I looked into her face then: her kind, soft eyes, the lines around her mouth and nose from all the laughing she had done, her long eyelashes, even after all these years. She wasn’t some dying woman who had lost her mind. She was still her. I took her hand in mine, if only to feel her warmth, the blood still running through her veins. God, I didn’t want this. But it seemed as though it wasn’t really a choice.
“Mark didn’t tell me,” I said, as though we were discussing a dinner reservation, not the thing that would ultimately take my grandmother’s life.
She squeezed my hand. “Well, darling, I asked him not to, of course.”
“Of course.”
I wondered what this meant, if it was one of Grammy’s subtler signals. I couldn’t imagine that she would ask for something so huge from someone she didn’t trust and love, from someone she didn’t want to be a part of her family. And I couldn’t imagine that a man who would do all this for me, take a risk this big, wouldn’t be the one for me.
Then I had another thought entirely.
I wasn’t religious like Sloane, but in my mind, there were still a few guaranteed tickets to hell, and I was pretty sure that murder was one of them. “Gram,” I said slowly, “I can’t kill you. I can’t have that black mark on my soul.”
She nodded. “But you aren’t murdering me,” she said. “I’m asking you to do it. I’m asking you to help ease my way and put me out of pure misery. I’m asking you not to let me live when I don’t know who my girls are, not to make me be one of those moaning women in so much pain she can’t speak. That’s not murder. That’s mercy.”
She had this look of pure determination, and truth be told, I knew I would do it the moment I saw how serious she was. In some ways, this would be one of the defining moments of my life, one of the things that would make me who I was, prove to me how strong I was, prepare me for the months to come.
“But you can’t commit suicide,” I said.
She smiled again. “It’s not suicide if you give me the pills.”
She couldn’t possibly believe this. “Grammy, come on.”
“Don’t you see?” she said. “It’s a loophole.”
I laughed incredulously. “Grammy, I don’t think God has loopholes.”
Then she said something that would always remain with me: “Honey, we’d better hope that God has loopholes. Otherwise, we’re all toast.”
I wasn’t sure what sat heavier on my heart, those words or those pills. But I slipped them into my pocket.
My mom, sisters, and uncles all marveled that my grandmother was so strong-willed she was able to fade off before things got really bad, disappear into the great unknown before she totally lost her mind, something that, with her brain metastasis, was almost guaranteed to happen.
If they had been paying attention, though, they would have noticed the way Grammy hugged me extra-long that night, after she had told us that she needed to sleep on the porch, that she needed to be alone with the wind and the sea and the stars. They would have seen how she whispered, “It’s time, darling,” in my ear. They would have seen me sneak onto the porch in the early hours of the morning to give my grandmother what she wanted.
Mom said it was OK that Grammy died alone, that she wouldn’t have wanted us all there. But I was with her, holding her hand when she took her very last breath. I was the first one to cry over her.
Her last words on this earth had been, “The greatest blessing in my world has been this extraordinary family. Don’t cry, darling. You are all going to be just fine.”
When I confessed all this to Uncle Scott, when it all came pouring out after having been locked inside so tight for so long, I had never seen him that shocked or tongue-tied.
But then he did the strangest thing: he laughed.
“Um,” I said, “that’s not really a funny story.”
He shook his head. “No, of course it isn’t. It isn’t funny at all. It’s just that I’m so relieved.”
Now I was really confused.
He cleared his throat and composed himself. “My mother was the most headstrong, resilient person I have ever met. She had the highest standards for herself and everyone around her. I’m relieved that her death was on her terms.” He paused and looked me in the eye. “And, Em, I can’t help but think that she knew this would help you see how strong you were, too.”
It bolstered me when he said that. He wasn’t mad. He didn’t hate or condemn me for stealing what few precious extra days he might have gained with his mother.
“You did the right thing, Emerson. We all have the right to live life as we choose. That was her choice. You only helped her carry it out.” Then he squeezed my hand and smiled supportively. “Mom was right, Em. Everything is going to be fine.”
Today, in New York, I could only hope that Grammy’s words held true, that as I went to meet my fate at Dr. Thomas’s office, everything would be fine now, too.
I would have been an absolute mess about my appointment that day, but fortunately, Caroline always knew how to distract me. We spent the morning browsing in new boutiques in SoHo. She loved one of them so much that she took a selfie of us trying on dresses and posted it on her Instagram.
“I thought you only posted for people who paid you tons of money now,” I said.
She shrugged. “Every now and then, I post something random.” She paused. “It’s my philanthropy.”
We both laughed so hard that the mystified salesgirl came to check on us.
When it finally came time for my appointment, we ended up taking an UberXL, not exactly what I had envisioned for finding out my test results. But Mom insisted on coming. So did Caroline. And once Caroline said she was going, Sloane decided she was coming, too. And Mark said there was no way he was missing the appointment, either.
I was actually happy to be called back for labs so that I could have a little air to breathe. As I stuck my arm out for the nurse to swab, a little blond girl, who was probably seven or eight, in pink sparkly high-tops and a pink-and-white-striped dress, sat down at the station beside me.
“Hi,” I said, smiling, trying not to flinch as the needle went in.
She smiled back.
“Being at the doctor kind of stinks, doesn’t it?”
She nodded. “But I’m not coming here anymore. My mom is here picking up my papers. I’m going to St. Jude’s.”
I looked away so she couldn’t see the tears that had sprung to my eyes without warning. Just like that, it was all in perspective. I might be sick, yeah. But I was a grown-up. This beautiful little girl hadn’t even had a chance to live yet. And she could die.
“Oh, yeah?” I said lightly. I leaned toward her as the nurse put the Band-Aid on my arm. “St. Jude’s is an awesome place. I’ve been there a few times.”
She looked up at me with big, innocent blue eyes and said, as her mom approached, “Did you have cancer, too?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I’m an actress and—”
“I know who you are,” she said cheerily. “You’re Cinderella.”
I laughed. “I sure am,” I said. “I am Cinderella.” I had played Cinderella recently in a series of TV fairy-tale remakes that had done shockingly well. I probably took more kid selfies these days than adult ones.
“And who are you?” I asked.
I smiled up at her mother, who was smiling with her mouth. Her eyes looked very, very tired—and terrified.
“I’m Maggie,” she said. She paused and looked down at her swinging feet and then back up at me. “Could you come visit me when I’m at St. Jude’s?”
I put my hand on my heart, and her mother interjected, “Maggie, I’m sure Ms. Murphy is very, very busy.”
I stood up and looked her mother straight in the eye. “There is nothing on earth that could make me too busy to come visit Maggie when she is at St. Jude’s.”
Her eyes watered now, and she nodded.
I crouched down and said, “What about if I come as Cinderella, and I bring
along Prince Charming and Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, too?”
Maggie nodded enthusiastically.
“But we’ll have a secret, because you’ll know it’s really me.” I winked at her.
She nodded again, and a nurse took her hand and said, “Want to come with me to get a sucker?”
Maggie said, “ ’Bye. See you soon.”
“I can’t wait, Maggie!” Then I called her back and said, “Hey, can you take a picture with me?” and snapped a selfie of the two of us.
I turned to her mom. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s a dumb thing to say, but I am. What can I do for you? How can I help?”
She shrugged. “We’re so lucky to get to go to St. Jude’s. All their expertise and all their research and their success rates and . . . I have hope again, you know?”
I nodded and bit my lip.
“They have a ninety-percent cure rate for her kind of leukemia,” she said. I could tell she was trying to bolster her own spirits.
“That’s amazing,” I said. “Absolutely amazing.”
I didn’t know what to say. What did you say to a mother who was getting ready to watch her child go through an ordeal that was nothing short of hellish even in the best of circumstances?
“We don’t need anything,” she said. “But anything you could do for them . . .” She trailed off.
I held up my phone. “Can I post this?”
“Oh, of course! Maggie will be thrilled.”
I wrote down my contact information and gave Maggie’s mom a hug. “Please promise me you’ll get in touch. I’ll get something amazing organized.”
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “It means a lot.”
I posted my picture on my Instastory and wrote: My friend Maggie is headed to St. Jude’s to show her leukemia who’s boss. Let’s show her some love by making a donation in her honor! Swipe up for more info.
I walked back into the waiting room, knowing that no matter what happened to me today, I would get through it. If Maggie could, I could, too.
I motioned for my crazy brood to come on back and whispered to Caroline, “I tagged you in my story. Make sure you repost it.”
She looked puzzled.
“It’s actual philanthropy,” I said.
Moments later, the five of us, one big happy family, were crammed into the doctor’s tiny office. I was sitting in one of the chairs flanking the desk, Mom was in the other, Mark was standing beside me, and Caroline and Sloane were in the corner trying to make themselves smaller than they were.
When Dr. Thomas walked in, I was taken aback. I had forgotten how handsome he was. I wondered if it made the bad news he often delivered seem less harsh. I hoped I wouldn’t find out.
“Wow,” Dr. Thomas said. “I actually haven’t ever had this many people at an appointment. At least, not a lab follow-up.”
I smiled at him apologetically.
“You could say we’re a close family,” Caroline quipped.
I turned to Mom. She looked very pale.
“I’m almost family,” Mark said jokingly. He was trying to keep his tone light, but the way he said it made me feel like he was looking for some kind of credit, like I’m here and marrying her even though she might be defective. But maybe I was being defensive. He was here, after all.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Dr. Thomas said, and Mom squeezed her eyes shut like that would protect her if the news was bad.
“You’re going to be fine.”
There was a collective sigh, as if everyone in the room had been holding his or her breath.
“We could take this on the road,” Dr. Thomas said, smiling.
He turned a sheet of paper around for me to see, one filled with lots of percentages and numbers that I didn’t understand.
“Your iron, fibrinogen, and ferritin are all critically low. In fact . . .” He held his finger up to me, pressed a button on his phone, and said, “Karen, let’s get Ms. Murphy started on an iron infusion now so she doesn’t have to wait.”
Then he looked back at me. “See this number?”
I nodded.
“This represents something in our bodies that scavenges for iron. You have twice the number that we normally see. Your body is working hard to keep up.”
“So what’s causing this?” Mark chimed in.
“I want to do some further testing to make sure there isn’t an underlying infection, but my hunch is that with Emerson’s history of heavy menstruation and the restrictive diet she has been on, her difficult travel schedule, the strain on her body . . .” He paused. “That’s my fancy way of saying that iron-deficient anemia isn’t uncommon in young women, and with a few iron infusions and some dietary changes, you should be as good as new.”
Mom started crying right as the nurse walked into the room. I was so relieved I didn’t even flinch as she swabbed my arm with alcohol and inserted the IV.
“Two bags,” Dr. Thomas mouthed to her.
“Does she need a blood transfusion or anything?” Sloane asked.
“I’ll give her one,” Caroline and Sloane said at the same time.
Dr. Thomas looked back at me. “Are you on a vegan diet? Because if so, we can tailor this plan to fit your lifestyle, but I will warn you that some bodies simply respond better to heme sources of iron, which are the ones that come from animal products. We can try nonheme sources first and see—”
I put my hand up, dreaming of steak. “Any excuse to eat a cheeseburger is great with me.”
He gave me a thumbs-up. “Then I’m going to give you this food list and several supplements that should help, and I’m going to ask you to come back here to see me in three weeks.”
“But that’s the week before the wedding,” Mark said.
The trifecta of Murphys turned to glare at him.
“I can have Emerson’s care transferred to—”
“No!” Caroline and Mom shouted at the same time.
He smiled. “I’d really like to check you out again this next visit, and then, if you’re making the progress I think you’ll be making, I can turn you over to a doctor closer to where you’ll be living. Where is that?”
“LA,” I said, as Mark said, “Georgia.”
We looked at each other. Dr. Thomas looked at Mom. Then he looked back at me. “OK. Well, when you figure it out, let me know.”
The nurse came in to give me a second bag, plugged in a heating pad, and placed it over my arm.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I said.
“Trust me,” she said. “As fast as you’re sucking up that iron, you’re going to need that heating pad.”
I cringed.
“Any questions?” Dr. Thomas asked.
“Should she restrict her exercise?” Mom asked, as Caroline said, “Is it OK for her to drink alcohol?” and Sloane asked, “Are you sure this isn’t aplastic anemia?” and Mark said, “Could travel be dangerous for her health?”
The doctor looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
“I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But you might as well answer their questions now so they don’t annoy me until I break down and call you later to ask.”
“She is fine,” Dr. Thomas said to the room with a smile. “Emerson may exercise as she feels able, may drink alcohol as she feels able, and her bone marrow looks beautiful, so no, this is not aplastic anemia.” He turned to Mark. “And whatever argument you two are having about where you will live is not something that I can fix for you.” He gave me a satisfied smile.
“Thank you so much for everything,” I said. “We realize you have other, normal, non-high-maintenance patients waiting.”
Dr. Thomas smiled. “Karen will be back in a few minutes to remove your IV.” He handed me his card. “I take my celebrity patients very seriously.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I take all my patients seriously. But here is my private cell-phone number, so feel free to call me anytime, day or night.”
He walked out the door and then turned, popping his head back throu
gh. “Oh, and Ms. Murphy?” Four of us turned to look. “I very much hope I’ll be referring you to a doctor in LA. My wife absolutely adores you.”
“His wife,” Mark said under his breath. “Sure.”
I tried to hide my smile. I squeezed Mark’s hand encouragingly and braced myself for the hugs that I knew were about to engulf me. This was great news. Better than great. I expected to feel like the huge weight I had been carrying around for months had been lifted, like all my worries were floating away. I did feel better, sure. But now that I knew my health was going to be OK, now that I knew this was something I could fix, I had to admit that what had been gnawing at me wasn’t these impending test results. It was something else. And now I was going to have to face what that was.
FIFTEEN
ansley: the queen of everything
Two hours later, Jack was zipping my red sleeveless dress. Caroline was right. I had needed to lose weight in my shoulders. I’d been sweating and grunting through arm exercises daily for the past few weeks, but my hard work was already beginning to pay off.
I felt free and alive, as if I were floating on air. That doctor’s appointment, like life, could so easily have gone the other way. But my girl was OK. She was going to be OK. I’d had exactly, to a tee, the same issue in my twenties, and while it was something that had been monitored closely for the next several decades, it had never given me any major trouble.
“So what do you think Caroline’s surprising us with?” Jack asked as he tied his black bow tie.
I walked to him, untied it, tied it again, and, pulling it tight, said, “With Caroline, you never know.” Then I stood back to admire him. Jack was devastating in a tux. And he was all mine.
Jack smiled. “It’s the best thing and the worst thing about her.” Then he pulled me in, kissed me, and said, “You look sensational.”
Twenty minutes later, a limo filled with my girls and practically overflowing with champagne pulled up outside the Plaza. James got out to let us in, in his tux, looking every part the movie-star husband, despite the fact that he was actually a lawyer. Adam looked the best I had seen him since he arrived home. But nothing could have been more gorgeous than my three girls, all in gold floor-length gowns of varying styles, their hair fixed and makeup on. I suddenly had the most glorious feeling that we were all going to be OK. Adam was holding Sloane’s hand and smiling, Mark’s arm was draped around Emerson’s shoulder, and I realized that this was my family now. These daughters. These men. They would be in my life forever.
The Southern Side of Paradise Page 11
