Page 2 of Born to be Wilder

Which was why sitting here right now, with the whiskey poured and the basket waiting and the whole ritual stretched out in front of us like a gift, felt so incredibly, perfectly right.

“Well?” I gestured to the basket. “Are we ready? Is it time to start our next adventure?”

Marge’s face lit up as her gaze moved to the basket. “Oh yeah. I’m ready. The question is… are you?” She waggled her eyebrows.

Doris winced, terror blooming in her eyes. “Oh, Marge. What did you do? I’m scared.”

“Good.” Marge sat back, satisfied. “Fear keeps you young.”

“I don’t want to be young, then,” Doris whimpered.

“Seriously, Marge. Are you ever going to get old enough that your wishes don’t terrify us all?” I asked.

She crossed her arms. “Nope.”

I looked to Alice to back me up, which she usually did with a quick surgical comment that ended things efficiently. But Alice wasn’t looking at Marge. She stared out my window, seemingly off in her own world today.

Doris looked at her old knitting basket now repurposed as our wish basket. “Okay. So, who picks first this year?”

I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it. “Whoa. I can’t remember. Is it the last person? Random? How have we always done it? Oh my God, I’m losing my memory. Please don’t let this be Alzheimer’s starting.”

Doris’s eyes widened. “Oh, Sylvie! Me too! I have such a bad memory these days. Getting older is no joke!”

“Which is exactly why we need to stay young,” Marge noted, giving us all a stern stare. “And these wishes in here, this is how we do it. The minute we stop living life to the fullest, we may as well just die.”

As she said it, Alice glanced quickly at the basket, then looked away abruptly enough that my brow furrowed.

She wasn’t even knocking us out of the way to go first, and if there was one truth about Alice, it was that she always wanted to be first at everything.

Instead, she was slowly turning her glass in her hand, watching the whiskey move, her expression vacant. I knew instantly that she was holding something heavy inside.

I glanced at Marge, who stared at Alice with the same strange curiosity as I did. Then she looked at me and I shrugged.

Marge set down her glass of whiskey, crossed her arms, and stared at our distant friend. “Alright, Alice. You’ve barely made fun of me today. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never missed an opportunity to take an opening. And today, there have been plenty. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. You’ve barely said a peep about, well, anything. What gives?”

Alice looked at Marge, then at Doris and me, then back at her glass.

“Alice.” Marge’s voice was quieter now, her playful tone removed. “What’s going on?”

“She’s right. You’ve been quiet since you got here,” I said carefully.

Alice opened her mouth like she would speak but then closed it, her gaze drifting away again.

“Alice! You’re worrying me!” Doris leaned forward. “Please. What’s going on? They’re right. Something is wrong.”

Alice looked at the knitting basket. Then she closed her eyes and downed the last of her whiskey in one long swig.

My heart pounded with fear and anticipation when I noticed the strange look in her eyes as she locked them onto mine.

“I had a speech. But right now, it’s left my brain.” She picked up the bottle of whiskey and refilled her glass, and I realized she was stalling. Alice never stalled. She was more direct than a laser. “But I just… I don’t know how to say...”

No one said a word. We just waited.

She set her glass down, heaved a breath, and said, “I can’t come on the trip this year.” A breath. “I have breast cancer.”

The word dropped like a stone in water. It grew so quiet in the aftermath it seemed something had changed in the air itself. Like a window had opened somewhere in the dead of winter and all the warmth rushed out at once.

Doris made a sound and pressed both hands over her mouth, her eyes welling with tears in an instant.