Believe it or not, there are advantages to having had cancer. When the bloodmobile folks come to town, for one, they’re not the least bit interested in siphoning blood from you, even if you’ve got some rare blood type known only to God and six people on a remote island off the coast of South Carolina. Two, I get my mammograms at half price. Third, I’ve discovered one can get away with being a bit eccentric. If you decide to take up skydiving or transcendental meditation, for example, or suddenly become a vegetarian addicted to broccoli sprouts, people may think you’re a little nuts, but they don’t give you a hard time about it. They just nod their heads, peek at each other sideways, and whisper knowingly, cancer.
That’s probably why my sister Ruth thought I’d be interested in those New Age gizmos she sells in her shop on Main Street in downtown Annapolis when they’ve never particularly interested me before. She had just telephoned to say she’d be coming over with “a little something” to show me. I shuddered. The last time she’d brought me “a little something”—bamboo curtains meant to slow down fast-moving chi between the family room and the kitchen—it had ended up costing me seventy-four dollars just to get them hung.
While I waited for Ruth, I sat at my kitchen table going through the mail. The kitchen was particularly pleasant that day, unusually warm and bright, with sunshine flooding the room, reflecting off the thin layer of snow covering the ground outside. Spread out before me were all the Christmas cards I had missed while I was out in Colorado attending the birth of my first grandchild—a little girl named Chloe, after one of my son-in-law Dante’s clients. A particularly wealthy and grateful woman, she had brought him a lot of new bodies to massage. To me, “Chloe” was the title of a raucous old Spike Jones tune with gongs and bells, but my daughter Emily liked the name because it sounded like a warm, spring breeze. I looked it up—“Chloe” is a Greek word meaning “young, green shoot.” Not very zephyr-like, but I wasn’t going to mention it.
I shuffled through the greeting cards, looking first for ones from absent friends. With enthusiasm I slit the envelopes open with a kitchen knife so I could catch up with lives via hastily scribbled notes or elaborate, mass-produced Christmas letters in which happy family groups smiled out at me smudgily from poor-quality photocopies.
Beneath an oversized seasonal communication from State Farm Insurance, I uncovered a manila envelope from a plastic surgeon in Severna Park I had consulted about reconstructive surgery just before leaving for Colorado Springs. Reconstruction. I liked that word. It evoked visions of something new and wonderful rising from the ruins. I daydreamed about it while putting the teakettle on to boil, wondering what my chest would look like after surgery when they removed the bandages for the first time. The plastic surgeon had shown me samples of her work; photographs of other women, naked from the waist up, with black rectangles covering their eyes. I imagined my own picture—a dark oblong wearing light brown curls, a crooked smile, and just below my shoulder and to the right, a pert little hill jutting out of a ravaged plain.
I measured some jasmine tea into a silver tea ball and dropped it into the pot to steep. While I waited, I opened the envelope from the doctor. It contained a letter encouraging me to call her office “at my convenience” to confirm the surgery, and a two-page, legal-looking consent form. Reading this stuff required a strong stomach and an equally robust cup of tea, so I poured myself a mug, covered the pot with a cat-shaped tea cozy, and had just settled down to plow my way through the small print when the telephone rang.
“Hi, Hannah, whatcha doing?”
“Looking over some stuff from Dr. Bergstrom. I’m trying to decide about reconstructive surgery.”
“I’d sure have it if I were you.”
Easy for her to say. My sister Georgina was a C-plus-plus to my insignificant A-minus.
“Listen to this.” I dragged a chair over to the telephone and settled into it. “ ‘These are my wishes if I am ever in a persistent vegetative state …’ Yuck! I’m nervous enough about going through more surgery without being reminded of all that!” I tossed the document toward the kitchen table, where it ricocheted off a potted geranium, floated to the tiles, and slid under the refrigerator. It had been a little over a year since my mastectomy, and the memory of the surgery and my long recovery was still fresh in my mind. “I’m thinking about not going through with it, now that they mention the risk.”
Georgina sounded bubbly. It must have been one of her up days. I could hear high-pitched squabbling in the background, the twins from the sound of it, Sean and Dylan, who were seven. “It will be fine, Hannah. You’ll be fine. Better than fine.”
I rested my head against the wall with the receiver to my ear and didn’t say anything. My sisters didn’t talk to me very much about It these days. I suspect they had convinced themselves that if you didn’t talk about It, It wouldn’t exist.
Keeping the receiver clamped to my ear and uncoiling the cord as far as it would go, I walked to the refrigerator, stooped, and retrieved the document, shaking off a couple of greasy dust bunnies that clung to the edges. “I think I’ll add a line to this form, Georgina. If I should end up in a persistent vegetative state, I’m saying I want them to start hydration and artificial nutrition and then I want you to remind Paul to call his lawyer and sue the pants off them.”
Georgina chuckled. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“You better, or I’ll come back to haunt you.” I laid the document on the table near the Christmas cards and took another swig of tea. “How’s it with you?”
“Busy. Trying to keep the kids out of Scott’s hair while he’s working.”
“Why doesn’t Scott get an office outside the house? I don’t know how you stand it! As much as Paul and I enjoy each other’s company, we’d soon be at each other’s throats if I had him hanging around the house all day.”
“Scott’s working on it. He’s got his eye on a place off York Road in Towson, and if he can land this big Mahoney account, he’ll have it made.” Scott was a CPA, and I couldn’t imagine how he managed to work, let alone land any big accounts, with three children underfoot. Sean had evidently popped Dylan, or vice versa, because there was a piercing wail and Georgina’s voice became muffled. “Sean! Cut it out! Now! Trucks are for playing, not for hitting. And turn down that TV!” Poor Georgina. I sometimes baby-sat for my nephews, identical down to the sandy hairs on their mischievous little heads, and it was exhausting. No wonder Georgina stayed so thin. And now there was baby Julie to trip over, born when Georgina was in her late thirties, just turned four and prancing about everywhere.
Over the background of the TV, playing cartoons at a decibel level high enough to rupture all eardrums within a half-mile radius, Georgina persisted, “Help me remember something.”
“How do you stand the noise?” I asked, but she didn’t give any indication that she heard me.
“Where did we live when I was two?”
I didn’t have to rack my brain to come up with an answer to that. I could still remember the sunny days, the faultless blue of the Mediterranean sky, and the smoky outline of Mount Vesuvius in the distance across the sea. “Dad was stationed in Sicily then.”
“Who took care of us?”
“What do you mean, who took care of us? Mother did. And Marita, the maid. Why do you ask?”
“It’s something I need to know for my therapy.”
Georgina had been seeing a therapist who was helping her deal with a protracted postpartum depression. In my opinion, all she needed to cure what ailed her was to get her husband out of the house and hire a baby-sitter once or twice a week, and I told her so.
“It’s not just the pressure at home, Hannah. Lionel was absolutely beastly at church this Sunday.”
The Senior Warden at All Hallows Church in Baltimore where Georgina played the organ was a piece of work. After listening to Georgina’s complaints, I decided that he was the psychotic who needed therapy, not Georgina. I thought about the organ concert where I had last seen the odious Lionel—Mr. Streeting to his friends—pacing self-importantly in his slimy, silver-gray polyester suit, peering over the tops of oversized tortoise-shell eyeglasses and making two-finger come-hither gestures as he seated the audience. How Georgina could stand even to look at the man—his black hair, laced with gray, parted too neatly on the side, and so thick with hair cream you could see the tooth marks of his comb—was beyond me. Streeting controlled every aspect of All Hallows, from the choir director to the Junior Warden, from the Altar Guild to the church secretary, even the rector, with an uncompromising hand. Look up “prick” in the dictionary and there’s his picture, right between “pricey” and “prickle.”
Georgina’s antipathy knew no bounds as she launched into her latest diatribe. “The hymns are always too loud for him, never too soft. I’m to play faster or slower, depending upon the phase of the goddamn moon. During the prelude today I caught sight of him in my mirror, flapping his arms like a wounded bird. I thought someone had died, for Christ’s sake! Then the light on the console started flashing off and on and I knew he wanted me to quit playing but I only had sixteen bars to go so I ignored the SOB.” She paused for breath. “And then, do you know what he did?”
“I hate to think.”
“He oozed up to me after the service, tapped his watch, and said, ‘We simply must start the services on time. Your prelude was two minutes over, Mrs. Cardinale.’ Honestly!”
“Why don’t you quit?” I asked.
“I thought about applying for the organist position at Union Memorial downtown, but I’ve been Episcopal since forever, and All Hallows is so close to home.”
It seemed to cheer Georgina up to bitch about Lionel, so we spent some hilarious minutes trashing the jerk. I laughed out loud when Georgina told me how she’d sneak down to the fellowship hall for a Diet Coke during the sermon.
“How do you know when it’s time to come back?”
Georgina snickered. “When Lionel records the sermons, he turns the sound up full blast. Father Wylands doesn’t know it, but they’re probably debating his views on the Prodigal Son up on Mars.”
I heard the front door open. “Hannah!” My older sister was calling.
“Gotta go, babe. Ruth’s just arrived.”
By the time I said good-bye and made it to the entrance hall, Ruth was disappearing into my living room, leaving the front door gaping wide and all the heat pouring out onto Prince George Street. She was carrying an objet d’art about two feet tall, made of copper. I shut the door securely and followed her, wondering why I ever thought it would be a good idea to give my sister a house key. “What on earth is that?”
“It’s a fountain. Water represents prosperity, harmony, and peace.” Ruth set the fountain down on the floor, then surveyed the room, turning slowly in a complete circle. She looks a little like me, except her hair is long and gray, caught up at each side above her ears with silver butterfly clips. Neither one of us can figure out how we’re related to Georgina, who has green eyes, hair the color of buttered sweet potatoes, and is drop-dead gorgeous, either a throwback to a great-grandmother on our mother’s side or simply delivered by the stork to the wrong house.
Ruth zeroed in on a vase, now filled with irises, that I had kept for years on an antique table between two windows. “Here.” She lifted the vase off the table and handed it to me. I stood there like a dummy, holding the arrangement, my mouth open, but no protest came out. I knew it would be a lost cause. I hated myself for allowing Ruth to steamroll me like that, but I told myself that if I really hated the darn fountain, I could put the irises back after she left.
Ruth keeps insisting that my health problems and past troubles with my marriage were related to poor feng shui. She’s made it her life’s work, or at least this year’s project, to bring my house into harmony. While Ruth went to the kitchen on some mysterious errand, I looked around for a new home for the silk flowers, finally stowing them under the dining room table to deal with later. Ruth returned in minutes with a saucepan of water, which she dumped into the base of the fountain. She yanked the cord attached to a pottery lamp out of the wall, plugged the fountain into the same receptacle, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “There. Isn’t it pretty?”
I had to admit that it was. A graceful sculpture of bamboo stalks and leaves, down which water cascaded in a pleasantly gurgling spiral.
“Now for the mirror.” She extracted a tissue-wrapped object from her purse, an octagonal disk about the size of a saucer.
“Your shop must be doing well if you can take time off to come here at the drop of a hat to give me all this stuff.” I waved my arm, beginning with the mirror still in her hand and including in its sweep the fountain, a red-tasseled bamboo flute hanging over the front door, some wind chimes she had brought over last November, and a crystal hanging between the front door and the stairs, all selected by Ruth to cure various deficiencies in my home environment.
Ruth surveyed the room critically, looking for the best place to hang the mirror. “Of course I can afford it.” She homed in on a watercolor, a particular favorite of mine, a painting of Emily cradling Sunshine, a calico cat long gone to that happy catnip garden in the sky.
“Now wait a minute!” I was suddenly tired of being a doormat. “I love that picture there! Leave it right where it is. Please!”
Ruth, her eyebrows thick and brushed straight up, scowled at me over her shoulder. “It’s the best place for the ba gua, my dear. We need to deflect the negative energy coming in through that window from the street.”
“Well, I don’t care. You can hang your ba whatzit up if you want, but it’ll have to deflect negative energy somewhere else.”
Ruth wandered into the dining room, finally selecting an alternate location over the stove in the kitchen. “Here. Come hold this up so I can see how it looks.”
I took the little mirror from her hands and positioned it at eye level against the floral wallpaper.
“Why waste time on me?” I asked. “Why not help Mom and Dad get settled in their new place?”
“I tried.” Ruth squinted at me, her head cocked to one side. “Up a bit,” she instructed.
I inched the mirror up the wall.
“Mom told me to stop fussing and come back in a couple of weeks when the movers were gone and things were less hectic. Sort of kicked me out, if you want to know the truth.”
“Imagine my surprise,” I said.
“As it turns out, I won’t be around in two weeks. I’m going on a buying trip to Bali.”
“Bali! That sounds like a classic boondoggle.”
“Bali’s the feng shui capital of the world.”
“Seriously?” I was still standing at the stove holding her stupid mirror against the wall.
“Seriously.” She pulled up a chair and sat down. “First I’m taking a wood carving course, then I’m checking into a health resort in Ubud. I need to get rid of all the poisons in my system.” She moaned with pleasure. “Saunas, herbal wraps, meditation, vegetarian meals, mountain hikes—”
“And don’t forget the souvenir T-shirt.” I jerked my head toward the wall, just in case she had forgotten about the mirror. “How long will you be gone?”
“About a month. Sunnye is taking care of the store.”
“What about Eric?” Eric Gannon was Ruth’s ex-husband. He still owned a half interest in the shop and used that as an excuse to pop in from time to time and fiddle with the displays, just to annoy her.
“Mon-sewer zee artiste won’t even notice I’m gone. Last time I saw him he was walking down Main Street arm in arm with that Sylvia creature who used to work at Banana Republic.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Thank God we didn’t have any children.” Ruth wiggled her fingers. “A little more to the right.”
I complied, although my arm was beginning to ache. You’d think she was building the space shuttle or something. When the telephone rang, seconds later, I made an eager move to answer it.
Ruth raised her hand, palm out. “You stay there, I’ll get it.” She snatched the receiver off the wall. “Ives residence.” She turned and looked at me, head tilted, considering the present placement of the mirror. “Oh, hi. How’re you doing?”
She waved her hand, indicating that I should move the mirror a few centimeters to the left. I was praying she’d find a cosmically acceptable position soon.
“Sure. She’s right here. I’ll get her.” She extended the receiver in my direction. “It’s Georgina.” Ruth wore that puzzled look where her eyebrows nearly met. “Apparently she doesn’t want to talk to me.” She held the receiver by the cord with two fingers, as if it were dirty and she’d forgotten the Lysol.
I set the mirror down on a chair, walked to the phone, and took the receiver from where it hung from Ruth’s outstretched fingers. “What’s up, Georgina?”
“Sorry to trouble you again, Hannah, but I thought of a couple more questions I wanted to ask about when I was a kid.”
“Why don’t you ask Mother? Or Ruth? Ruth was nine when you were born. She might remember more than I do. I was only seven.”
“I can’t talk to Mother and I don’t want to ask Ruth. She’s so … judgmental.” Georgina was practically whispering, as if she thought Ruth might overhear.
“If it’s for therapy, I’m sure we’d all be willing to help.”
“Don’t give me a hard time, please, Hannah. I’d rather talk to you, is all, if that’s OK.”
I sighed. Might as well get it over with. “Sure. Shoot.”
It seemed forever before Georgina actually spoke. Strange, for someone so anxious to talk. “Why was I hospitalized in kindergarten?”
That was easy. “You had your tonsils taken out.” I remembered how jealous we’d been when Georgina’d been allowed all the ice cream she could eat.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“How long was I in the hospital?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe two days.”
“I seem to remember it being longer than two days.”
“Georgina, you were only five. Two days away from your family would seem like forever to a five-year-old.”
“I guess so.” Georgina paused. She didn’t sound convinced.
I made a brave effort to change the subject. “Speaking of children, how are the boys liking Hillside?”
Georgina ignored me. Her next question caught me completely by surprise. “Tell me. How did Mary Rose die?”
Mary Rose was our infant sister who died when I was barely three, long before Georgina was born. I felt guilty that the only memory I had of Mary Rose, other than photographs, was from the tantrum I threw when the new baby moved into my room and I had to share a bedroom with Ruth. But I will never forget my mother grieving over the empty crib. “It was SIDS,” I told her, not believing that she didn’t already know this.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! If you don’t believe me, ask Mother.”
“I told you, I just can’t talk to Mother about this stuff. She wouldn’t understand.”
I turned my back to the stove where Ruth had her head under the exhaust hood and was using the heel of her shoe to pound a nail into the center of a white rose on the wallpaper. “I’m not sure I understand either, Georgina.” I paused, waiting for her to reply. When she didn’t say anything I said, “Look, I’ve got to go help Ruth. She’s running amok in my house, feng shui-ing all over the place. Call me back later if you still want to talk.”
“I thought that you, at least, would understand,” she said in a small, sad voice; then she hung up abruptly, leaving me with a dial tone buzzing in my ear. I shrugged and returned the receiver to its cradle, feeling like I’d just bought a one-way ticket into the Twilight Zone.
Ruth stepped back to the kitchen table and surveyed her handiwork. “Good!” she said. Then after a few thoughtful seconds asked, “What’d Georgina want?”
“She was asking me some damn fool questions about when we were little.”
“Questions? Like what?” Ruth mumbled around a nail that wobbled between her lips.
“Like when she had her tonsils out and why Mary Rose died.”
“How odd.”
“She says it’s to help with her therapy.”
One eyebrow arched. “Therapy? What the hell’s she in therapy for?”
“She’s been depressed. Although what having one’s tonsils out has to do with depression, I have no idea.”
“I’m glad she’s getting help, Hannah, but why on earth didn’t somebody tell me about the therapy? You, for instance.”
I poured us each a fresh cup of jasmine tea and motioned for her to join me at the table. “I didn’t think it was important.” But in less than forty-eight hours, with my hands wrapped around a similar mug of tea, I would learn how very wrong I could be.