“She wanted to tell you all about it herself. Why, what did she say?”
“She said you had called her every day.”
“Right.” I heard some music start somewhere behind her. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she added, hoping to hang up.
“No.”
“No?”
“Why is she coming home without any treatments? She said all she has to do is get stronger.”
The music got louder. “Shit,” I heard her say. “Wait a minute.” I could hear her close a door. “Why don’t you wait until I get home tomorrow,” she said, “and we can spend more time together? It’s really a bad moment for me. I have to go down to the patio and . . .”
“Oh, so sorry to have interrupted your work.”
She was silent. I thought she was going to hang up on me. I knew that what she said next was coming from her anger. “You’re the whiz kid, M, the A-plus student. Why can’t you figure it out?”
“Figure what out?”
“Why she’s coming home so fast. She doesn’t want any treatments. She heard it all from her doctor.”
“What do you mean?” I said, my voice cracking. I knew what she meant. I was just hoping that by driving her to say it, she wouldn’t, and somehow it wouldn’t be true.
“She weighed the options and decided she would rather have some quality time at home.”
I didn’t respond.
“Damn it, M, she’s coming home to die,” she said. “I gotta go. I’ll see you as soon as I can tomorrow.”
Then she hung up.
I didn’t. I stood there holding the phone. The child in me wanted to pretend that I hadn’t called Roxy and didn’t have this conversation. I wanted to imagine that none of this was happening. It was all a bad dream. All I had to do was put the receiver back on the cradle, and everything would be back to the way it was. Papa would be alive and waiting for me downstairs. Mama would be finishing her dinner preparations. They were going to open a new bottle of red wine that Uncle Alain had sent from France. There was music, Mama’s favorite, Edith Piaf. We’d speak in French to add to it all. It would be one of those rare nights when neither of them would think about Roxy or any unhappiness.
I would feel as if I were along with them when Papa was courting Mama. Before my soul was plucked out of that cloud of souls to enter the body that would form in Mama, I was given a preview. These two lovers would become my parents, and I would inherit their histories. I’d favor Mama’s, because Papa’s wasn’t as charming and romantic, but his influence would be there. As they talked and laughed, toasted old friends and old memories, I would sit silently, smiling and thinking how lucky I was to have them and how much I loved them.
Why couldn’t I just walk downstairs to that? Why did I have to walk down to the silence and the shadows? I won’t walk down, I thought defiantly. I won’t give in to reality. Curling up in bed, I hugged myself and shut my eyes as tightly as I could. I held my breath as long as I could, and then I screamed a long and piercing “NOOOOOO!” My throat hurt when I stopped, but I wouldn’t open my eyes, and I wouldn’t go downstairs.
Darkness crawled up to me, however. It slipped past any light, slid along the walls and over the floors, oozed into my bedroom, and then fell over me, shutting out the last glimmer of hope.
Mercifully, sleep also invaded, and I didn’t wake up until the first light of morning sent shadows retreating to wherever they go to wait for their time to return. I decided that I would not go off to school as if it were just another day. Instead, I worked on the house, vacuuming, polishing furniture, washing windows, and making sure Mama’s bedroom was prepared. I put on fresh linens and went down the street to buy some fresh flowers. I defrosted a roast and began to prepare it, following her recipe. She had warned me that it would take most of the morning before she would be released. Hospital paperwork, waiting for the doctor, whatever would click off the hours. I nibbled on a little lunch and hovered by the front window, waiting for the sight of the limousine.
A little before one o’clock, it pulled up to the curb in front of our town house. The driver got out and opened the door for a tall, light-brown-haired woman who looked manly from the back because of her wide shoulders and thick upper arms. She came around to help Mama out. The driver got the bags. Mama looked up at the house. She looked much smaller and thinner to me.
I rushed to the front door and opened it as they started up the stairs. They both paused, surprised. The nurse had large, spoon-shaped dark eyes and a U-shaped face because of her plump cheeks. The driver was just about to step ahead of them. He had the door keys in his hand. He stopped, too.
Mama shook her head. “I should have known,” she said. “This is my daughter Emmie, Mrs. Ascott. She was supposed to be at school,” she added, feigning a little anger.
“I’m way ahead of everyone in my classes, Mama. Besides, welcome home,” I said.
She smiled. As I took her other arm to help her in, she whispered in French, “Je suis content que tu sois ici. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I took some French classes,” Mrs. Ascott said. I didn’t know if she said it to mean that she was proud of it or that we shouldn’t try to say anything behind her back.
“Très bon, Madame Ascott. You’re sure to learn a lot more here.”
Mama laughed. She could give me no better gift than the sound of her laughter.
Maybe, if we ignored everything and everyone else, we could have a miracle, I thought.