them that way.”

When I reached her house a few minutes later, I started unloading the bags from the trunk. When I looked up, my mom appeared in the front doorway. Even with her help, it took two trips to unload everything.

“I’m not sure where to put all this,” I said, staring at the mountain of bags on the kitchen floor. Did London really need all this? I wondered.

“I’ll put it all in one of the closets,” my mom said. “Go on in. Marge is waiting for you.”

I found Marge on the couch, wrapped in a blanket as usual, with the living room shades drawn. The lights from the Christmas tree cast a cheerful glow, but in the days since I’d seen her last, she seemed to have aged years. Her cheekbones stood out in sharp relief below the sunken pits of her eyes, and her arms looked ropy and flaccid. I tried to mask my dismay at her appearance as I took a seat beside her.

“I heard it was a rough few days,” I said, clearing my throat.

“I’ve felt better, that’s for sure. I’m on the mend now, but…” She cracked a smile, a ghost of her irrepressible self. “I’m glad you came by. I wanted to talk to you.” Getting the words out seemed to be an effort. “Emily called a little while ago.”

“Emily?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You remember her, right? Gorgeous hair, has a five-year-old son, the woman you love? Anyway, she called me because she’s worried about you. She says you’re not eating.”

“She called you?” I said, feeling my irritation rise. Now Marge was going to worry about my health?

“I asked her to keep an eye on you and let me know how you’re doing,” Marge said in a bossy voice I remembered from childhood. “Which is why I then asked you to come over.” She scanned me with a critical eye. “You better eat a decent dinner tonight, or I’m going to get seriously angry with you.”

“When did you discuss ‘keeping an eye’ on me with Emily?” I demanded.

“When we went to Santa’s village for the trees.”

“You have better things to worry about than me, Marge,” I said, conscious of how sulky I sounded.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “That’s something that I won’t let you take away from me.”

Tuesday, December twenty-second, was London’s last day of school before the winter break, and that was when I planned to wrap all the gifts. Before I’d left her house the previous day, Marge asked if she could help with the wrapping, since the gifts were over there anyhow.

When I arrived at the house with wrapping paper after dropping London off at school, my first thought was that Marge looked better than she had the day before. Simultaneously, I hated that I had begun to make those kinds of evaluations every time I saw her, only to see my hopes elevated or dashed depending on how she seemed to be doing.

Liz was home with her that day, and she exuded a forced good cheer as we brought the gifts to the kitchen and began to wrap. At Marge’s request, she made us all cups of hot chocolate, thick and foamy, although I noticed that my sister drank little of hers.

Marge wrapped a couple of the smaller gifts before settling back in her chair, leaving the rest to Liz and me.

“I’m still not happy that you’re calling Emily to check up on me,” I groused.

Despite her condition, Marge was clearly enjoying my discomfort, as evidenced by the gleam in her eye. “That’s why I didn’t ask your permission. And if you’re interested, we didn’t just talk about that, by the way. We talked about a lot of things.”

I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. “What things?”

“That’s between me and her,” she said. “But for now, what I want to know is whether you ate last night. Full report, please.”

“I made steaks for London and me,” I sighed. “And mashed potatoes.”

“Good,” she said with satisfaction. “Now, have you spoken with Vivian about the plans for Christmas this year? Other than that she’ll be coming to Charlotte?”

The tradition in my family had been to gather at my parents’ on Christmas Eve. My mom would make an elaborate dinner and afterward, we’d allow London to open gifts from the relatives while It’s a Wonderful Life played on television. On Christmas morning, at our house, Vivian and I would have London to ourselves.

“We haven’t gotten into the specifics yet,” I said. “She doesn’t come in until tomorrow. We’ll figure it out then.”

“You probably need to get her something,” Marge pointed out. “For London’s sake, so she can see her mom opening some gifts. It doesn’t have to be anything big.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I didn’t think of that.”

“What did you get Emily for Christmas?”

“Nothing yet,” I admitted.

“Any thoughts yet? You’re cutting it a little close…”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking to Marge and Liz for inspiration. “A sweater, maybe? Or a nice jacket?”

“Those could be part of it, but she told me what she’s getting you, so you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Like jewelry or something?”

“If you want, I’m sure she’d appreciate that, too. But I was thinking that you need to do something from the heart.”

“Like what?”

“I think,” she said, drawing the words out, “that you should write her a letter.”

“What kind of letter?”

Marge shrugged. “You write for a living, Russ. Tell her how much she’s meant to you these past months. How much you want her to remain in your life. Tell her…” Marge said, lighting up, “that you want her to take a chance on you again.”

I squirmed. “She already knows how I feel about her. I tell her that all the time.”

“Write her a letter anyway,” Marge urged. “Trust me. You’ll be glad you did.”

I did as Marge suggested. With London in tow-piano lessons weren’t until the New Year-I drove directly from school pickup to the mall, where I found some gifts for Vivian: her favorite perfume, a scarf, a new novel by a writer she liked. I also picked out an embroidered silk jacket for Emily, one that I was sure would complement her rich coloring and slightly Bohemian style, and a gold chain with an emerald pendant that would accent the color of her eyes. Later, after London had gone to sleep, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote Emily a letter. It took more than one draft to get it right; despite the wordsmithing I did for my job, writing from the heart was entirely different, and I found it difficult to strike that delicate balance between raw emotion and maudlin sentimentality.

In the end, I was happy with the letter, and grateful that Marge had made the suggestion. I sealed it in an envelope and was about to put the pad and pen back in the drawer when I suddenly realized that I wasn’t yet done.

Working until long past midnight, I wrote Marge a letter as well.

Vivian got in a little past noon the following day, not long after I’d returned from dropping off the gifts at Emily’s. With the tree already trimmed, London and I had spent the morning decorating the mantel and hanging the stockings. It was a little late in the season, but London didn’t mind at all. She was proud to be old enough to help.

I let Vivian visit with London for a while before signaling my desire to speak with her. Retreating to the kitchen while London watched TV in the living room, I asked her what she wanted to do for Christmas Eve. At my question, she stared at me as though it were obvious.

“Well, aren’t we going to your parents’ place, like we always do? I know that it might feel a little strange considering what’s going on, but it’s Marge’s last Christmas and I want London to spend time with her and the family, like she always has. That’s why I came home in the first place.”

Even though we weren’t in love anymore, I thought to myself, there were still moments when I was reminded of some of the reasons I’d married Vivian in the first place.

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day unfolded much like they always had.

The atmosphere was a bit stilted on Christmas Eve at first, for obvious reasons. Everyone was polite to each other and there were kisses and hugs all around when Vivian, London, and I showed up at my parents’. But by the time I finished my first glass of wine, it was clear that everyone’s sole aim that evening was to make the gathering enjoyable for London’s sake-and Marge’s.

Vivian appreciated the gifts I’d gotten her; for me, she’d bought some running gear and a Fitbit. Marge and Liz oohed and aahed over the vase that London made for them, especially marveling at the colors of the fish that London had painted. Tears shone in their eyes when they opened the framed photos that had been taken in New York, and my sister took the envelope containing the letter I’d written with a tender smile. London received a bunch of Barbie stuff from pretty much everyone, and after the gifts were opened, we put on the movie It’s a Wonderful Life while London played with her new toys.

The only truly notable event of the evening took place after we’d finished opening the gifts. From the corners of my eyes, I watched as Marge and Vivian slipped from the living room, sequestering themselves in the den. The low hum of their voices was barely audible behind the partially closed door.

It was odd to see the two of them speaking so intimately, let alone in private, but I knew exactly what was happening.

Vivian, like all of us, had wanted the chance to say goodbye.

On Christmas Day, once London had opened the rest of her gifts, I left the house so Vivian could have some time alone with London. To that point, we’d been together almost continuously during the previous forty-eight hours, and if I needed a break from her, I was certain that Vivian felt the same way. Cordiality, let alone forced gaiety, in the midst of a divorce and custody dispute, wasn’t easy for anyone to maintain.

I texted Emily, asking if I could drop by and received a quick response, urging me to do so. She had a gift for me, she said, and she wanted me to see it.

Even before I got out of my car, she was skipping off the porch toward me. Up close, she threw her arms around me, and we held each other in the pale sunlight of a cool December day.

“Thank you for the letter,” she whispered, “it was absolutely beautiful.”

I followed Emily inside, picking my way through a maelstrom of new toys and torn wrapping paper, at the center of which stood Bodhi’s shiny new bicycle. She led the way toward the Christmas tree, and reaching behind it, pulled out a flat, rectangular package.

“I thought about giving this to you before Christmas, but with Vivian staying at the house, I thought it would be best to give it to you here.”

I tugged at the wrapping paper and it came off easily. As soon as I saw what Emily had done, all I could do was stare, the memory coming back to me in a rush. Overwhelmed, I couldn’t speak.

“I had it framed, but you can change it to something else,” Emily said in a shy voice. “I wasn’t sure where you might want to hang it.”

“This is incredible,” I finally said unable to tear my eyes from the image. Emily had painted the photo of London and me dancing outside the aquarium, but it seemed even more real, more alive than the photo somehow. It was by far the most meaningful gift I’d ever received, and I wrapped my arms around Emily, suddenly understanding why Marge had been so insistent that I write Emily a letter.

She’d known that Emily was giving me a gift from the heart, and Marge wanted to make sure I matched it with one of my own. Once again, Marge had been looking out for me.

The year rolled toward its inevitable conclusion. Vivian went back to Atlanta. I’d closed the office for the week, and spent most of my time with London. I visited with Marge and Liz every day-Marge continued to rebound, rallying our hopes-and saw Emily three times, though twice in the company of the kids. The lone exception was New Year’s Eve, when I took her out for a night of dinner and dancing.

At the stroke of midnight, I almost kissed her. She almost kissed me too, and we both laughed about it.

“Soon,” I said.

“Yes, soon,” she answered.

And yet, as romantic as that moment was, I felt reality beginning to take hold.

In 2015, I thought I’d lost everything.

In 2016, I suspected I’d lose even more.