The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [51]
Of course, when Courtney got sick, Andrea had hated those same qualities of self-control—the smooth, unruffled surface John showed the world as everything began to unravel; his refusal to admit his fears, much less share them; his holding back tears until his mother, an outsider, arrived to receive them.
Andrea never thought she’d forgive any of that. Until these past three weeks, she believed she and John were lost to each other for good, except for the placid exterior they had managed to keep intact. But so much has happened, in such a short time. Nothing seems certain anymore. The whole world has shifted. Now she believes that the mammoth of grief and terror stalking the room during Courtney’s illness was all either one of them could see. Their child’s cancer had misted their vision of each other not just then but for years after, leaving them as wounded and isolated from each other as Andrea has been, lately, from Paisley. How did John stay for so long at a job he didn’t care for, just so Courtney could have health benefits? The feat amazes her. He must have wanted his family—wanted Courtney, wanted her—more than he wanted to be free.
Now he is free. Happiness glows all over him. She wants this to happen.
“You know,” she says after a while, “anytime you go into Paisley’s, you always hear music playing. The same oldies as always. Sometimes Paisley even puts on that silly feather boa she used to wave around. You’d think it would be pathetic, but it’s not. It’s cheerful. I can’t explain it.”
“It’s hopeful,” John says.
“The house has the same party atmosphere as always. It doesn’t feel like they’re working at it, although they must be. People come out of there and say, well, whatever they’re giving her, it must be working. It is hopeful. Everyone knows she has pancreatic cancer, everyone knows it’s also in the liver, everyone knows it’s a death sentence. You can find that out in two minutes online. And yet it doesn’t seem to be happening. She seems to be . . . herself, I guess. Even though she’s jaundiced. And so weak. And I think she’s losing weight.”
“People in treatment almost always lose weight.”
“I know.” Blankly, the two of them stare across the room at the big TV they never watch. The cocktail of emotions that swirls around them is intoxicating at first, then exhausting. Andrea is drained. She sees that John is, too. As if at a signal, they settle themselves under the covers. “I’ll tell Paisley about the move tomorrow,” she murmurs. And without expecting it they are asleep, deep in the animal warmth of each other, cuddled together like puppies.
Ten seconds after Courtney leaves for school the next day, Andrea begins cleaning out the attic, throwing away things she didn’t even know were up there. She’s nervous, panicked, elated, all at once. John’s new employer will pay for their move, for extra insurance, for packers. If Andrea throws out twenty bags of accumulated miscellany once a day for the next ten years, she might be ready for them. Like a thief trying to hide her stash, she puts the trash bags into the back of the car in the closed garage, opens the garage doors just long enough to back down the driveway, and hauls the stuff to the Dumpster behind the supermarket. She’s pretty sure this is illegal. She’d rather be arrested than have the neighbors see so many castoffs in front of her house on trash day—at least until she spreads the word.
On the way home, her mind feels at once sharper than it’s been in years, and also less focused. Maybe she won’t take all the furniture. Maybe on the West Coast her dark mahogany heirlooms won’t fit. Will John’s new salary allow them to buy one of those out-of-sight-expensive California houses? Will Andrea have to go to work to help pay the