The Winter Sister(22)

Jill drummed her fingers on the counter, breathed in and out. “Well, what then? Just let us know what you want and Sylvie can go to the store tomorrow.”

Mom cocked her head to the side, as if considering her options.

“Hmm,” she said. “I’d like some orange juice . . .” Jill grabbed the sheet of paper with the hospital’s information on it and started writing. “And some vodka . . .”

“Annie—come on.”

“What?” Mom opened her eyes wide in a look of feigned innocence. “It’ll be like a mimosa. That’s breakfast, Jill.”

Jill crossed out what she’d written, slicing her pen through the words “orange juice” as if she meant to obliterate the drink completely.

“I don’t get it,” Mom continued. “They pump me full of all this poison, but God forbid I enjoy a cocktail to make it all go down easier.”

As Jill glanced at me, the annoyance in her eyes was clear as the crow’s-feet that puckered her skin. “Your mother’s quite the comedian when she’s sober,” she said.

And that was it, of course. She was sober. It hit me like the sudden twitch of a body nearly asleep. That was why she was speaking to us, why she seemed so different from the woman who could only mumble out half-responses at Jill’s house two summers before. The vodka on her breath had been a constant for so many years that I hadn’t considered how her cancer would change that. She was sober—she was finally, finally sober—but even so, she didn’t feel like the mother I’d known before she started chasing her grief with alcohol. The mother from my childhood was peaceful, her voice as soothing to me as aloe on a burn, but this woman’s words had edges; they were cold and comfortless, wrapped in barbed wire.

“I’m sure you already know this,” Jill said to me, “but she can’t have any alcohol. No matter what she says or does. Besides being absolutely horrible for her, it hurts her now, too.” She turned her head back toward Mom. “Doesn’t it, Annie?” She raised the volume of her voice, as if talking to someone elderly.

“If you say so, Jill,” Mom said. “Thank goodness the chemo feels so good instead.”

Jill ignored the comment, leaning her face close to mine, speaking just above a whisper. “Alcohol makes her feel like her esophagus is burning. Her words—believe it or not—not mine. That’s how we first discovered something was wrong.”

I nodded, trying to imagine my mother calling Aunt Jill one day, a tinge of anxiety in her voice as she confessed that the thing she’d relied on for so long felt like it was killing her now instead.

“Hey.” Jill looked concerned. She circled her warm hand around my wrist, making me realize how cold I felt, even through my RISD sweatshirt. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “I just . . .” I lowered my voice, turning my back toward Mom. “I didn’t expect it to be like this.”

Jill tilted her head, rubbing her thumb into my palm. “Which part?”

“All of it, I think.”

I knew I was being selfish. For the past several months, Jill had given up everything to take care of Mom—not to mention all the years she’d bought her groceries, paid her property taxes, handled general upkeep of the house, made sure Mom survived. Now, here I was, back home for only a few minutes, and already, I was buckling. How could Aunt Jill trust me with this? Even with her extensive notes and numbers, how could she expect me to know what my mother needed? I was in my thirties now—the deepening lines around my eyes reminded me of that every day—but suddenly, I felt more like a child than I had in years.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Jill said. And then, because she was always truthful, she added, “It’s gonna have to be.”

I squeezed Jill’s hand and managed a smile. “I know,” I said, though my nerves still felt taut as tightropes.

Her eyes lingered on my face before shifting over to the clock on the microwave. “I need to get going.” She sounded apologetic—guilty, even.

“Okay,” I said. “Are you sure you’re gonna be all right to drive, though?” I looked toward the sliding glass door, and the sky still glittered with falling snow. “It seems to have picked up a little.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine,” Mom said from the corner of the room. “Don’t you know? Your Aunt Jill is a superhero, always swooping in to save people. Not even a blizzard could stop her.” A wry smile crept into her lips.

“I’ve got four-wheel drive,” Jill said to me, as if she hadn’t even heard Mom speak. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“Yeah, of course,” I agreed. “Tell Missy I’m thinking about her, okay? And let me know as soon as the baby’s born.”

A soft glow blossomed on Jill’s cheeks at the mention of her soon-to-be grandchild. “You bet,” she said. Then, with a slow intake of breath, she walked toward Mom. “Okay, Annie. Sylvie’s gonna take it from here, all right?” I followed her into the living room, watching as she put her hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

Mom shook her head, and as she did, I noticed a few strands of blonde hair still clinging to the nape of her neck. “I’m peachy,” she said.