Finally, Mom relented. We picked a date—May 10, 2004—and she bought the tickets, or told me she did anyway. I’d already planned to buy her a “thank you” gift for taking me; I would get her a Mrs. Potts key chain for her car keys. Every day for six months I counted down the number of days until our show.
The morning of May 10, an hour before we needed to leave for Chicago, I began vomiting and couldn’t stop. I tried to hide it from Mom, but she caught me with my head in the toilet. I’m so sorry, darling, she said. We’ll go another time.
We never did.
Dad and I kept walking, almost to my van in his driveway now. I had to go on this vacation. I could not leave Indiana without a promise. I racked my brain, frantic. I remembered Kim’s look of pity at dinner the night before—the single moment that she’d truly been on my side. Maybe, like everyone else, the Gillespies liked the old me better.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Mom said.
I stopped walking, so he stopped too. “The thing is,” I said, “I’m sick.”
Dad tilted his head, trying to understand.
I took a deep breath. The story came tumbling out so rapidly, it felt like the truth. “I’ve been having night sweats and fevers and stuff the past few months. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but then I thought I should go to the doctor just in case. So I did, and he wanted to do a biopsy. They removed a lymph node from under my arm and sent it out for testing. The doctor called me with the results two days ago. I have Hodgkin’s lymphoma.”
Tears sprang in my eyes. For a moment, I imagined I really was sick. I could almost feel the night sweats and fevers, could conjure up the thin line of the doctor’s mouth as he delivered the news.
Dad stuttered a little, the color draining from his face. I hated to lie to him. “That’s . . . It’s . . . God, just, how—horrible. Rose, I am so sorry.” He gathered me into his arms. I shuddered with relief. How comforting to be held, to feel like you were home.
“What stage?” he asked.
“Three,” I said, gripping him tighter.
My mother’s encyclopedic knowledge of illnesses had finally become useful. She’d once had a doctor perform a biopsy on me, insisting I had all the symptoms of someone with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. The results came back negative, of course.
“I start chemo in two weeks,” I said, “but who knows if that’ll work? That’s why I want to go on this camping trip so much. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have invited myself, but I’ve never been on a family vacation before. Visiting you this weekend was my first trip out of state. There’s so much I still want to do. So many things I never got to because, well, you know the story.”
Dad hugged me even tighter, petting my hair. I could have stood there, on that sidewalk with him, forever.
“I just want to go on one trip,” I whispered, tears streaking my face. “What if I don’t . . . ?”
Dad shushed me. “Hey, you’re going to be fine, okay? Look at me.” He tilted my chin up so our eyes met. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
I closed my eyes and let him rock me. Together, together, always together, together always. I grinned and sniffed. I’d have to start researching hiking boots.
We stood there until I felt someone else’s gaze on me. I opened my eyes and peeked at the Gillespies’ house. Standing on the front stoop, watching us, was Kim.
“Everything okay?” she called to us.
Better than okay, Kim. Everything was fantastic.
11
Patty
At four o’clock sharp, Thanksgiving dinner is served. After I set the final dish on the kitchen table, I step back and examine my handiwork. I may have sweet potato in my hair, but “triumph” is still the word that comes to mind.
In the center of the table is a roasted turkey. Surrounding it are half a dozen dishes filled with stuffing, mashed potatoes, candied yams, broccoli casserole, cranberry sauce, and roasted butternut squash. Apple pie and chess pie stand at the ready in the fridge. I have made all of it on my own, without burning a single dish. The kitchen is a mess, but I’ll worry about that later. I have prepared a feast. My love for my daughter is laid out on the table.
I straighten the linen napkins I bought at TJ Maxx and light the votive candles. I’ve been so busy preparing this meal that, for a few hours, I haven’t thought about the pained expression on Tom’s face, the irate round of applause at my back when I left Walsh’s. Afterward, I had to take a bus to a grocery store two towns over to buy our food. The whole humiliating experience has been playing on a loop in my mind for the past week. I would have to find a new Tom, befriend a new nurse at the hospital. My legs tremble when I think about never talking to him again.
“Dinner’s ready,” I call to the living room, where Rose Gold is singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” to Adam.
She joins me at the table, Adam tucked into her arms. She kisses both his cheeks before putting him in his bassinet. Her eyes bug out when she takes in the spread. “You outdid yourself,” she says, smiling.
I wave her off, though we both know this is a big deal. Not known for my cooking prowess before prison, I served whatever Stouffer’s family-sized dishes were on sale. Rose Gold could never eat them anyway.
She reaches for the mashed potatoes, but I stop her. “Before we eat,” I say, “I think we should each say something we’re grateful for. You go first.”
Fine, so I’m hoping for more adoration.
Rose Gold thinks for a moment. “I’m thankful for Adam.” She beams. “He’s going to change my life.”
Adam?
Did Adam prepare the immaculate feast in front of her eyes? Was Adam offering to pay half her rent? All he does is poop and refuse to sleep through the night.
The miracle of life is a lot less interesting when it’s someone else’s miracle.
I glance over at the baby in his bassinet. He kicks his legs and smirks at me, as if to remind me what an adorable leprechaun he is.
I squeeze Rose Gold’s hand tight. “He already has.”
“What about yours?” Rose Gold asks.
“I’m thankful for you.” I meet her eye. “You and second chances.”
She holds my gaze, then turns away, uncomfortable.
“Let’s eat,” I say, breaking the silence.
We both fill our plates with the steaming food on the table. I break into the turkey first; this is the dish I’m most nervous about. But the bird is perfect: full of flavor, not at all dried out. I pile the food into my mouth, barely remembering to breathe between bites. After working on my feet all day, I’m famished.