The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [29]
To which Paisley replies, “Oh, I have plenty of that.”
Andrea is not so sure. This is exactly what is in doubt.
At the end of the week Paisley pats Andrea’s hand, squeezes it for emphasis. “Tell them I’m going to the doctor and getting plenty of rest.”
Andrea nods. But what does this mean? No one knows what kind of treatment Paisley is getting, even Andrea. In spite of everything, they seem to be honoring the vow of silence Andrea wanted to ignore.
Does it really matter? Any kind of cancer treatment takes its toll. Think of what it did to Courtney. Paisley’s hair isn’t falling out like Courtney’s did, but her skin is a darker yellow every day, and she’s more worn out than Andrea’s ever seen her. She spends her days in the big leather recliner in the family room, attached by earbuds to her iPod, with the volume turned up so high that sometimes when Andrea arrives she can hear a tiny beat of the music even from across the room. One day when Andrea walks in, Paisley’s eyes are closed, her mouth slightly agape and her breath so noisy that she might be snoring. In all the years they’ve known each other, until this moment Andrea has never seen Paisley asleep.
Paisley’s eyes jerk open. She smiles to pretend she’s been awake all along. Removing the earbuds, Paisley sets the iPod in its docking station and turns the volume down to practically nothing.
“I was listening to a song by Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers,” she says. “Remember them? Late ’50s, one of the first big groups?”
Andrea nods, though she has no idea. Paisley is such a fan that it never occurs to her that some people don’t listen to oldies.
“The Teenagers’ song ‘I Want You to Be My Girl,’ was a big hit, but I always liked their recording of ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ better. A World War II song. Can you believe it?” She speaks with such intensity—healthy intensity, Andrea thinks—that Andrea feigns wide-eyed interest. “Anyway, instead of singing it slow and mournful the way it was done during the war, they upped the tempo. And it’s great. Great, even though it was never a big hit. The up-tempo makes it even sadder. Listen.” Paisley turns up the volume. Her eyes sparkle. She bursts into song, something she can never help doing, which has got to be a good sign. “There’ll be bluebirds over / the white cliffs of Dover / tomorrow / Just you wait and see . . .”
Paisley’s voice is perfectly pitched, despite a small tremor. The song is sad. You don’t expect bluebirds tomorrow, over the white cliffs of Dover or anywhere else, but the music makes you long for them all the same.
If Paisley can still sing, how sick can she be?
Before Andrea leaves, Paisley reaches down to the shelf under the end table beside her and pulls out what at first looks like a handful of fluff and then, as Paisley shakes it, becomes the old white feather boa Paisley used to wear at parties, claiming it was part of her college cocktail waitress outfit.
“You still have that?!”
“Brynne found it in the attic and brought it down to cheer me up. It does cheer me up.” Paisley drapes it over her shoulders, where it looks as ridiculous as always. “Tell people I’m almost ready to boogie.”
“Well, I will. I certainly will.” Andrea struggles not to let her voice break.
She is so glad to get out of the house. So filled with conflicting emotions—elation, dejection, relief that the visit went as well as it did, despair that it didn’t go better. The way Paisley was singing, she was certainly still herself, in spite of the jaundice and fatigue. And that feather boa! Even so, Andrea isn’t going to be able to attract visitors unless she drags them there. Not yet. Eventually they’ll come on their own. She remembers. They won’t show up until they digest the fact of Paisley’s condition. This might take another week.
In the gathering twilight, Lindenwood Court seems unnaturally quiet, even with Paisley’s daughter Melody kicking a soccer ball around the yard while Trinket, her little dog, chases it. There