The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [69]
Each evening on her way to the Lamm house, Andrea is filled with this same steady resolve. She no longer tries to visit Paisley during the day, because this means she has to second-guess when Paisley will be napping or the hospice nurses will drop in. She keeps herself busy with packing and other moving arrangements. In the evening—it’s dark before six now, but sometimes so oddly warm for this time of year that she has to remind herself it isn’t later—she generally finds Paisley awake, having the brief burst of energy she rations out between now and bedtime, saving her best moments for Brynne and Melody, who come in after they do the homework Mason supervises while Rita washes the supper dishes. Paisley no longer takes meals with the family. She no longer takes meals at all.
In addition to the hospital bed, tonight Andrea notes that Paisley has cheekbones she’s never seen before. Gorgeous as she’s always been, Paisley has lacked the elegant facial architecture of the great beauties. Now she seems to have acquired it. She’s lost that much weight. The cheekbones don’t look half-bad. “You don’t look ready for a funeral,” Andrea says.
“I will be.” She turns the notebook so Andrea can see the words, “Funeral Requests” penned at the top of the page. Below are a myriad of details, including the names of people who will speak and the topics they should consider taboo (alcohol, college antics—remember, children will be present!). The handwriting is scratchy, barely legible, suggestive of the effort it took to produce it, with little resemblance to Paisley’s usual neat script.
“I hope I’m not on that list,” Andrea says. “You know how I am about speaking in public.”
“What you’re really trying to say is you’ll be too broken up. I bet you’ll surprise yourself. Don’t worry, the speakers are mostly aunts and uncles.” Paisley shifts position. She can’t get comfortable anymore, even with the IV, though she won’t admit it when Andrea asks. “I’ve made arrangements with Andrews Mortuary,” she says. “Don’t let somebody screw up and send me to Tate’s. Every time I go there I come out feeling awful.”
“I think you’re supposed to feel awful at a funeral.”
“No. A funeral should be a celebration.”
Tell that to your kids, Andrea thinks but doesn’t say.
“I have a couple of things I want you to do for me, funeral-wise,” Paisley says.
Andrea’s stomach twists. “I’ve already said I’d do whatever you needed.”
Paisley beckons Andrea closer, then closer yet, so she can whisper in her ear. Andrea listens. Her innards unknot enough to make her want to smile, but she holds back and, when Paisley finishes, frowns and tries to sound stern. “No!”
“I thought you were keen to do whatever I needed.”
“There’s a difference between need and want.”
Just then Paisley does that presto-change-o trick she’s gotten so good at lately, not by choice. The energy drains out of her in a single whoosh. She sits where she sat before; she looks the way she did before, but she’s a shell, a whisper. “Promise,” she says.
Against her better judgment, Andrea does.
“And don’t forget,” Paisley adds, so low Andrea can hardly hear her, “wherever you are, you still have to keep an eye on Max.”
“Done,” Andrea says.
Paisley closes her eyes. The exhaustion that for so many weeks has seemed like a weight is something else now. It has become an escort, taking her somewhere Andrea can’t follow.
But Andrea stays where she is; she can’t bring herself to leave. Settling into the chair next to the recliner, she watches Paisley’s features relax, throw off the tense, pleasant expression she’d worn while giving instructions for her funeral. How had she managed that? Andrea never could have—the expression or the directives, either one. Paisley won’t nap for long, just enough to amass energy for the kids, to fortify herself for half an hour of quips and smiles and good cheer.
Go home, she tells herself, but tears spring to her eyes, and she can’t bring herself to tiptoe out of