The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [39]
At the intersection of Applewood Drive, halfway down the hill, Andrea sees them from her laundry room. For a moment she’s so shocked that she’s frozen at the window, clutching a warm sheet just out of the dryer. She understands what’s happening. If the neighbors won’t come to Paisley, she’ll go to them. Andrea knows how Paisley thinks. She’ll overcome their shyness by letting them see her in her present state. See, it’s not so bad. She’ll make everyone feel at ease with her, as she always does.
But will she? In a wheelchair?
Andrea’s throat aches with bitter, gathering tears. Nearly every afternoon for more than a week, she’s kept Paisley company in her family room, thinking Paisley was spending all her time in that leather recliner because the chair is comfortable, not because she’s too weak to walk. Until this moment, at the same time that all the neighbors are witnessing what the situation is, Andrea, too, is finding out for the first time. This is how estranged they’ve become.
But why?
Does Paisley think that Andrea, having gone through cancer once with Courtney, is too fragile to do it again?
Or does she just not feel close enough to Andrea to lean on her?
Lifting the fragrant, clean sheet to her face, Andrea brushes away the tears she’s determined not to shed. She’s not going to stay here, locked in her house, and do nothing. She studies the streak of mascara on the fabric, then bunches the sheet in her hand and throws it back into the hamper before heading outside.
“Paisley! Mason!” she shouts.
“Too pretty to stay indoors,” Paisley says when Andrea gets within earshot. Almost, but not quite, apologetic.
“You could have called me. I would have taken you out.” Mason usually doesn’t get home until five thirty or six. As publisher of a morning paper, he occasionally stays late, but only if there’s a big, breaking story.
“You have no idea how heavy this chair is,” Mason says. “Takes great brute strength to manage it.”
Andrea scowls. If Paisley had trusted her enough to handle today’s outing, instead of calling Mason home from work, Andrea would have suggested they cruise the neighborhood in a car rather than on foot, stopping to say hello to anyone who was outside. This would have gone over better than the wheelchair. It would have brought visitors to Paisley’s house sooner than this cheery invalid parade.
It strikes Andrea as an act of desperation, genuine desperation, for Paisley to make Mason come home in the middle of the day.
Distracted, Paisley waves to someone. It’s old Mr. Adler, shambling over from across the street. “Glad to see you out and about. How you doing?”
“Great. Great!” Paisley replies. A child on a bike rides into view, the Nelson girl, pumping hard to get up the hill. She stops. “Mrs. Lamm. You’re yellow.”
Paisley laughs. “I know. It looks awful, but it doesn’t hurt.”
Mr. Adler, looking horrified, laughs, too.
“It doesn’t hurt?” the girl asks.
“Not even a little.”
A silence of skepticism, and then the child rides off.
Mason hovers. For the moment, Andrea hates him. Well, no. Hate is too strong a word. She resents him. Resents that he’s around so much. Resents how easy it is for him to leave work early, now that he’s the boss. Years ago, when he was managing editor, he had to put the paper to bed every night, sometimes coming home at two or three in the morning. On those nights, if John had a late meeting as he often did, Andrea would take Courtney to Paisley’s for a pajama party, no matter that Brynne and Courtney weren’t the best of friends. The women would let the children fall asleep in front of the TV, then tiptoe into the living room and drink wine and talk. All that loose-tongued talk—Andrea still misses it. If Paisley could tell Andrea about her illness, if Andrea could tell Paisley about the job John is negotiating . . . if they could discuss these things, the issues would become less momentous. Even the cancer. Talk about anything