The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [54]
“I have a little trouble with angels myself,” Andrea says.
“Then we went the ‘Mama won’t be here anymore but she’ll be looking down from heaven’ route. I guess that’s just a variation of the angel story.” Paisley stops, thoughtful. “She doesn’t quite grasp the idea of dying.”
“Me, either.”
A statement, Andrea notes, that Paisley ignores. She asks instead, quite earnestly, “Do you think we made a mistake, not taking them to church more?”
“Hell, no. I think Melody would have hated it.”
“Me, too.”
They sit for a while and say nothing, which is a relief. Such a relief. “You’re brave,” Andrea tells Paisley finally. “Braver than I would be.”
“Everybody’s brave when they don’t have any choices. When Courtney was sick, you were brave.”
“I just remember being scared.”
“Nah. You were a champ. You were a rock.”
The rock is about to roll, she thinks, and then blurts out the very words. “This rock is about to roll, Paisley. John took a new job. We’re moving.”
“Moving?” Paisley sits straighter, interested. “Andrea Chess, born and bred not ten miles from here, moving?”
“I wanted you to know before we told Courtney.” She feels guilty, wanting to tell Paisley first, while Paisley wanted to tell her children. “I didn’t want you to hear from the grapevine,” she says.
Paisley cocks her head. “You think the news would do me in before my time?”
“I was a little worried.” She forces a smile.
“Moving where? How far? What kind of job?” They’re just exchanging information now. This is better. They can do this. Andrea tells her everything.
“We’re both going on a journey,” Paisley says when she finishes. She makes it sound as if they’re embarking on separate but equal adventures, as if moving to California were not, by comparison, as inconsequential as sand.
In the end, neither of them can sustain this. Andrea looks at Paisley through a shimmer of tears, then studies the floor because they’re not sentimental sisters and she feels like she’s breaking some kind of rule. Without thinking about it, she reaches over and takes Paisley’s hand, and in the same motion Paisley grasps Andrea’s other hand, and they both hang on. They sit there for a while, not talking, because Paisley is dying. It’s out in the open now, so what else is there to say? They have been friends for so long. All friendships end, one way or the other. Andrea knows people usually feel superior when someone they know is dying. You’re finished, but look at me, I’m going strong. Andrea doesn’t feel that way at all. She doesn’t want Paisley to go without her. She doesn’t want Paisley to leave her behind.
“If you’re not going to be here,” she says, “I’m glad I’ll be on the other side of the country.”
“You’ll love it there.” Paisley squeezes her hand. “I’m glad for you, Andrea. I am.”
Exactly what Andrea knew she would say.
Then Paisley adds quietly, “This could happen pretty fast.” Her voice doesn’t waver, but when Andrea looks up, she sees that Paisley’s face, like her own, is lacquered with tears. “The hospice people tell it to you straight. When it gets to this point, it can go pretty fast.”
Andrea nods. No point in offering platitudes. “Whatever you need,” she says. “Whatever I can do for you, let me know.”
“I will,” Paisley says.
“I’m not going to California until there’s nothing else you need from me.”
“You might be sorry you offered.”
“Not a chance. Promise that whatever it is, you’ll ask.”
“Well, you can make sure Max Logan stays away from Melody,” Paisley quips, raising and lowering her eyebrows.
Max Logan. Ginger’s boy. Not funny, Andrea thinks, but she plays along. “Well, let’s see. Max is fifteen. Melody is eight. I don’t think there’s any danger from that quarter.”
But Paisley quickly moves on. “Actually I do have a couple of things to ask.” Her voice is beginning to sound like there’s no air behind it, weaker by the word. “Maybe next time.”
“Sure. Next time.” Andrea squeezes her hand again, then lets go.
Andrea is out the door before she realizes what was different in there today other than the morphine drip, maybe just as important.