The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [38]
Her oldest sister, the one who’d moved to Alaska, had two husky sons. Her other sister, also many miles away, had a daughter. She was never close with either of them, but their fertility made her feel lesser. She will never get over not having a child of her own. Even today, fond as she is of Jeff, there are times when she is keenly aware that he is not her son, and that his child will not really be her granddaughter.
Lumbering toward the window, Lori stands in front of the screen and inhales deep draughts of air. Maybe it’s her petite, small-boned build and not the tight shirt that makes her belly look so disproportionate. If it weren’t for the sonogram showing one female child, Iona would be sure she was having twins. Lori lifts her hair off her neck, lets the breeze blow against it, fidgets a little. Then she grows still and points toward the street beyond the willow oak, beyond the white ribbons whose streamers are dancing in the wind. “Look.”
Lori is not the first one to witness the spectacle outside. Ginger is. Fifteen minutes before Lori points out the window, Ginger is rolling her empty trash can up her driveway after picking up Rachel from school with a stomachache. She turns because she hears the garage door at the Lamm house go up with its usual muted growl. Mason and Paisley emerge onto the driveway, not in the car but in person. It’s the first time Ginger has seen them in nearly two weeks. Paisley’s skin is a deep yellow. She sits in a wheelchair. Mason is pushing.
Ginger stands transfixed.
The Lamm driveway angles down sharply toward the street, and for a second the chair threatens to get away from him and careen into the cul-de-sac, spilling Paisley onto the asphalt. With an expression of alarm, Mason pulls back on the handles.
“Whoo!” Paisley says as the wheelchair halts.
“You were almost a goner!”
Both of them laugh.
If the situation were really as dire as it looks, would Mason be making comments about being a goner? Would they be laughing so merrily? Slowly, Mason rolls the wheelchair down the driveway into the street.
“Paisley! It’s great to see you!” Ginger calls as they approach. “How are you?”
“Great. Great!” As if everything is normal. As if she’s not aware of the wheelchair or her yellow skin. As if she hasn’t noticed that Ginger hasn’t been over to see her.
“I hope your treatments are going well. It looks like they must be.” After all, chemo, radiation, all those experimental therapies—they sap your energy. It’s temporary. The wheelchair was probably rented for a month.
“We’re doing the leaf tour,” Mason says, nodding toward the bright trees.
“So I see.”
“I’d stop if I could, but this thing has a mind of its own.”
Ginger can tell how hard he’s working to keep the chair from pulling him down the hill.
“Come see us,” Paisley says as Mason whisks her along. “I know you’re usually at work. But come whenever you can.”
“I’m only home right now because Rachel is sick.” As if Paisley hasn’t already given her an excuse. As if more protest won’t just weaken her case.
“Anytime is good. Anytime.” Paisley lifts her long arms and stretches them toward the sky, as if to embrace its bright blue cloudlessness and the tangy air. “Look at this,” she says. “Just look at this!”
“Yes,” Ginger agrees. It is the perfect autumn afternoon. They are lucky—all of them—to be here to see it.
As Mason and Paisley head around the corner, disappearing down the hill, Ginger makes a mental note to tell Eddie that, except for the jaundice, Paisley seems to be doing well. Her voice is strong. She’s laughing. It must be the combination