The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [42]
“Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table,” said our father. He slipped his book onto the edge of the table, where he could pretend he wasn’t reading it as we ate.
Cordy, gifted in the art of taking credit where no credit was due, brought dinner to the table with a flourish. Bean was reaching for the soup when our mother cleared her throat. “May we say grace before we begin?” she asked. Bean’s hand stole guiltily back to her lap.
“Grace!” Cordy said cheerfully. Our father grinned at her, and then reached across the table. We joined hands and bowed our heads, a ritual that struck us all as so old-fashioned and sweet that Rose got a slight case of the sniffles, and our father said grace, his voice rumbling quietly, and Bean was struck by the way that our father’s evening grace always reminded her of sunset.
“Amen,” our father said.
“Ay-men!” Cordy agreed, and then proceeded to serve herself fully half of the bread and cheese.
“Hello, greedy. Leave some for the rest of us,” Bean said.
“Leave her alone,” our mother said. “She needs to gain some weight.” Cordy choked on the hunk of bread she’d stuffed into her mouth. Oh, little did they know exactly how much weight she was going to gain. She grabbed her glass of milk and drained it without stopping, trying to cover the flush in her cheeks.
“I think she’s got a tapeworm,” Bean said.
“Shut up,” Cordy said, and headed out to get more milk. We watched her walk away, her pants hanging low on her hips, her elbows sharp exclamation points through her skin. Rose considered worrying about her and then decided not to bother.
“How did the appointment go today?” Bean asked. She’d been out all afternoon to points unknown, and had come back only in time for dinner.
“Good, good,” our mother said. “The tumor has shrunk quite a bit, so we’ve gone ahead and scheduled the surgery for week after next.”
Rose stopped, a spoonful of soup halfway to her mouth. “That’s so soon.”
“What, you want to wait until the tumor has time to grow again?” Cordy asked, returning from the kitchen, her glass refilled to the slopping point with milk. She plopped it down on the table, and liquid sloshed over the sides. Rose put down her spoon and mopped it up with her napkin, staring firmly at the table.
“Not funny, Cordy. We need to plan. We need to be ready.”
“Your mother is ready, and that’s what matters. I am prepared and full resolved.”
Was she ready? Can you ever really be ready to bid goodbye to a part of your body? Can you be ready to kneel down before the knife and surrender control in return for nothing more than a hope for the best?
Rose’s thoughts were rushing. She wasn’t sure what exactly they should be planning, but surely there was something someone should do. Maybe there was an Emily Post guide to caring for the newly mastectomied.
“I’d like to talk to you about something,” our father said. He put his spoon down, dabbed his napkin at his beard, which was looking grayer than Bean remembered. “In light of your mother’s diagnosis, I feel it necessary to address the issue of your own health.”
Cordy blew bubbles into her milk. Our father took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, typically a mid-lecture sign, but in this case he seemed to be struggling unusually hard to get the words out.
He coughed.
“Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers: therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me,” he said finally.
“Um, what?” Bean asked.
“I think what your father means is that since breast cancer may be hereditary, it’s important that you do self-exams,” our mother said, patting his hand as he nodded uncomfortably.
Oh. Right. We’re sure that’s exactly what Shakespeare was trying to say.
Cordy nearly choked on her milk. “Awwwwwwkwaaaard,” she sang, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm.
“Gross,” Bean said.
“It’s not ‘gross,’ Bianca. It’s vital,” our father said.
Rose was nodding in agreement. Well, of course she was. She put fifteen percent of each paycheck