Margaret’s bouquet of carnations sat on the table at my bedside and cheered me. It was the first time my sister had ever sent me flowers. Our relationship was changing, but even her gesture of support wasn’t enough to get me through this.
In my heart I knew what was coming and I couldn’t bear it. Not again. Everything within me wanted to scream how unfair this was. Like a little girl, I wanted to jump up and down and throw a temper tantrum.
Dad’s not here to help me anymore, and the sense of abandonment I experienced was overwhelming. Irrational as it might seem, I was furious with my father for dying. I’m so angry. Angry with Dad. Angry with God. Angry at the world.
Having spent most of two days drugged for the surgery, I now found the escape of sleep unavailable. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was Brad’s face. All I heard was his voice. What kept coming to mind was the last confrontation we had, that day on the phone, when I told him I didn’t want to see him again. I made it as plain as I could that I was not interested in continuing our relationship.
He didn’t understand, of course, that I was doing him a favor and seemed bent on arguing, trying to change my mind. I regret the things I said, but I couldn’t tell him the truth, so I’d led him to believe my interests lay elsewhere.
I knew Margaret strongly disapproved of my breaking up with Brad. However, I told her this is my life and I make my own decisions. That shut her up, but I could tell she was furious. I can deal with her displeasure, though. I have dealt with it nearly all of our lives.
I don’t think she’s blamed me for the return of the cancer. I’ve tried to be grateful for that one small bit of compassion on my sister’s part. When I told her the news, she grew very solemn and told me how sorry she was.
As if my thoughts had conjured her up, Margaret stood in the doorway to my room. “I see the flowers arrived,” she said, looking ill-at-ease. She glanced around warily, as if she half expected an orderly to grab her, throw her on a gurney and wheel her off for experimental surgery.
“The flowers are very nice,” I told her. “It was a thoughtful thing to do.”
“So,” she said, tentatively stepping closer to the bed. “How did the tests go?”
I shrugged because there wasn’t anything to say. “About the same as last time.”
Margaret’s eyebrows rose in sympathy. “That bad?”
I made a genuine effort to smile, but the best I could manage was a grimace.
“Mom wanted to come….”
I nodded. My mother didn’t know the reason I’d been admitted, and I wanted to keep it that way. On reflection, if there’s anything positive about my father’s death, it’s that he went quickly. Mom wouldn’t have been able to cope with a long illness.
I suspect Margaret’s a lot like our mother, and her willingness to visit me now revealed how much our relationship had evolved over the past few months.
Once she figured it was safe to relax, Margaret pulled the visitor’s chair to the side of my bed.
“I’m glad you came,” I told her, “because there are a few things I want to discuss.”
It was as if she hadn’t heard me. “I don’t think now is a good time….”
“Please.” The tone of my voice seemed to reach her, even if my words didn’t.
Resigned, Margaret sighed heavily. “All right, what is it?”
“I’ve been thinking about what will happen to A Good Yarn.”
Margaret’s expression was painful. “I’ve given that some thought myself. You know I don’t knit, but I’d be willing to step in and—”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” Asking my sister to take over my business hadn’t occurred to me.
“It’s a possibility. Mom and I could trade days.”
Her generosity touched me deeply, and for the first time since I’d entered the hospital, I felt tears clogging my throat and filling my eyes. “I can’t believe you’d be willing to do that.”
Margaret stared at me in surprise. “You’re my sister. I’d do anything I could to help you, including…” She hesitated, drew in a deep breath and looked over her shoulder. “We can talk about this later, all right? Nothing’s for sure, so why don’t we cross that bridge once we get to it.”
“But—”
“You have another visitor.”
I imagined one of my nieces had come with her and looked expectantly toward the door. I’d wanted to settle the future of my yarn shop immediately, but it made sense to wait until Dr. Wilson delivered his verdict. I hadn’t believed I’d survive the second bout of cancer, and I had no illusions about the third. The fight had gone out of me and I was willing to accept my fate.
The awful truth, what I could never say aloud to Margaret or my mother, is that I preferred death over treatment. I felt I couldn’t do this again, couldn’t endure the agony of chemotherapy. I was an adult and capable of making my own decision. Well, I’d made it. I’d decided to refuse treatment and let the cancer take its course. The only person I could discuss this with was Dr. Wilson, and I wouldn’t see him until he’d had a chance to analyze the test results.
“Give me a moment,” Margaret said. She rose from the chair and disappeared into the hallway outside my room.
I was in for a shock when she returned. The visitor she brought in with her wasn’t Julie or Hailey, but Brad. Everything inside me wanted to scream at him to leave and for Margaret to go with him. I couldn’t stand it. One look at the tender concern on Brad’s face, and I reacted like a juvenile, covering my face with both hands. Then, to my horror, I unceremoniously burst into tears.
I felt Brad’s arms come around my shoulders. “You could have told me, you know.”
I dropped my hands and refused to look at him or speak. My fury was focused on my meddling sister. “How could you?” I shouted at her. “How could you?”
“How could you?” she shouted right back. It was as though the room had developed an echo.