Pretend She's Here(19)

“I want you to do something for me,” Lizzie said. “Marry us.”

I tried to laugh. “I’m not a minister.”

“You can sign up online. There’s a website, you sign up and get ordained right then and there. Do this for me, Em. And don’t tell my mother.”

“Okay,” I said, completely confused, wondering if Lizzie even knew what she was talking about. We were fifteen. Jeff was a class ahead of us, sixteen. But in my church only men could become priests, a fact that seemed ridiculous, totally unfair, and completely ticked me off. So yes—I was on board with becoming a minister.

“I’m tired, Em,” Lizzie said. “You’d better go now.”

That scared me more than anything. Lizzie had never asked me to leave before. We always wanted to stay together longer, prolong our visits, delay making it home in time for dinner. We were always asking our mothers if the other one of us could eat over, sleep over, spend the weekend. What did it mean, how bad was her cancer, that she was kicking me out?

I stood in the doorway, just staring at her for a long time. If she knew I was still there, she didn’t say anything. I told myself the tubes were full of strong medicine making her better. The fact her hair hadn’t fallen out was a good sign; she was tough, and the tumors would disappear without chemo.

Outside the room, I looked for Jeff, but I didn’t see him. I figured I’d wait a while in the hospital and return to Lizzie’s room later, maybe in an hour, when she was feeling better.

A family clustered at the end of the hall. I could see sunlight pouring through big windows in the room behind them. It was probably the solarium. Visiting Aunt Cathleen, taking turns with everyone else in my family for the chance to go into her room, I’d gotten very used to the comfy chairs in the hospital sunroom. Bea and I were usually in there together, bored and texting our friends till it was time to leave.

So I aimed toward the solarium to wait for Lizzie. Later, I’d go back and sit by her bed and tease her about wanting to get married. Or, riffing on the fact she’d kicked me out before, I’d sing lyrics from a song my dad constantly butchered on the Fender Stratocaster us kids had chipped in to give him on his fiftieth birthday to fulfill his middle-aged rock-guitarist dream: Should I stay or should I go now? I’d make her laugh.

Halfway down the main corridor there was a small alcove, the door ajar. I heard the familiar voice with a hissing buzz in it and stopped short.

“… so talented, so smart,” Mrs. Porter was saying. “Everything your sister does turns to gold. While you … well, I’m not seeing any gold. I’m seeing laziness, a bad attitude, a selfish girl. That’s what you are, selfish. Your sister is lying in that bed, she is dying, yes, dying, and she is my shining one. Will you be that for me? I don’t think so. I don’t think so.”

I melted against the wall.

Chloe walked out of the alcove. Back then, she still looked like herself. Her straight hair was chestnut brown. She met my gaze. We stared at each other long enough for me to register her shame and grief. Her eyes brimmed. I reached out my hand, and she did, too, and we brushed fingers, like members of opposite teams after a game. She drifted away.

I wanted to follow her, to not have to face her mother, but it was too late.

Mrs. Porter emerged from the alcove with an armful of sheets and towels. Her forehead was a knot, her mouth was pinched with rage. I turned into a statue, hoping she would just walk by. Instead she stopped, her face relaxing into warmth and the affection I’d always felt pouring my way.

“Oh, Emily,” she said. “You’ve come to see Lizzie.”

“I—I did,” I said, slowing, stammering, wondering if she knew I’d heard her. “She told me she needs to rest.”

“Yes, she’s right. And you’re a peach for understanding. She needs that right now.”

“Can I do anything? I want to help her. I want to be here for her.”

“Just be you,” Mrs. Porter said. She hiked the linens under one arm, hugged me close with the other. “Be her other sister and be strong for Chloe. She’s having such a hard time. She loves Lizzie so. It’s so awful for her. I know she’d trade places if she could.”

“So would I,” I said.

“I believe that,” Mrs. Porter said, hugging me even harder. “What would we do without you? Now, come with me. We’ll let Lizzie sleep for a little while, and you, Chloe, and I will go down to the nurses’ lounge. I’ll sneak you in. We can have some hot chocolate; that’s just what we need.”

“Okay,” I said.

I was in shock that day. I had heard the words cancer, tumors, soft tissue, rhabdomyosarcoma, metastases, and stage four about Lizzie. But that afternoon was the first time I had heard the word dying. I wanted to run, scream, and tear my hair out. But I was a zombie. All I could do was stagger alongside Mrs. Porter and try to block out the vicious way she’d talked to Chloe.

In that moment, Lizzie’s voice had filled my mind. Street angel/house devil.

Now, sitting in the jail-cell replica of Lizzie’s room, with Mrs. Porter silently watching me eat, I glanced up from my chicken sandwich and met her eyes. She smiled, just as she used to, but hadn’t since I’d thrown Chloe’s phone. Just as if I were her third daughter, happy to see me enjoying the food she’d so lovingly made.