Marrow by Elizabeth Lesser

any point. And while she begins treatment, they will search for a bone marrow donor. They will test each of the sisters—not her children or other relatives—because siblings present the best chance of finding a “perfect match,” one where all the genetic markers line up. The closer the genetic markers, the more successful the transplant. There’s only a 25 percent chance of a sibling match, and a smaller chance of the match being perfect. If none of the sisters are a close enough match, they will search the international donor bank, where there’s an even lower likelihood of getting a high-degree match.
    If a match is found, and if Maggie tolerates (code for survives) the high-dose chemotherapy and radiation, and if it can rid her body of the lymphoma, she can choose to go ahead with the transplant. But for now, all she has to do is start the chemo, and all the sisters have to do is get our cheeks swabbed and wait for the results.
    Maggie nods her head OK. That’s her level of buy-in for now. But it’s enough to begin. We go straight from the doctor’s office into the maze of the hospital for her first chemo treatment. I sit with her in the infusion suite. That’s what the chemotherapy area of the hospital is called—the infusion suite. All around us, fellow refugees from normal life lie huddled in heaps of bedding and tubes. Others rest in lounge chairs, under warmed blankets that the angel nurses replenish frequently. Friends and family make quiet conversation, or stare out the windows as the New Hampshire sleet pelts the glass.
    I watch Maggie watching. A young man in the bed next to hers is receiving his first chemotherapy infusion; he practically vibrates with anxiety. An older woman—a chemo veteran—sits alone in a reclining chair, reading. She’s bald and sunken-eyed, with an expression of wry acceptance. I smile at her and she winks. A nurse carries a tray with food to a man on the other side of the suite. The smell of soup lingers and mingles with the antiseptic odor of cleaning products. I take my sister’s small hand, cold under the warmed blankets, and pat it until she falls asleep. The chemo ticks like a clock, dripping into her veins. I sit until it begins to grow dark.
    Before I leave, I gather up my courage and tell Maggie I’m thinking of going on a vacation to the Caribbean. Saying the words “vacation” and “Caribbean” in the chemo suite seems cruel; I feel like one of the evil stepsisters going to the ball, leaving Cinderella behind to pick lentils out of the fireplace.
    â€œI won’t go if you don’t want me to, Maggie,” I say.
    â€œNo! Go,” she pleads. “I want you to live your own life. At least one of us should. Promise?”
    â€œOK. I’ll go. I’ll enjoy it for the two of us.”
    â€œWell, don’t enjoy it too much,” Maggie says.
    And so my husband and I decide to do something millions ofpeople do: escape winter for a week and go somewhere warm. But this is rare for us. The two of us are work- and family-obsessed people for whom leisure travel feels like an act of treason. We procrastinate about where to go and then convince each other that neither of us has the time to take off.
    But this has been a difficult year and a cold winter. And so here we are, in the Miami airport, changing planes, heading to a Caribbean island. As I sit next to my husband in a row of orange bucket seats, I already feel my body uncoiling. The warm sunlight streams through the tall airport windows. Maybe I will be able to do what Maggie begged of me—to forget about her for a few days. I lean back and exhale.
    The announcement that boarding will begin soon for our plane comes over the loudspeaker.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” my husband says. “Watch my bag, OK?” He pushes his backpack in my direction.
    â€œI will not watch your bag,” I reply. My husband has a