The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [52]
Courtney. Clueless Courtney. Andrea dreads—truly dreads—being there when her daughter learns about the move and has a fit.
She also hates the idea of facing Paisley for exactly the opposite reason—that Paisley will surely treat the news with her usual upbeat, and now so patently false, cheerfulness, as if her illness didn’t also require examination or attention, wasn’t an issue at all. But this is something she needs to deal with. She sets her jaw, drives to her friend’s house, and pulls into the driveway.
Taped to the front door is a sign, crayoned in large letters on white poster board: “Paisley Lamm is resting now, but she would love to see you. Please check back later.” The handiwork is Melody’s, a border of shapeless hearts and flowers around the clumsily lettered words, attesting to the fact that the child is an athlete and not an artist.
Check back. Well, she will. She’ll give Paisley an hour for her nap, maybe a little longer. By then the sign will be gone. Neither she nor Paisley will mention it. They’ll never mention it at all.
But she doesn’t go back. She’s consumed by the prospect of her own boundless and frightening future. She can’t bring herself to share it. Sometimes there’s a secret so momentous, so vast, that for a time, even just a day, you have to keep it to yourself.
She means to go early the next morning, to be in and out of there before Paisley feels the need for a nap. Somehow the day gets used up. There’s so much to do. Collect more discards from the attic, carry sets of mismatched plates to Goodwill. Hardly a blink of an eye and it’s four o’clock. John calls to say his contract is signed and in the mail. Courtney stomps in from school and up to her room. Another hour and Andrea will have to start supper. With an effort of will, she heads to Lindenwood Court. Even if the sign is up, she’s going to knock. But Rita opens the door just as Andrea reaches for the bell. Always well groomed, always composed, all the same, Paisley’s mother looks exhausted. No wonder. “Oh, good,” she says. “I know Paisley wants to see you.”
She does? Why? Andrea wonders if Rita can hear the thudding of her heart.
Paisley’s in her usual place, wearing her usual smile, the feather boa slung around her neck like a scarf too flimsy to keep her warm. She seems a bit dwarfed by the big recliner. Was it always like that? Beside the chair looms a portable metal pole holding a familiar-looking bag of liquid that takes Andrea back to Courtney’s hospital stay as if it had happened last week.
“A morphine drip,” Andrea says, projecting accusation rather than the sympathy she intends. “I thought you weren’t in pain.”
“Just a backache. On and off.” A bandage and a piece of gauze hold the IV needle in place on Paisley’s arm. She indicates the plunger she can push for more medication. “This lets me control it.”
“I see.” Andrea’s voice is a rasp, harsh as a wire brush.
Paisley struggles to sit straighter in the roomy leather chair. “I should have told you.”
Out of habit, Andrea almost says it’s okay, then bites the words back because it’s not okay, not even close. Here they are, zero hour, and what’s the point of lying? “I hate to think you’re in pain,” she says instead, and this is true. She hates it, hates it. “Does this mean—? What does this mean?”
“Did you ever notice how there’s always a hair or two left in the bathroom, even right after somebody cleaned it?” Paisley asks.
Terrific. Now they’re going to discuss housekeeping? “How is this relevant? Why are you telling me this?” Andrea doesn’t try to disguise her anger.
“Because it’s like the hair,” Paisley says, barely audible.
“What is like the hair?”
“The cancer.”
Too quickly, Andrea says, “I don’t follow,” though the bar of ice gliding down her back tells her she does.
“You can mop and wipe and then do it again, but it doesn’t matter. There’s always a hair lingering somewhere. It’s the same with the cancer. They