Pretend She's Here(18)

A while later, the song “Angel” by Jack Johnson began to play. That brought Lizzie and Jeff back from their walk down the beach, onto the dance floor. He had called her “Angel” ever since that day at Paradise Ice Cream. Dan and Gillian were dancing, too, along with half the school, but I felt that song was for Lizzie and Jeff alone.

And sitting on my bed in the cinder block room, I remembered again the phrase Lizzie had used to describe her mother: street angel/house devil.

“Everyone has moods,” I’d said to Lizzie that day.

“You don’t get it,” Lizzie replied. “And I hope you never see her the other way.”

Before now, I did, just once, see Mrs. Porter “the other way.” When Lizzie went into the hospital, I skipped school to go see her. Her mother had told mine that I’d better go soon. My mother not only gave me permission, she drove me to Williams Memorial in Boston.

“Take all the time you need, love,” my mother said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right here when you get out.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, kissing her, lingering in her embrace for an extra moment because I was nervous about seeing Lizzie.

When I stepped off the elevator onto Lizzie’s floor, I smelled antiseptic. The linoleum gleamed like ice. Walls were lined with bright drawings, obviously by children. They had been enlarged and framed, and some of the stick figures were grinning and others had big round tears plopping down their cheeks. Speech bubbles said Hope! and We’ve got this! and Cancer makes me mad. The grass was green, the chimneys were red, nearly every picture had a garden full of flowers. A handsome doctor with a stethoscope around his neck passed by and smiled when he saw me looking at the art.

Lizzie was in the third room down. Jeff stood in the hallway. He saw me coming. His face was wet, and he shook his head. Tears streamed into his red beard. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his plaid shirt.

“Only one person at a time can see her,” he said.

“Who’s in there now?” I knew her mother was spending most days here as both mom and nurse. Chloe had missed school all week to be with her sister.

“No one,” Jeff said. “She got tired. I wanted to let her rest.”

“Is she okay?”

“No, Emily. She’s not okay.”

“But she will be,” I said, stubborn and refusing to believe otherwise.

His tears just kept running. His mouth was slack, no words. He looked hopeless. I touched his hand, then stiffened my shoulders and walked past him. I was expecting to see Lizzie bald—people who had chemo lost their hair. My aunt Cathleen had. But when I walked through the door, there was Lizzie, with her long black hair flowing on the white pillow, that one strange curl—natural, she didn’t do anything to make it happen—falling across her terrifyingly pale face.

I tiptoed to the chair. I didn’t want to make a sound because Lizzie’s eyes were closed, and I assumed she was asleep. I leaned close, over the bed rail, to watch her breathing. Her chest went up-down, up-down. Was her respiration really fast, or was that my imagination? I had figured she’d be in an ugly hospital gown, so it was reassuring to see her in one of her familiar nightgowns, this one dark blue silk. But there were bottles hanging on poles over the bed, tubes going into her arms.

“I’m awake,” she said without opening her eyes.

“Oh,” I said. “I couldn’t tell.”

“It’s kind of creepy that you’re watching me.”

“I’m totally not watching you. I’m spying on that doctor out in the hall. Pretty cute.”

“Yeah, and he went to Harvard.”

“How do you know which one I’m talking about?”

“I know your taste,” she said. “Both Jeff and I think he looks like Dan Jenkins. Tell me he doesn’t.”

“Well, he does,” I said, even though he didn’t really. I always loved talking about Dan. Just hearing his name then sent chills through my bones, and it relieved me to hear Lizzie joking. We always joked about boys.

“Is Jeff jealous?” I asked. “You and Dr. Handsome?”

“We’re getting married,” she said.

“You and the doctor?”

“Me and Jeff.”

I laughed and pretended to jab her arm, brushing it lightly with my knuckles, and she flinched and cried out.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, shocked.

“It hurts,” she said. Tears were plopping down her face, just like Jeff’s, just like the ones in that picture in the hall.

“I’m sorry. I barely touched you,” I said.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “They’re everywhere.”

“‘They’?” I asked.

“The tumors,” she said.

“Where? How many?” I asked, steeling myself, because I couldn’t really bear to know.

“I wasn’t kidding about me and Jeff,” she said. “We’re going to get married before …”

“Before what?”

“I die.”

“Don’t say that!”

“I don’t want you to be shocked when it happens. You’re my best friend, my other sister. I love you.”

“I love you,” I whispered.