reflection.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Um, look . . . I came over to the mirror, like you asked. Now — ” She turned around and faced Lynda, who took a step back. “ — I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”
Lynda nodded cautiously. “Okay.”
“Go lie down. On your bed. I’m going to sit in that chair. And we’re going to hold hands.”
“What?”
“We can talk or watch TV or listen to the radio, whatever you want, but we . . . are going . . . to hold . . . hands. Understand me?”
“Are you sure everything’s . . . okay?”
“Never better,” Margaret said with a big smile. It was the kind of smile she couldn’t control, couldn’t hold in, and it felt wonderful. “Just do it. And don’t ask questions, okay?”
Lynda returned to her bed and Margaret to her chair. And they held hands. Tightly.
And as Mrs. Watkiss’s nose whistled behind the drape, Margaret felt a swelling inside in her chest that she had never felt before. It was a happy feeling, giddy, even a little magical.
She squeezed her dying sister’s hand a little harder . . .
10
Lynda had drifted off during the first half of an old Barbara Stanwyck tear-jerker, which was now swelling with music in its final scene. Before that, they’d watched part of the news, then the shopping channel for a while, making fun of the merchandise as well as the bloated prices. Lying on her side, Lynda’s limp hands were clutched firmly in Margaret’s. They’d only let go so Lynda could change positions on the bed and change channels with the remote, and to occasionally scratch her head through the bandana; in fact, she’d clawed at it furiously every few minutes. Otherwise, their hands had been locked together ever since they’d left the mirror over the sink.
And still, Mrs. Watkiss’s nose continued to whistle steadily beyond the drape.
The Barbara Stanwyck movie was followed by Love Connection, but Margaret wasn’t paying much attention. Her hands had fallen asleep long ago, but she ignored that. She could live with numb hands . . . if only Lynda could live. But now, she was beginning to doze off herself, her head nodding forward, breath rattling through her pinched throat.
She was awakened suddenly by the footsteps of a tall, slender, handsome young man — thirty-five at the oldest — who entered the room wearing a white coat, with part of a stethoscope dangling from the right pocket, and holding a clipboard in his right hand. He had thick, curly, dark brown hair, lovely brown eyes with long, thick lashes and a healthy tan.
“Oh,” he said, his eyebrows shooting up high. “I didn’t realize Lynda had a visitor.”
Sitting up straight, but still holding Lynda’s hands, Margaret said, “I’m her sister. Margaret.”
He smiled and nodded. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Plummer.”
“Really? So, which are you? A doctor or a plumber?”
He chuckled and looked away with an almost boyish bashfulness. “I came to see how she was doing,” he said, looking at the clipboard.
They spoke quietly to one another.
“She’s asleep,” Margaret said.
“Yes, I see. That’s to be expected.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why is that to be expected?”
“Um . . . how much do you know about her condition?”
“I know she has cancer, and that she’s, you know . . . dying.” Her voice dropped to a broken whisper on the last word.
“Well, yes, that’s a fairly accurate, if abrupt, description of her condition. Her sleeping is a reaction to the chemotherapy, and the — ”
“Dr. Plummer!” Lynda said happily, raising her head from the pillow with a smile. She pulled her hands away from Margaret’s and sat up energetically, curling her feet beneath her in the Indian-style position she’d taken earlier that day. Reaching up to scratch her head through the bandana, she said, “This is my sister Margaret. Margaret, this is my doctor, Dr. Plummer.”
Dr. Plummer’s lips twitched and his chin
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Um, look . . . I came over to the mirror, like you asked. Now — ” She turned around and faced Lynda, who took a step back. “ — I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”
Lynda nodded cautiously. “Okay.”
“Go lie down. On your bed. I’m going to sit in that chair. And we’re going to hold hands.”
“What?”
“We can talk or watch TV or listen to the radio, whatever you want, but we . . . are going . . . to hold . . . hands. Understand me?”
“Are you sure everything’s . . . okay?”
“Never better,” Margaret said with a big smile. It was the kind of smile she couldn’t control, couldn’t hold in, and it felt wonderful. “Just do it. And don’t ask questions, okay?”
Lynda returned to her bed and Margaret to her chair. And they held hands. Tightly.
And as Mrs. Watkiss’s nose whistled behind the drape, Margaret felt a swelling inside in her chest that she had never felt before. It was a happy feeling, giddy, even a little magical.
She squeezed her dying sister’s hand a little harder . . .
10
Lynda had drifted off during the first half of an old Barbara Stanwyck tear-jerker, which was now swelling with music in its final scene. Before that, they’d watched part of the news, then the shopping channel for a while, making fun of the merchandise as well as the bloated prices. Lying on her side, Lynda’s limp hands were clutched firmly in Margaret’s. They’d only let go so Lynda could change positions on the bed and change channels with the remote, and to occasionally scratch her head through the bandana; in fact, she’d clawed at it furiously every few minutes. Otherwise, their hands had been locked together ever since they’d left the mirror over the sink.
And still, Mrs. Watkiss’s nose continued to whistle steadily beyond the drape.
The Barbara Stanwyck movie was followed by Love Connection, but Margaret wasn’t paying much attention. Her hands had fallen asleep long ago, but she ignored that. She could live with numb hands . . . if only Lynda could live. But now, she was beginning to doze off herself, her head nodding forward, breath rattling through her pinched throat.
She was awakened suddenly by the footsteps of a tall, slender, handsome young man — thirty-five at the oldest — who entered the room wearing a white coat, with part of a stethoscope dangling from the right pocket, and holding a clipboard in his right hand. He had thick, curly, dark brown hair, lovely brown eyes with long, thick lashes and a healthy tan.
“Oh,” he said, his eyebrows shooting up high. “I didn’t realize Lynda had a visitor.”
Sitting up straight, but still holding Lynda’s hands, Margaret said, “I’m her sister. Margaret.”
He smiled and nodded. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Plummer.”
“Really? So, which are you? A doctor or a plumber?”
He chuckled and looked away with an almost boyish bashfulness. “I came to see how she was doing,” he said, looking at the clipboard.
They spoke quietly to one another.
“She’s asleep,” Margaret said.
“Yes, I see. That’s to be expected.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why is that to be expected?”
“Um . . . how much do you know about her condition?”
“I know she has cancer, and that she’s, you know . . . dying.” Her voice dropped to a broken whisper on the last word.
“Well, yes, that’s a fairly accurate, if abrupt, description of her condition. Her sleeping is a reaction to the chemotherapy, and the — ”
“Dr. Plummer!” Lynda said happily, raising her head from the pillow with a smile. She pulled her hands away from Margaret’s and sat up energetically, curling her feet beneath her in the Indian-style position she’d taken earlier that day. Reaching up to scratch her head through the bandana, she said, “This is my sister Margaret. Margaret, this is my doctor, Dr. Plummer.”
Dr. Plummer’s lips twitched and his chin
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