Thirty-Five

THIRTY-FIVE

brIGID INFORMS ME THAT she is flying back to Switzerland, to the Meier Clinic, tonight.

If I wasn't so scared and angry at her truly awful news, I'd ask her if she's looked into the two of us signing up on their family plan.

But I am scared and angry.

For both of us.

So, I don't make any jokes because there is nothing funny about this.

It's an aggressive form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma for Brigid, by the way.

"The official name, in my current circumstances, is refractory lymphoma," she says.

"I know what they call it, Brigid. I've done as much research on your cancer as I have my own. If this is a course in cancer, I'm passing with flying colors."

I smile at her. It's taken a while, but we've both finally stopped crying.

If only for now.

"It's also known as relapsed lymphoma, when it comes back," I continue.

"Look at you," Brigid says. "And Dad always called me the smart one."

Brigid is separated from Chris, who used to be the principal at Pierson High and is now a headmaster at some fancy prep school in Connecticut. They separated during Rob Jacobson's first trial once he found out about the affair between Brigid and Rob. Brigid says she called Chris last night to tell him about her return visit to Meier. He offered to go with her. As hurt as he is—he's told me how she hurt him—he still loves her.

People love Brigid even when they don't.

"Mom's cancer killed both her and Pop in the end, like they both got hit with the same bullet," I say now. "That's not going to happen to us, sis."

She smiles back at me, but it's a forced smile made out of hardly anything at all. It's still enough to make me remember why she wasn't just the smart one, but also the pretty one, when we were growing up.

The pretty one even now, as thin as she is.

"I'll drink to that," she says.

Inside the house, I open a bottle of white wine, because I can't think of one good reason not to.

We both drink. Rip is next to Brigid on the couch. She's stroking his neck. He looks blissful. Rip loves her, too.

"We're both beating this," I say. I grin. "Even if it kills us."

"You know that makes no sense."

"Totally."

"But unfortunately, sister Jane, you can't beat up my illness—or yours—the way you used to beat up the mean girls bothering me in grade school."

"I still hate those bitches."

Brigid laughs now, until just like that, she's crying again. We both are, all over again.

Her plane, the same United flight I took, leaves at eight. I've offered to drive her, but she says she's already booked a car from East Wind and it's picking her up around four.

I ask if the doctors at Meier have given her any sense of how long she'll be over there.

"Until the fuckers get it right this time."

That gets a laugh out of me. Brigid always does when she drops an f-bomb.

Once she's gone, I cook dinner for myself. Nothing exotic tonight, no degree of difficulty, no showing off for Ben, just pasta with an array of vegetables from Balsam Farms.

When I've cleaned up, I put Rip the dog into the car and we drive to Indian Wells Beach. I hope that nobody will be shooting at me tonight, it's been enough of a monumentally shit day already.

It's cold and windy for this time of year, so even with a lot of light left in the sky, the beach is empty in both directions.

I throw a tennis ball for Rip. He even brings it back to me a few times, as if he's an emotional support dog tonight, and senses I needed all the support I can get.

I keep picturing Brigid waving to me from the front seat of the town car—she still gets carsick if she sits in the back—the way she waved good-bye to me from Dad's car the day they drove to Duke before the start of her freshman year.

Despite the wind, the water is surprisingly calm. I'm not. My sister was supposed to be getting better. Only now she's not.

It is no longer in dispute that God is officially starting to pile on.

I walk down to the water's edge. Standing out here in the magic light between night and day, the shore and the water, always seems better here than anyplace else.

It's time for another talk with God.

"Okay, Missy," I say, knowing She can hear me perfectly over the soft sound of the wind and waves. "You're the one starting to act like a mean girl now."

Rip and I head back toward the car. Before we get to the parking lot, I stop and look up at the sky one last time.

"Don't make me come up there," I say.