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.”