Two by Two

CHAPTER 25: For Auld Lang Syne

Marge’s romantic plans for Liz in New York weren’t without precedent. Around the five-year mark of their relationship, Marge had surprised Liz with an elaborate scavenger hunt on Valentine’s Day.

When Marge initially revealed her plans to me, I’ll admit I was shocked because it seemed so unlike the sister I knew. After all, she was an accountant, and while generalizations might be unfair, she always struck me as more of a smart-alecky pragmatist than a mushy paramour.

While Marge rarely showcased her romantic side, she could clearly hit it out of the ballpark when she chose to do so. Indeed, the scavenger hunt proved to be the work of a master planner. New York was child’s play by comparison.

The centerpiece of the Valentine’s Day scavenger hunt-which involved locations all over Charlotte-was a series of ten riddles. The riddles were set to verse and led to specific reveals. A sample:

Today, dear Liz, we’ll have some fun,

To remind you that you’re my only one,

So visit the spot where it’s all about you,

On early mornings and late at night, too,

Then look to your left, my darling dear,

And your very first clue will there appear.

Marge had taped the first clue-a small key-next to the bathroom mirror, which led Liz to a post office box that she had to open with the key. Inside the box was another riddle… and so it went. Some of the clues were tougher than others; one required Liz to finish a glass of champagne to find the next clue, which was glued to the bottom of the champagne flute. At the time, I was stunned by the breadth and inventiveness of Marge’s scheme.

Looking back, I’m no longer surprised by Marge’s elaborate Valentine’s Day plans, or her meticulous footwork. I no longer think of it as out of character. Because drawing up blueprints for other people’s happiness was what she did best.

My sister, the accountant, always had a plan-especially for those she loved.

My memories of early 2016 are distilled into a series of vivid moments, set against the muted backdrop of my day-by-day existence.

The backdrop consisted of work, where I wrote, filmed, edited, and designed ad campaigns; London’s care, before and after school; my daily run; and Emily, whose nightly phone conversations and occasional dates nourished and sustained me. Those routines made up the regular fabric of my days, and also served as temporary distractions from the peaks and abysses that marked that period of my life. With the passage of time, I’m sure I’ve forgotten more than I remember. Some things I willed myself to forget.

But other memories will remain with me forever.

About a week into the new year, Marge went in for further tests. While I didn’t accompany her to the hospital, my parents and I joined Liz and Marge when it came time to hear the results.

We met the doctor in his office, across the street from the hospital. He faced us across a heavy wooden desk, a handful of family photos arranged next to a large stack of files. On the walls were shelves filled with books, and the usual assortment of framed diplomas, plaques, and citations. The only incongruous element was a large framed poster from the film Patch Adams. I only vaguely remembered the film-it starred Robin Williams as a caring, kind, and funny doctor-and I found myself wondering if Dr. Patel aspired to be a doctor with similar attributes.

Had there ever been anything humorous said in this room? Did any patients ever laugh when talking to their oncologist? Could any joke minimize the horror of what was happening?

To us, Marge appeared to be improving slightly-she’d had more energy since the holidays, and her pain didn’t seem quite as acute. Even her breathing seemed less labored. All of that should have pointed to good news. I could see the hopefulness in my parents’ expressions; I noted the confident way Liz was holding Marge’s hand. We’d shared our secret hopes amongst ourselves during the previous week, trying to draw strength from each other.

Marge, however, didn’t look hopeful. There was an air of resignation about her from the moment she took her seat, and I knew right then, with certainty, that Marge would be the only one who wouldn’t shed a tear that afternoon. While the rest of us had remained stuck in various stages of grief-denial, anger, bargaining, depression-Marge alone had already moved on to acceptance.

Marge knew-even before the doctor said a single word-that the cancer hadn’t slowed its progression. In truth, she’d known all along that it had spread even farther.

“Please don’t ask me how I’m doing,” Marge said. “Mom and Dad just left, and Mom kept asking me that over and over. And Dad keeps asking what else needs to be fixed. I wanted to say me, but didn’t think they could handle the joke.” We were sitting on Marge’s sofa, as had become our custom, staring at the empty space where the Christmas tree had once stood. My dad had removed it a few days earlier, but the furniture hadn’t been rearranged yet, leaving a barren space in the corner of the room.

“It’s a hard day for them,” I said. “They’re doing their best.”

“I know,” Marge said. “And I love that Dad keeps coming around. We’ve talked more than we have in years, and not just about baseball.” She let out a breath before suddenly wincing. A wave of pain-somewhere, everywhere-made her entire body tighten before it finally passed.

“Can I get you something?” I asked, feeling more helpless than ever.

“I just took a pill,” she said. “I don’t mind the painkillers, other than that they make me sleepy. They don’t work as well as I want them to, of course. They blunt the pain a bit, but that’s about it. Anyway…” She looked toward the kitchen, where Liz was at the table, coloring with London. Lowering her voice, she said, “I told Liz I’m not doing another round of chemo.” Her expression was grim, but resolute. “She was pretty upset about it.”

“She’s just scared,” I said. “But do you really think that’s the right decision?”

“You heard the doctor,” she countered. “It’s not working. And on the downside, it makes me feel even worse. All I do is vomit and sleep, and my hair is starting to fall out. I’m losing whole days after the treatment, and I don’t have that many days left.”

“Don’t say that,” I pleaded.

“I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear it. Nobody does.” Marge squeezed her eyes shut, wincing again at another wave of pain that, to me, took far too long to pass. “I’m guessing London doesn’t know I’m sick, am I right?”

I shook my head. “She doesn’t even know that Vivian and I are getting divorced yet.”

Marge opened one eye to peer at me. “It’s probably time that you tell her, don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer, because I didn’t even know where to start. There was too much to lay on a six-year-old: divorce and Marge dying and moving-maybe even as far away as Atlanta-leaving her father and her friends behind.

I didn’t want London to deal with any of it. I didn’t even want to deal with it. As I felt the tears building behind my eyes, Marge reached over and placed her hand on mine. “It’s okay,” she soothed.

“No, it’s not okay. None of this is okay.” I could hear my voice begin to crack. “What am I going to do about London? What am I going to do about you?”

She squeezed my hand. “I’ll talk to London about me, okay? So don’t worry about that. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do. As for everything else, I’ve already told you what I think.”

“What if I can’t? What if I let you down?”

“You won’t,” she said.

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can. I believe in you.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said, “I know you better than anyone. Just like you know me.”

The following Friday, in mid-January, Vivian flew into town to pick up London for the weekend. When I broached the idea that it was probably time to tell London about our impending divorce, she suggested that we do it when they got back. After all, she said, she didn’t want to ruin London’s weekend.

The next morning, my Realtor staged our first open house, and as promised, Marge and Liz were there, loudly talking up the house to each other in front of potential buyers. Afterward, my Realtor called to tell me that she’d detected some genuine interest in the property from one couple in particular, who were relocating with their children from Louisville.

“By the way, your sister missed her calling as an actress,” the Realtor remarked.

On Sunday evening, shortly after their return from Atlanta, Vivian and I sat our daughter down at the kitchen table and gently broke the news.

We kept the discussion at a level appropriate for a six-year-old, emphasizing that both of us still loved her and that we would always be her parents. We told her that she had nothing to do with the fact that we could no longer stay married.

As she’d done the first time, Vivian led the discussion. Her demeanor was loving and I felt that she struck the right tone, but London burst into tears nonetheless. Vivian held her and kissed her as she cried.

“I don’t want you to get divorced,” London pleaded.

“I know it’s hard, sweetheart, and we’re so sorry.”

“Why can’t you just be happy with each other?” London said, still sobbing. Her naïve incomprehension triggered such a profound wave of guilt that I despised myself.

“Sometimes it just doesn’t work,” I tried to explain. The words sounded meaningless, even to me.

“Is that why the house is for sale?”

“I’m afraid so, baby girl.”

“Where am I going to live?”

At her question, my eyes flashed toward Vivian, silently warning her not to say Atlanta. Her expression was defiant, but she held her tongue.

I put a hand on London’s back. “We’re still working on that. And I promise that no matter what happens, your mom and I will both be around to take care of you.”

Eventually, London calmed down, though she was clearly still confused and shaken. Vivian went upstairs with her and started getting her ready for bed. When she came back down, I intercepted her at the door.

“How is she?” I asked.

“She’s upset,” Vivian answered, “but according to my counselor, that’s normal. In the long run, she’ll be fine as long as you don’t make the divorce more acrimonious than it has to be. That’s when kids suffer the most in these situations, and you don’t want to do that to her.”

I bit back a retort-I wasn’t the one making this acrimonious, after all-knowing it was pointless.

Vivian gathered her things-the limo and the jet were waiting, after all-but she paused in the doorway. “I know it’s a bad time, with Marge and everything,” she said, “but we need to get our agreement squared away sooner rather than later. You just need to sign it, so we can be done with all this.” And then she was gone.

Swallowing my rage, I started up the steps so I could finish tucking London in.

In bed, her eyes were red and swollen, and she barely looked at me.

Later that night, for the first time in years, she wet the bed.

In the days following our discussion with London, she was noticeably subdued and spent even more time in her bedroom than usual. The bed-wetting continued; not every night, but two more times, and she no longer wanted to read Two by Two before going to sleep. While she let me kiss her goodnight, she no longer reached up to put her arms around my neck for a hug.

On Marge’s recommendation, I spoke to her teacher at school about what was going on between Vivian and me. The teacher assured me she hadn’t noticed anything amiss, other than a recent incident at the drinking fountain. London had somehow spilled water on her blouse one morning, and immediately burst into tears. She was inconsolable, and resisted both the teacher’s and her classmates’ attempts to comfort her.

My daughter, in other words, was struggling. After her piano lesson on Thursday, I spontaneously suggested we go out for ice cream, but her reaction was tepid. I finally persuaded her to go, but she barely touched her ice cream on the drive home, oblivious to the mess the melting cone made in the car. Later that evening, as she was playing with her Barbies, I overheard her talking to herself as she leaned young Barbie toward Ken.

“I don’t want to live with Mommy in Atlanta,” Barbie said to Ken. “I want to live here with Daddy. Daddy is fun and we go on date nights and he lets me cook, too. And I want to play with Bodhi every day and see Nana and Papa and Auntie Marge and Auntie Liz.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep, replaying the scene that London had enacted over and over in my head. Marge was right, I thought. Emboldened, I called Taglieri the following morning, making it clear to him that I was willing to do whatever it took to ensure that London lived with me.

That same day, my Realtor called to let me know that I’d received an offer on the house.

“Well, you’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest,” Taglieri said. It was Wednesday, five days since I’d conveyed my instructions to Taglieri, and he had called me into his office to discuss the response. I fidgeted in my seat as he went on. “I got a letter from Vivian’s attorney yesterday.”

“And?”

“If you choose to fight her on the custody issue, it’s going to get very ugly. Basically, the attorney warned me that they’re going to aggressively pursue a claim that you’re an unfit father.”

I blanched. “What does that mean?”

“For starters, they want to bring in a psychologist to evaluate London, and do an assessment of her needs and preferences. I mentioned that as a possibility to you early on, if you remember. London’s so young, I’m generally of the opinion that it’s of limited use, but depending on the psychologist they use, they’re hoping to submit a report that bolsters their claims. Some of the allegations are frivolous. They’re claiming that you don’t feed London a healthy diet-that you sometimes feed her sugary junk food for dinner, for instance, or that your failure to get her to dance class resulted in her getting kicked out. But there are other claims that the psychologist might explore on a deeper level.”

“Like what?” I felt slightly nauseous as Taglieri went through the possibilities.

“That you’re forcing London into a relationship with your new girlfriend, Emily, before she’s ready.”

“Emily’s son Bodhi is London’s best friend!”

“I hear you. And hopefully, the psychologist will confirm that. But you never know until they file their report with the court.” He paused. “There are also more serious allegations in the letter-that you purposely endangered London by pressuring her to ride her bike down a hill, knowing she was still inexperienced and couldn’t handle the challenge. Also that you failed to contact Vivian right away and that you purposely minimized London’s injuries when talking to Vivian to cover up for your ineptitude.”

“That’s… that’s not the way it happened!” I stammered, feeling myself flush. “Vivian knows it was an accident. She knows I’d never purposely endanger my daughter!”

Taglieri held up his hand. “I’m just letting you know the substance of the letter. But there’s one more thing, and you’re going to have to stay calm, all right?”

I squeezed my hands into fists, feeling the veins at my temples throb.

“In the letter,” Taglieri went on, “the lawyer mentions that you have ‘date nights’ with your daughter. That she gets dressed up in an adultlike fashion and that the two of you go out to romantic destinations.”

“So?”

“Russ…” Taglieri gave me a pained look. “It’s disgusting, but the lawyer is suggesting that your relationship with London might be unhealthy, if not outright inappropriate…”

It took me a second to grasp the implication. When it hit, it took my breath away.

Oh, God… Vivian wouldn’t do this… not in a million years would she do something like this…

I actually felt light-headed, black spots swimming at the edge of my vision. I was mortified, repulsed, and furious-but even those terms weren’t strong enough to describe the way I was feeling.

“It was only innuendo,” Taglieri cautioned, “but the fact that it was mentioned in the letter at all troubles me. At the very least, it signals that they’re prepared to paint a very negative, if not downright sickening, picture of you.”

I barely processed Taglieri’s words. Vivian wouldn’t do this… How could she even hint at something like this…?

“I’m going to get on the phone with the attorney later, because we can’t just ignore these kinds of implied threats. It’s an attempt to intimidate you, and it’s also incredibly unprofessional. At the same time, it gives us a sense of just how far Vivian might go to get custody. And if it goes to court, I want to emphasize that you never know what a judge is going to decide.”

“What do I do? I know London wants to live with me…”

“Like I said, let me talk to the attorney. But what would be best, as I told you early on, is for you and Vivian to work it out. Because, as your attorney, I can’t say I feel optimistic about your chances when it comes to winning this thing.”

For the rest of the day, I staggered around as if I’d received a massive body blow.

I didn’t go to work. I didn’t go home. I didn’t visit Marge or Liz, or drop by my parents’ place.

In my speechless fury, in my horror, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Instead, I texted Emily and asked if she could pick London up from school and watch her until I got back into town. She asked me where I was and what was wrong, but I couldn’t answer. I need a few hours alone, I texted back. Thank you.

Then, getting into my car, I started to drive.

Three and a half hours later, I was in Wrightsville Beach, where I parked my car.

The sky was overcast and the wind was bitter. I walked the beach longer than it took me to make the drive, and as I walked, my mind circled from London to Marge to Vivian before starting anew. With it came uncertainty and fear and relentless waves of emotion. I alternated between rage and confusion, heartbreak and terror, and by the time I returned to the car, my cheeks were wind-burned and my soul was numb. I hadn’t eaten all day, yet I wasn’t hungry in the slightest.

I made the drive back to Charlotte and picked up London long after the sky had turned black. It was past London’s bedtime, but thankfully, Emily had fed her. I couldn’t summon the energy to speak to Emily about what had happened just yet; there was so much I still didn’t know how to put into words.

It was Marge to whom I eventually turned, mainly because she left me no other choice.

It was the last Friday in January, and I had agreed to stay with Marge while my mom ran to the pharmacy to refill one of Marge’s prescriptions. By this time, the cancer had progressed to the point where no one was comfortable leaving Marge alone, even for a little while. The living room was illuminated by a single table lamp, and the shades had been drawn at Marge’s request. She said bright light made her eyes ache, but I knew the truth: She didn’t want us to see her clearly, for even a single glance was enough to reveal how sick she really was. So much of Marge’s hair had fallen out that she’d taken to wearing an Atlanta Braves baseball cap whenever she was awake. Even though she was wrapped in a blanket, her continued weight loss was evident in her bony hands and painfully skinny neck, in which her Adam’s apple protruded, knoblike. Her breathing sounded wet and thick, and she had long bouts of coughing and gagging that sent my mom and Liz into a panic. They would pound her back in an effort to dislodge mucus and phlegm, which often came out bloody. She slept more than sixteen hours a day, and her appearance at the open house two weeks earlier was the last time she’d left the house.

She could no longer walk more than a few steps on her own. The cancer in her brain had affected the right side of her body, as if she’d had a stroke. Her right arm and leg were weak, and her eye had begun to droop. She could only offer half smiles.

And yet, as I sat beside her, I found her as beautiful as ever.

“Emily came by yesterday,” she said, the words emerging slowly, and with effort. “I like her so much, Russ. And she truly cares about you. You need to call her,” she said with a pointed look. “You have to talk to her, let her know what’s going on with you. She’s worried about you.”

“Why did she come by?”

“Because I asked to see her. I wanted to spend some time with the woman my brother loves. The new-and-improved model, I mean.” She forced a weak smile. “That’s what I called her. I think she was pleased.”

I smiled. Despite her decline, Marge was still Marge.

She gathered her strength for a moment, and went on. “I think it’s time that I talk to London, too.”

“When?’

“Can you bring her by this weekend?”

“She won’t be here. She’ll be in Atlanta with Vivian.”

“Then how about after school today?”

My sister, in her own way, was telling me that time was running out.

I was suddenly unable to swallow. “All right,” I whispered.

“I want to see Vivian, too. Can you set that up?”

My stomach tightened at the name and I looked away. Still furious and mortified, I could barely tolerate the thought of Vivian, let alone the idea of asking her to visit my dying sister. Marge saw my expression but pressed on.

“I need you to do this for me,” she said. “Please.”

“I’ll text her,” I said, “but I don’t know whether she’ll come. She’s usually on a tight schedule.”

“See what she says,” Marge pressed. She blinked, and I noticed that even her lids were slowing down. “Tell her it’s important to me.”

I reached for my phone and texted Vivian; she responded almost instantly. Of course, the text said. Tell Marge I’ll be there around five.

I let Marge know and watched as she closed her eyes. I thought she was about to fall asleep before she opened them again.

“Have you accepted the offer on your house yet?”

I shook my head. “We’re still going back and forth on the price a bit.”

“That’s taking a long time.”

“The potential buyers have been traveling. According to my Realtor, we’re close, though. She’s thinking we’ll sign next week.”

“That’s good, right? So you’ll be able to pay off Vivian?”

Again, the sound of her name made me recoil. “I guess.”

Marge stared at me. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Emily said that you were gone all day Wednesday but wouldn’t talk to her about it.”

Rising from the couch, I peeked out the window, to make sure my mom wasn’t pulling into the drive. I didn’t want her to hear what was going on; the last thing she needed was even more stress in her life. Taking a seat again, I brought my hands together and told her about the meeting with Taglieri and the letter that Vivian’s attorney had sent.

“Well,” Marge said when I finished. “This isn’t completely unexpected. She’s been very clear all along that she intends to bring London to Atlanta.”

“But… the threat. She’s playing so…dirty.”

“What does your attorney say?”

“That he doesn’t like my chances. And that he still thinks Vivian and I should work something out between us.”

Marge was silent for a moment, but her gaze was almost feverish in its intensity. “First, you have to know what you really want.”

I frowned. “Why do you keep saying that? We’ve talked about this already. I’ve told you what I want.”

“Then do what you have to do.”

“You mean go to court? Play dirty, like she is?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think that would be good for London. And London is your priority.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

“I think you know,” she said, closing her eyes again.

And as I studied her weary face, it finally dawned on me that I actually did.

On the way back from Marge’s, I called Emily, asking if we could meet for lunch. She agreed, and we arranged to meet at a bistro not far from her home.

“First, I want to apologize for not telling you what was going on,” I said as soon as we sat down. “To be honest, I didn’t even know how to begin.”

“It’s okay, Russ,” she said. “Sometimes we all need to process things on our own first. Don’t ever feel pressured by me-I’m here whenever you feel ready to talk. Or even if you don’t.”

“No, I’m ready now,” I said, touching her hand. Taking a deep breath, I told her everything-about London’s distress, my instructions to Taglieri, and Vivian’s response. As I spoke, she brought her hands to her mouth.

“I can’t imagine how you must have been feeling,” she said when I finished. “I would have been… shell-shocked. And completely, utterly furious.”

“I was. I still am,” I admitted. “For the first time, I feel like I actually hate her.”

“With good reason,” she said. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to let the psychologist talk to London. You’ll probably be able to put these crazy allegations to rest right off the bat.”

“There’s still the issue of the bicycle accident.”

“Kids have accidents, Russ. That’s why the law requires them to wear bicycle helmets. Judges know that.”

“I don’t want this custody battle to play out in court. I don’t even want London to have to meet with a psychologist about this. If she needs counseling to help her deal with the divorce, that’s different. But I’m not going to put London in the position of having to choose between her mom and dad.” I shook my head. “I’m trying to stay focused on what’s best for London. And I know she needs me in her life as a consistent, everyday presence-not in an occasional, ad hoc way. So I’m going to do what I have to do.”

I knew I was being vague, but there were some things I just couldn’t tell Emily.

She nodded before sliding her water glass toward her. Rather than raising it to her lips, however, she rotated it on the table. “I saw Marge yesterday,” she said.

“I know. She told me. How do you like being labeled the ‘new-and-improved model’?” I cracked a grin.

“I’m honored.” Then, with a sad smile: “She’s such a good person.”

“The best.” There was nothing else really to say.

After school, I brought London to Marge’s. Because she’d been to the house numerous times in the past month, she’d known that Marge was sick, even if she didn’t realize the seriousness of her illness. When Marge opened her arms, she went to her as usual and gave her a tender hug.

When I mouthed the question, Do you want me to stay? Marge shook her head.

“I’m going to visit with Nana for a little while, okay, London? Will you keep an eye on Auntie Marge for us?”

“Okay,” she said, and I left them alone in the living room. My mom and I sat on the back porch off the kitchen, not saying much of anything.

A short while later, when I saw London enter the kitchen, I went back inside and held her as she cried.

“Why doesn’t God make Auntie Marge better?” she choked out.

I swallowed through the lump in my throat, squeezing her small body to mine. “I don’t know, sweetie,” I said. “I really don’t know.”

Vivian texted that she planned to go straight to Marge’s after her flight landed, and as a result, she didn’t arrive at the house until half past six.

As soon as I saw the limo out front, I thought of the letter from her attorney. I left the front door open but retreated to the kitchen, feeling a wave of disgust toward her wash over me. Even though she’d just spent more than an hour with my sister, I still had no desire to speak to her.

I heard Vivian enter the house, and then London’s tremulous voice, asking Vivian if she really had to go to Atlanta. Despite Vivian’s promise that they were going to have a terrific time, London began to cry. Footsteps pounded as she ran to the kitchen and threw herself into my arms.

“I don’t want to go, Daddy,” she sobbed. “I want to stay here. I want to see Auntie Marge.”

I scooped her up and held her as Vivian entered the kitchen. Her expression was unreadable.

“You need to spend time with your mom,” I said. “She misses you all the time. And she loves you very much.”

London continued to whimper.

“Will you take care of Auntie Marge while I’m gone?”

“Of course I will,” I said. “We all will.”

With London in Atlanta, I passed most of the weekend at Marge’s, just as I’d promised my daughter. My parents were there too, alongside Liz.

We spent long hours at the kitchen table telling stories about Marge, as if our vivid memories and outrageous accounts of Marge’s exploits would help keep her alive longer. I finally told my parents and Liz about the night I rescued Marge from the water tower; Liz re-created the romantic scavenger hunt. We laughed about Marge’s roller skating and horror movie obsessions, and reminisced about the idyllic day that Marge and Liz had spent with Emily and me at the Biltmore Estate. We marveled at Marge’s wit, and the fact that she still viewed me as a little brother desperately in need of her superior guidance.

I wished Marge had been there to hear all the stories, but she was with us for only a few of them. The rest of the time, she was sleeping.

On Sunday evening, London returned from Atlanta. Vivian said goodbye to our daughter near the limo and didn’t come inside.

It was the last day of January. Marge and I were both born in the month of March; she on the fourth, and I on the twelfth. We were both Pisces, and in the world of the Zodiac, people born under that sign are said to be compassionate and devoted. I’d always believed that to be truer of Marge than me.

Her birthday, I realized, was less than five weeks away, and I knew she wouldn’t be around to celebrate it.

Like Marge, I just knew.