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“Look,” I say in a rush, “please don’t feel any pressure to take me up on this. This is your call, completely. Your decision, not mine. Not mine at all. And it sounds like you have a lot going on with your mother anyway…”
“She has Parkinson’s.” Rachel gulps. “I just found out.”
“I’m so sorry.” I wish I had more words. “I really am. But in terms of this… Emily… I just… I just wanted to offer. I just wanted you to know this is an option.”
She sniffs again and nods. “Thank you.”
There doesn’t seem to be anything more to say, and so I murmur goodbye and then I leave. Outside the night is soft and dark. It’s June, the start of summer, the air full of the incessant whine and chirp of cicadas. An easy time of year, when you slip from work early, kick off your shoes, and relax. Bare feet in soft grass, fruity cocktails on a deck, burgers smoking on a grill. That’s what this time of year should be about, what it has been before.
I slide into my car and rest my hands on the wheel, my heart flipflopping in my chest, something treacherous and fearful snaking along my skin.
I try to untangle my feelings—do I want Rachel to agree? Or would I rather she refused? I really don’t know. Surely now I can say I’ve done my duty. I can walk away with a clear conscience, secure in the knowledge that I’ve done everything I possibly can, and it really, really does not concern me any longer. I can finally be free.
Except I know that’s not how it’s going to work. And as I drive back to the apartment in Beacon Hill and James waiting for me, I know I will have to lie to him about where I’ve been. And what should be, in an uncomplicated world, a way of working together for an innocent child, is starting to feel difficult and dangerous and even wrong.
Yet I know I’m not going to back out now.
I don’t back out, and I don’t tell James what I’m doing, as I kiss him hello and say I was with Naomi. I don’t tell him as we watch Netflix curled up together on the sofa, joking about
the corny thriller we’ve chosen to watch, or when we’ve gone to bed, snuggled together, his arm wrapped around my waist.
I say nothing of it the next day, as he pours me coffee in the kitchen, or when I kiss him goodbye before going to work. And I say nothing of the text that makes my phone buzz that evening, as we stand in the kitchen, waiting for the microwave to ding with our warmed-up curry. James raises his eyebrows in silent query as I glance at my phone and then put it back face down on the counter, giving him a smiling shrug. I’m not lying. Not precisely.
Because the text was from Rachel, and it contained only three words.
I’ll do it.
15
Rachel
That night, after Eva leaves, I don’t sleep. When the door first closed behind her, I simply sat and stared. My mind was spinning, spinning, a thousand thoughts dancing through it yet I couldn’t hold onto a single one.
Could this really… should I even… why had she?
I paced the downstairs for a while—to the back door, turn around, past the sofa, to the front window, and again. It felt like a march, as if I were going somewhere with purpose, and yet still I couldn’t think. At one point I heard a creak from behind the adjoining wall—Andrew in his kitchen, moving around like me. Could he hear my methodical treads? What did he think I was doing?
What was I doing?
Eventually I got on my laptop, and found my way to a crowdfunding site, this one particular to ill children. I read page after page of sad stories—Kaycee’s Story, Jackson’s Story, Chloe’s Story. All children with terrible diseases, usually cancer. Often they were thin and bald, smiling bravely, breaking my heart, with medical bracelets encircling bird-like wrists, tubes snaking away in the background, scrawny collarbones protruding from those awful, shapeless hospital gowns.
Kaycee has been so brave… Jackson has touched the lives of everyone he has met… Chloe has smiled through all the treatment—all the needles, all the noise, everything! We’re so proud.
At some point I pushed my laptop away. I felt a flash of envy, which was ridiculous yet real. These children were total troopers, little sick superstars. And while I wanted to believe Emily was too, she wasn’t like this. She wasn’t being brave, at least not so anyone, even I, could see. And it felt unfair, that those parents of cancer kids still had their children, in a way that I did not. They could talk to them, and hug them, and their children would hug them back, wrapping their arms around their necks, cheeks pressed to cheeks, telling them they loved them…
How wrong was it? To find myself wishing Emily had cancer? Anything but this. Anything.
And yet what if Dr. Rossi’s treatment gave me a little bit of that? Emily’s been so brave…
I could see myself saying it. Typing it. Experiencing it—seeing Emily’s eyes open, her lips curving in a precious, lopsided smile. Just that would be enough. Yet I still wasn’t sure I was ready to do this.
At some point I took myself off to bed, staring gritty-eyed at the ceiling as the hours marched past and I waited till morning. I thought about all the what-if possibilities of the future, the wonderful along with the horrendous. And then, as my mind grew fuzzy yet my eyes still couldn’t close, I let myself drift back, to the past.
Emily’s first birthday. Her sixth was next week, a day that would be painful yet necessary to celebrate. Back when she turned one, my mom had come over, and James’ parents; his mother had been ill but smiling, his father jovial yet also a bit distant. A few friends had come along too—Denise and Sarah, as well as Bryce, a friend of James’ from college.
I’d chosen a duck theme, because Emily had always loved feeding the ducks at Bulloughs Pond, and so there was a duck topper on the duck-shaped cake, hook-a-duck in a paddling pool on the deck even though it was October, duck party favours, and a big yellow helium duck balloon.
In retrospect, it was all a bit much, but I’d been so excited to celebrate Emily’s birthday. To celebrate Emily. And she’d loved it all, even if she couldn’t yet speak—she’d reached for the duck balloon, arms outstretched, a huge grin splitting her face.
