“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.
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?