44
I can’t get food or gas without going to town, and I can’t go to town without seeing Ethan’s house. It’s been nine days since I told him it was over, and today the For Sale sign appeared. It feels like an assault.
His car has been in the driveway on and off. He must have finished getting the house ready on his own, and I feel guilty about this. I owed him a lot of hours. He texted me that he missed me two days ago. Me: Me too, but I can’t do this. So he backed off, and I haven’t heard from him since. I pushed him away, and I deserve the silent treatment. Also, I was right.
I dread going to the diner in particular, but it’s Monday again. I sit at the counter and order poached eggs before I get to work. “You look terrible,” Frannie tells me.
“I don’t really sleep.”
“Have you talked to him at all?”
“He’s texted a few times. I just have to move on.”
Frannie puts the coffeepot on the warmer and comes back. “I think you should give him a chance.”
“A chance to what? Live in a town he always wanted to escape?”
“He could be happy here—he’s just stubborn,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“What?”
“Roll your eyes about him. And he’s not being stubborn. He’s happy up there, completely at peace.”
“Huh.” I have Frannie’s full attention, and I think we both know that I know her brother better than she does. “How do you know?”
“You know that thing he does with his face? Sort of like a wince?”
“The Scooter face? Yes.” She starts to roll her eyes but catches herself.
“He doesn’t do that in Devon. Ever.”
She’s quiet for a second, considering this. “I haven’t seen him do it at all since he’s been with you.”
“Yeah,” I say. I don’t want to tell Frannie what it was like when we were alone together, partly because I don’t know if I could describe it, and partly because it will make me cry.
“You’re good for him,” she says. “The whole thing is so weird, but I loved seeing him so happy. I’ve been worried about Scooter my whole life. He was always getting into trouble and being an idiot.”
“That’s part of the problem. Worrying about someone is sort of like expecting them to fail. He hates that you guys worry, like he can’t convince you that the life he loves is good enough. Or that he’s smart enough to decide for himself what he wants.”
Frannie looks away and takes a breath. “That’s kind of harsh. We adore him.”
“If I walked in here and said, ‘Frannie, I’m so worried about you,’ how would you feel?”
She lets out a little laugh. “Defensive.”
“Exactly, because what I’d be saying is, ‘Frannie, I don’t think you can handle the life you built.’ Or, worse, ‘I have a better idea of how your life should go than you do.’ Which I never would because you are so good at life, but if I said it, it might shake your confidence. My mom worried that I couldn’t handle my marriage, until I actually couldn’t. I think we kind of need to trust that people can figure their lives out. And Ethan’s life is incredible.” My voice falters, and I look down at my coffee.
“You love him,” she says.
I look up with the intention of protesting. But of course I love him, and it doesn’t matter that she knows anyway. “That’s why I’d never let him come here and lose all that.”
My phone buzzes with a text from Phyllis. It says “Come” followed by the laugh-till-you-cry emoji.
I am in my car speeding home, and I know there is nothing to laugh about. I find her sitting in her armchair with the remote control on the TV tray and a glass of iced tea spilled on the floor.
“Phyllis,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Sit.”
I do. “Do you need an ambulance?”
She looks at me sideways. There’s a DNR on her refrigerator specifying that there will be no ambulances. No surgeries, no drama.
“Tell me,” I say.
“I’m slowing,” she says. “It started last night, and I want to get in bed, but I can’t get up.”
“Slowing?” I ask, and my voice cracks.
She takes my hand. “This is not the time for you to be afraid. I’m the one dying. You get to stay here with the cute boyfriend.” She smiles at me, a mischievous smile. The generosity of that smile in this moment grips my heart. Also, the fact that I haven’t told her that it’s over between us. I know she’d think I was being a coward.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I say. I help her up and drape her arm over my shoulder. She’s so light that I imagine she’s already gone. We walk slowly down the hall to her room past the photos of Sandy and Camille in front of birthday cakes. So many cakes in a lifetime, I think. And also, there are never enough cakes. Neither of us is in any hurry, and I know this is the last time I’m going to see her out of bed. I’ve done this before. I am not ready to lose her, but I’m not going to say so.
I pull back her covers and help her sit. I cradle her legs under one arm and her head under another and lay her down. I cover her up to her shoulders and sit on the bed next to her. “Should I call Sandy?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, and takes my hand. Her hand is warm, her skin paper-thin. Her platinum wedding band is loose on her finger. “You are going to be fine. I’ve lost all of my friends by now, but it was worth having had them. I hope you feel that way about me.”
“Of course I do,” I say, and my voice betrays how afraid I am.
“Oh, Alice. Come on.” She’s smiling again, like this isn’t the scariest thing in the world. “Hand me my water.” I hold it against her lips, and she takes a sip. “And call Sandy.”
I call Sandy from the kitchen and tell her that it’s time to come. I don’t say much more than that, but I’m certain that the tone of my voice conveys how urgent it is.
When I’m back in her room, her eyes are closed. Without thinking about it, I walk around to the other side of the bed and climb in. I know from experience that in the weeks to come I will be longing to be close to her, to feel her still-alive presence next to me. I scoot in next to her and take her in my arms.
“Sweet Alice,” she says, and pats my hand. “I’ve lived alone for thirty years, and I always knew I wouldn’t die alone.”
“Of course not,” I say. “We’re the Sisters. I’m always right here.”
She doesn’t say anything for a while. My mind races to calculate how long it’s going to take Sandy to get here and I worry that I didn’t remind her to call Camille. Of course she called Camille. I try to quiet my mind and calibrate my breathing to Phyllis’s. I think of the chaos around my mom’s last hours and how I was racing around looking for nurses and calling her friends. I almost missed her last moments because I was filling out a form.
“You know you walked right into this,” she says. She’s startled me.
“Into what?”
“You befriended an eighty-six-year-old woman. That’s how old I was when we met. I could have hired someone all these years, but instead we had this life together with our flowers and our eggs.”
“It was the best part of my day on a lot of days.”
She squeezes my hand. “Life’s going to do what life’s going to do, Alice. You might as well have a dog.”