by Nina Lane
She mumbles another apology, tells me she’ll call Liv later, and hurries back out to her car. I close the door behind her, aware of Archer looking at me.
“Liv lost her hair,” I explain, gesturing to the cap. “So I shaved mine off too. Bella’s not taking it very well. Nicholas is okay with it so far.”
He follows me into the kitchen, where Liv is standing a distance away from Bella, trying to coax her closer. Bella is staring at her mutinously, her arms crossed and her expression set.
“Hey, everyone,” Archer says loudly, pushing past me to grab Bella and swing her in a circle. She giggles, her expression clearing.
“Hi, Uncle Archer,” Nicholas calls, scrambling off his seat to come over.
“How’s it going, dude?” Still holding Bella in one arm, Archer high-fives Nicholas.
“Mom lost her hair and Dad shaved his head,” Nicholas says matter-of-factly.
“I don’t like it,” Bella cries.
“No?” Archer looks puzzled as he sets Bella down and approaches me, reaching out to take the cap off my head. He laughs. “Hey, man, the Mr. Clean look suits you.” He grabs me by the shoulders, pulling me into a hug and slapping my back. “You need to paint your head black like an eight ball or rent it out for advertising space.”
He chuckles again, all jovial cheer and humor, reaching up to rub my head. “Hey, Bella, come here.”
He turns to Bella, who is watching him warily. Archer grabs my neck and pushes my head down.
“It’s like a drum,” he tells Bella, rubbing my head again.
“He looks scary,” she says.
“It’ll grow back,” Archer assures her. “It’s not like when Nicholas cut off Miss Lulu’s hair and it didn’t grow back.”
Bella still doesn’t look convinced, but she tentatively reaches out to pat the top of my head. She looks at Archer again. He tousles her hair and moves to whisper something in Nicholas’s ear. Nicholas chortles with delight and races off to open the low kitchen cupboard where we keep the art supplies.
Archer says something to Liv, who nods and smiles. Next thing I know, Nicholas and Archer are organizing a set of finger-paints on the kitchen table.
“Up you go, Bella Umbrella.” Archer lifts Bella into her seat at the table and shoots me a glance. “Sit down, man.”
I know where this is going. I sit down and lower my head as Nicholas and Bella get their hands sticky with paint and begin to slather it on my scalp. Bella laughs, slapping her wet hands against my head, happily indulging in her love of messes. Nicholas is more precise, painting swirls and designs that he wipes away with a paper towel before starting again. Their laughter is music.
Though paint drips down my face and into my eyes, and my neck gets a kink from being bent, I could sit there for hours letting our children paint my bald head.
Only when Nicholas complains that he’s getting hungry do they show any signs of stopping. Liv hands me a few towels to wipe my head. She’s smiling her usual Liv smile, the one that hits me in the middle of the chest every time.
“Awesome work, kids,” Archer remarks.
He grabs the pink paint and squeezes some onto his fingers, then paints something on the top of my head. Nicholas laughs.
“I don’t want to know,” I say.
“Thirty years, and I finally have revenge,” Archer remarks.
I go to the mirror in the foyer to find that my brother has drawn a pink bow on the top of my head. He follows me to the door, grinning.
“You’re an ass,” I tell him. “And a genius. Thank you.”
“No problem.” He glances down at my hand. “By the way, nice bracelet.”
“It’s a wristband.” I extend my wrist, which is still wrapped with the looped string holding Liv’s wedding ring against my pulse.
“Whatever you say, man.” Archer pulls open the front door. “Okay, I gotta get out of your hair.”
I shake my head in amusement as Archer grins again and goes to his truck. Thirty years ago, I’d never have imagined how grateful I’d be to have him as a brother. But today I know I’m grateful beyond words.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
OLIVIA
WINTER MELTS INTO A RAINY SPRING, with slushy puddles covering the streets and sidewalks. Our lives continue to be punctuated by doctor’s appointments and the hours-long chemo infusions, but the heavy weight is eased by the simple fact that every day, something good happens. Every single day.
Bella and I make perfectly round pancakes. Nicholas comes home with a decorated paper bag overflowing with Valentines from his classmates. We find new flowers on my lantana plant in the sunroom. I hear Dean reading Peter Pan to Nicholas and Bella, his deep voice filled with enthusiasm as he says, “I do believe in fairies. I do, I do!”
Friends come to visit almost daily. The Moms bring me a box filled with beautiful cotton turbans and scarves. Dean’s mother and sister send me gift packages of fancy herbal teas, books, and a cashmere shawl. Archer makes me a playlist of classic rock “power songs” to listen to during chemo infusions—or whenever I need to.
Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” proves surprisingly captivating, especially since I’d always thought it was about a psychedelic drug trip.
I guess that’s sort of what I’m on right now, though I’m sure Steppenwolf’s trip felt a lot better than mine.
Each night before bed, all four of us sit in the living room to write in our Important Things journals, then Dean reads our entries aloud. Our family snow globe sits on the coffee table in front of us.
“Superman,” Dean reads from Nicholas’s journal. “Dirt. Pencil sharpeners. Fire trucks. Dogs. Uncle Archer’s motorcycle. Rope swings.”
Dean switches to Bella’s journal. “Elephants. The color blue. Hoot. Santa. The zoo.”
And my journal. “Sunrises. Marzipan. Thank you notes. Singing, even if you can’t carry a tune. Walking in the woods. Origami. Libraries.”
Dean turns to his journal. “Multiplication tables. A good run. The perfect spiral in football. The Piazza del Duomo in Pisa. Comic books. Sandwiches.”
Warmth flows through me, heavy and welcome. Nicholas and Bella are both on either side of me, their heads resting against my breasts. Before long, I lose track of whose journal Dean is reading from, and all the Important Things coalesce and merge into a bright ribbon that wraps around my family like a protective shield of sunlight.
“Finger paints. Sugar cookies. Getting a pet snake one day. Falconry. Keeping your room clean. Oranges. Jellyfish. Hot showers. Gargoyles. Going somewhere you’ve never been before. Fuzzy slippers. Babies. Miniature golf. Picnics. Flying buttresses. The sky. Monopoly. Sleeping in on Saturdays. Swinging so high your butt comes off the seat. Having lunch with a friend. The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Filing cabinets. Monkeys. Colored pencils.”
Sometimes Dean’s words are so rich and soothing that Bella and Nicholas both doze off under the spell of his voice. In those moments, I know that our strength as a family is undiluted.
Nicholas will always believe in superheroes and Legos. Bella will always know cute animals and finger paints are better than medicine. I will always champion doing your best and taking risks. And Dean will always stand guard over us, only allowing the good into our dreams.
At least three times a week, a wrapped package appears on our doorstep, holding a butterfly of some sort. We receive a beautifully embroidered butterfly pillow, and a set of colorful wire wall hangings that Dean puts up above the staircase railing.
There’s a painting of an African butterfly, a set of butterfly potholders, a photographic collage of exotic butterflies, pottery jars with butterfly patterns, and a bunch of butterfly balloons. Not to mention plenty of edible things—butterfly-shaped cookies, cakes, and chocolate—along with a butterfly shirt for Bella, and a live butterfly garden with real caterpillars, which appeases N
icholas’s demand for a greenhouse.
The thrill of the mysterious sender is a bright spot in our lives, and Nicholas descends on each gift with a plastic magnifying glass to check for clues and fingerprints.
I love that our house is now filled not only with butterflies, but the unspoken power of their lovely transformation.
On my good days—or in my good hours, as is often the case following an infusion—I try to get things done, even if it’s just cleaning up the sunroom or filing Nicholas’s school papers. Allie emails me different projects, but I suspect it’s all stuff she has already completed and is sending to me as busy work. I do it anyway, glad at least to have something else to fill the time in the hours when Dean is on campus and the kids are at school.
I also make an effort to continue drawing “things that make me happy.” I can grudgingly admit North was right—creating pictures of the Eiffel Tower and a lantana plant refills the dry well inside me, filling me with the reminder that I’m so much more than my illness. That this will not last forever. I will get through it to decorate cupcakes again, see Notre Dame cathedral again, dig my toes in the sand at the beach again.
Friends drop by with gifts and meals, often staying to visit. Kelsey comes to see me after work every day, always bringing little gifts—a new fluffy pillow, a pair of slippers, bottles of thick, rich cream to help with my increasingly dry skin, tubes of fruit-flavored lip balm. She and Archer are always on hand to help, and they often stay into the evening to spend time with Nicholas and Bella.
“I picked this up on my way over.” Kelsey opens a shopping bag and holds up a boy’s leather jacket. “I guessed at the size, but I think it’ll fit him.”
“Cute.” I struggle to sit up on the sofa. “What’s it for?”
“Nicholas’s school concert tomorrow, remember?”
I search my fuzzy brain for something about a concert, but come up empty. “No, I don’t remember.”
“The first-grade classes are doing a concert with songs from the 1950s, and the director asked parents to have the boys dress up like Elvis or in jeans and leather jackets. The girls are supposed to wear poodle skirts or something similar. Dean said Nicholas didn’t have a leather jacket, so I picked this up. Got him some hair gel too, if he’ll let me give him a James Dean pompadour.”
Something inside me cracks. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on them.
“Hey.” Kelsey puts her hand on the back of my neck. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t go.” Tears clog my throat. “I can’t go to my son’s first-grade concert because I’m so fucking sick. I didn’t even remember he was having it.”
“Oh, Liv, there will be other concerts. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel even shittier.”
“It’s not your fault.” I wipe my eyes, lifting my head. “Thanks for taking care of it for him. I just wish I could go, you know?”
Kelsey March is nothing if not a woman who gets things done. So I shouldn’t be surprised when she shows up at the front door at ten a.m. the next morning and tells me to take some anti-nausea medication, get dressed, and get in the car. I shouldn’t be surprised when she drives me to the school gym, where dozens of parents are seated in folding chairs arranged in rows in front of the tiered stage.
I shouldn’t be surprised when Dean and the school principal come into the gym and lead me to a set of empty chairs with a clear view of the stage.
I shouldn’t be surprised when the first-graders file in, heartachingly adorable in their 1950s costumes, or when Nicholas spots me and Dean in the audience and waves with surprised excitement.
I shouldn’t be surprised when the off-key, six-year-old chorus of “Hound Dog” and accompanying dance makes me cry. I shouldn’t be surprised afterward when teachers and other parents greet me warmly, when children from Nicholas’s class shout “Hi, Nicholas’s mom!” in passing, or when my son gives me a bear hug before trotting back to his classroom.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
But I am.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DEAN
March 23
“YOU OKAY?”
The minute the question escapes my mouth, I want to bite it back. But Liv only nods, grasping the porch railing as she comes up the steps. The fifth round of chemo has hit her especially hard—maybe because of the build-up of drugs in her system, or her increasing weakness.
In addition to the chemo infusions, there are check-ups, blood tests, plans for radiation, counselor and nutritionist appointments, shots, and the seething fear that every ache Liv feels, every headache or bone pain, could mean something worse than a side-effect. It could mean that the cancer has taken root in another part of her body.
At this afternoon’s appointment, the results of a blood test didn’t prompt Dr. Anderson to hospitalize her, despite the fact that she struggled to make it to his office. He only prescribed some new medicine for nausea, since none of the previous ones have worked well. For the hundredth time, I had to smother my urge to demand that the doctor do more.
I help Liv off with her jacket before she starts up to the bedroom. She gets halfway up the stairs, then sinks down onto a step to catch her breath. Her skin is white, her eyes glassy, her breathing too fast. She bends forward, clutching her stomach. Beads of perspiration dot her forehead.
My chest knots painfully. I reach to pick her up. She shakes her head.
“I can do it, Dean.”
“But you don’t have to.”
“I will.” She waves her hand, her chin setting with stubbornness. “Go away. I get a little tired of you hovering all the time.”
I bite back the retort that I hover because she has dizzy spells and panic attacks that render her incapable of moving. What if she faints or falls or—
“Dean. Go.”
A raw feeling of helplessness surges inside me. I back down the stairs, suddenly hating this big house with all the staircases and floors, and the space that makes it necessary for us to text each other when we’re in different rooms.
I stop around the corner in the foyer, where at least I can hear her if she calls. My fists clench and unclench with impatience. I wait for what feels like an interminably long time before I return.
Liv is no longer sitting on the stairs, which is a relief since that means she made it up okay. I stop in the bedroom doorway. Fear lashes through me.
Liv is on her hands and knees, halfway between the bed and the bathroom, her face shiny with sweat and tears. Her back arches with a violent spasm of heaves. Vomit spills onto the carpet.
“Oh, Jesus, Liv…”
I rush to grab hold of her, haul her upright. She shakes her head, ineffectually pushing me away.
“Go away,” she rasps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Liv…”
She manages to yank herself from my grip, retching with another spasm as she crawls toward the bathroom.
“Liv, let me help you.” Panic burns in my chest.
“No!” She makes it to the bathroom, half closing the door behind her.
I shove it open, grabbing a hand towel and dampening it with cold water. Liv leans over the toilet, heaving so violently that her scarf slips off her head.
“Liv, please.” I get to my knees beside her and put the wet towel on the back of her neck. “I can…”
“Goddammit, Dean.” Tears spill from her eyes into the sweat on her cheeks. “Go away, please just go away.”
“Why won’t you let me help you?”
“I hate that you have to see me like this,” she cries.
For an instant, I can’t move. I pick up her scarf from the floor and push it into my pocket. She inhales and sits back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I’m not going away,” I tell her.
Liv looks at me, her eyes bloodshot.
“I’m not going away.” I move closer to her, putting my hand on her head. “I’m not leaving you. We’re in this together. We always have been. Every part of you, the best and the worst, belongs to me. I can take it. I’ll take anything for you.”
“I hate that I can’t even be a real wife to you anymore.”
My heart breaks a little. I run my hand over her shorn scalp.
“You’re real, beauty. There’s no one more real than you.”
She closes her eyes, then grabs for the toilet again. The sound of her vomiting echoes against the tile, a horrible retching like it’s tearing her insides out.
I tighten my grip on her and drag a few breaths into my lungs, battling the endless pain and fury that always lurk close to the surface. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I force it to slow down, force my brain to focus.
Liv pulls herself away from the toilet, putting her hand on my shoulder as she gets to her feet. She’s sheet-white and shaking. I help her cross to the bed and get underneath the covers.
After she’s settled, I clean the vomit on the carpet and turn off the light. Liv’s body shudders with a sigh that makes her sound a thousand years old.
My vision blurs. I wait a few more minutes, until she shifts into the rhythm of sleep. Then I adjust the sheet around her, wipe the lingering sweat from her forehead, smooth my hand over her head.
I walk back downstairs just as the front door opens. The dark cloud lifts as Nicholas and Bella stomp in with a flurry of noise and chatter.
“Daddy,” Bella yells, flinging herself into my arms.
I hug her tightly, extending one arm toward Nicholas. I want to hold them both forever, but before long they’re squirming out of my arms and taking off their coats and hats.
“Hi, Dean.” Claire closes the door behind them. “I didn’t know you’d be home.”
“Yeah… uh, Liv had an appointment for a blood test, so I went with her.” I swallow hard and drag a hand across my eyes.
