SUMMER INTERNSHIP POSITIONS/DEPARTMENT 29 page

"I'm so sorry," she said again, feeling the burn of tears.

Kate didn't smile or give any indication of welcome or surprise. Even the apology—as little and late as it was—seemed to have no effect. "Please say you remember me."

Kate just stared up at her.

Tully reached down, let her knuckles graze Kate's warm cheek. "It's Tully, the bitch who used to be your best friend. I'm so sorry for what I did to you, Katie. I should have told you that a long time ago." She made a tiny, desperate sound. If Kate didn't remember her, remember them, she didn't think she could bear it. "I remember when I first met you, Katie Mularkey Ryan. You were the first person who ever really wanted to know me. Naturally I treated you like shit at first, but when I got raped you were there for me." The memories overtook her. She wiped her eyes. "You're thinking I'm only talking about me, right? Typical, you say. But I remember you, too, Katie; every second. Like when you read Love Story and couldn't figure out what sonovabitch meant because it wasn't in the dictionary . . . or when you swore you'd never French-kiss because it was gross-o-rama." Tully shook her head, fighting to keep it together. Her whole life was in the room with them now. "We were so damned young, Katie. But we're not young anymore. You remember that first time I left Snohomish, and we wrote about a million letters? We signed them Forever friends . . . or Best friends forever. Which was it . . ."

Tully spun out the story of their years; sometimes she even laughed, like when she told about riding their bikes down Summer Hill or running from the cops on the night they got busted. "Oh, here's one you'll know. Remember when we went to Pete's Dragon because we thought it was an action movie, only it was a cartoon? We were the oldest kids in the theater, and we came out singing 'You and Me Against the World,' and we said it would always be that way—"

"Stop."

Tully drew in a sharp breath.

There were tears in her friend's eyes, and more streaking down her temples. They'd formed a small gray patch of wetness on the pillow behind her head. "Tully," Kate said in a soft, swollen voice, "did you really think I could forget you?"

Tully's relief was so huge she felt weak in the knees. "Hey," she said. "You didn't have to go so far to get my attention, you know." She touched her friend's bald head, let her fingers linger on the baby-soft skin. "You could have just called."

"I did call."

Tully flinched. "I'm so sorry, Katie. I—"

"You're a bitch," Kate said, smiling tiredly. "I've always known that. And I could have called back, too. I guess no one stays friends for more than thirty years without a few broken hearts along the way."

"I am a bitch," Tully said miserably, her eyes welling up. "I should have called. It was just . . ." She didn't even know what to say, how to explain this dark rip that had always been inside of her.

"No looking back, okay?"

"That only leaves ahead," Tully said, and the words were like bits of broken metal, sharp and cold.

"No," Kate said. "It leaves now."

"I did a show on breast cancer a few months ago. There's a doctor in Ontario doing amazing things with some new drug. I'll call him."

"I'm done with treatments. I've had them all and none has worked. Just . . . be with me."

Tully took a step back. "I'm here to watch you die. Is that what you're telling me? Because I say no fucking way to that. I won't do it."

Kate looked up at her, smiling just a little. "That's all there is, Tully."

"But—"

"Do you really think Johnny just gave up on me? You know my husband. He's just like you and we're almost as rich. For six months I saw every specialist on the planet. I did conventional and unconventional and naturopathic remedies. I even went to that faith healer in the rain forest. I have kids; I did everything I could to stay healthy for them. None of it worked."

"So what do I do?"

Kate's smile was almost like the old days. "That's my Tul. I'm dying of cancer and you ask about you." She laughed.

"That's not funny."

"I don't know how to do this."

Tully wiped her eyes. The truth of what they were really talking about pressed in on her. "We'll do it like we've done everything else, Kate. Side by side."

Tully came out of Kate's room shaken. She made a small sound, a kind of gasp, and covered her mouth with her hand.

"You can't hold it in," Mrs. M. said, coming up to her.

"I can't let it out."

"I know." Mrs. M's voice cracked, stumbled. "Just love her. Be there for her. That's all there is. Believe me, I've cried and argued and bargained with God, I've begged the doctors for hope. All that's past now. She's most worried about the kids. Marah especially. They've had such a rough go of it—well, you know about that—and Marah seems to have shut down for all of this. No tears, no drama. All she does is listen to music."

They walked back out to the waiting room, only to find everyone gone.

Mrs. M. looked at her watch. "They're in the cafeteria. You want to join us?"

"No, thanks. I think I need some fresh air."

Mrs. M. nodded. "It's good to have you back, Tully. I missed you."

"I should have taken your advice and called her."

"You're here now. That's what matters." She patted Tully's arm and walked away.

Tully went outside, surprised to find that it was light out here, warm and sunny. It seemed vaguely wrong that the sun was still shining while Kate lay up in that narrow bed, dying. She walked down the street, her watery eyes hidden behind huge, dark sunglasses so that no one would recognize her. The last thing she wanted now was to be stopped.

She passed a coffee shop, heard a bit of music waft through the door as someone came out. Bye, bye, Miss American Pie.

Her legs gave out on her, and she went down, hard, scraping her knees on the concrete sidewalk, but she didn't notice, hardly cared, she was crying so hard. She'd never felt so swollen with emotion; it was as if she couldn't handle it all. Fear. Sorrow. Guilt. Regret.

"Why didn't I call her?" she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Katie," she said, hearing the hollow desperation in her voice, feeling sick that now the words came so easily, when it was too late to matter.

She didn't know how long she knelt there, her head bowed, sobbing, thinking of all their times together. It was a bad part of Capitol Hill, full of homeless people, so no one stopped to help her. Finally, feeling spent and shaky, she climbed back to a standing position and stood there, feeling as if she'd been beaten up. The music took her back in time, reminded her of so many shared moments. Swear we'll always be best friends.

"Oh, Katie . . ."

And she was crying again. Quieter this time.

She walked dully up one street and down another until something in one of the display windows caught her eye.

There, in a store on the corner, she found what she hadn't even realized she'd been looking for. She had the gift wrapped and ran all the way back to Kate's room.

She was out of breath when she opened the door and went inside.

Kate smiled tiredly. "Let me guess: you've got a film crew with you."

"Very funny." She eased around the curtain and stood by the bed. "Your mom tells me you're still having trouble with Marah."

"It's not your fault. She's scared of all this and she doesn't know how easy it is to say you're sorry."

"I didn't."

"You always were her role model." Kate closed her eyes. "I'm tired, Tully . . ."

"I have a present for you."

Kate opened her eyes. "What I need can't be bought."

Tully tried not to react to that. Instead, she handed Kate the beautifully wrapped gift and helped her open it.

Inside was a hand-tooled, leather-bound journal. On the first page, Tully had written: Katie's story.

Kate stared down at the blank page for a long time, saying nothing.

"Katie?"

"I was never really a writer," she finally said. "You and Johnny and Mom all wanted it for me, but I never did it. Too late now."

Tully touched her friend's wrist, feeling how fragile and thin it was; the tiniest pressure could leave a bruise. "For Marah," she said quietly. "And the boys. Someday they'll be old enough to read it. They'll want to know who you were."

"How do I know what to write?"

Tully had no real answer for that. "Just write what you remember."

Kate closed her eyes, as if the thought alone were too much to bear. "Thanks, Tully."

"I won't leave you again, Katie."

Kate didn't open her eyes, but she smiled just a little. "I know."

Kate didn't remember falling asleep. One minute she was talking to Tully, and the next—she was waking up in a dark room that smelled of fresh flowers and disinfectant.

She'd been in this room for so long it almost felt like home, and sometimes, when her family's hope was more than she could bear, this small beige room comforted her with its silence. Within these blank walls, when no one else was around, she didn't have to pretend to be strong.

But right now she didn't want to be here. She wanted to be at home, in her own bed, in her husband's arms rather than watching him sleep in the hospital bed on the other side of the room.

Or with Tully, sitting on the muddy banks of the Pilchuck River, talking about David Cassidy's newest album and sharing a bag of Pop Rocks.

The memory made her smile, and with it came a lessening of the fear that had wakened her.

She knew she wouldn't fall back asleep without medication and she didn't want to wake the night nurse. Besides, she had little enough life left to her; what was the point in sleeping?

It had only been in the last few weeks that such morbid thoughts had come to her. Before that, in the months since her diagnosis—what she thought of as D-Day—she did everything she was supposed to do, and she did it with a smile for everyone in the room.

Surgery—Sure, cut me open and take my breasts.

Radiation—Absolutely. Burn me up.

Chemotherapy—Another dose of poison, please.

Tofu and miso soup—Yum. May I have some more?

Crystals. Meditation. Visualization. Chinese herbs.

She'd done it all, and done it with vigor. Even more important, she'd believed in all of it, believed she'd be cured.

The effort had winded her; the belief had broken her.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Leaning sideways, she turned on the bedside lamp. Johnny, who'd grown used to her weird waking/sleeping schedule, rolled onto his side and murmured, "You okay, baby?"

"I'm fine. Keep sleeping."

Mumbling something, he rolled back over. In no time, she heard his quiet snore.

Kate reached over for the journal Tully had bought her. Holding it, she traced the leather etchings and the gold-edged sheets of paper.

It would hurt to do this; of that she had no doubt. To pick up a pen and write down her life, she'd have to remember it all, who she was, who she'd wanted to be. Those memories would be painful, both the good and the bad would wound her.

But her children would see through the illness to her, the woman they would always remember, but never truly have time to know. Tully was right. The only gift Kate could give them now was the truth of who she was.

She flipped the journal open. Because she had no clear idea of where to start, she simply began to write.

Panic always comes to me in the same way. First, I get a knot in the pit of my stomach that turns to nausea, then a fluttery breathlessness that no amount of deep breathing can cure. But what causes my fear is different every day; I never know what will set me off. It could be a kiss from my husband, or the lingering look of sadness in his eyes when he draws back. Sometimes I know he's already grieving for me, missing me even while I'm still here. Worse yet is Marah's quiet acceptance of everything I say. I would give anything for another of our old knock-down drag-out fights. That's one of the first things I'd say to you now, Marah: Those fights were real life. You were struggling to break free of being my daughter but unsure of how to be yourself, while I was afraid to let you go. It's the circle of love. I only wish I'd recognized it then. Your grandmother told me I'd know you were sorry for those years before you did, and she was right. I know you regret some of the things you said to me, as I regret my own words. None of that matters, though. I want you to know that. I love you and I know you love me. But these are just more words, aren't they? I want to go deeper than that. So, if you'll bear with me (I haven't really written anything in years), I have a story to tell you. It's my story, and yours, too. It starts in 1960 in a small farming town up north, in a clapboard house on a hill above a horse pasture. When it gets good, though, is 1974, when the coolest girl in the world moved into the house across the street . . .

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

From her place in the makeup chair, Tully stared at herself. It was the first time, in all her years spent in seats like this, that she'd really noticed how huge the mirrors were. No wonder it was so easy for a celebrity to get lost in her own reflection.

She said, "I don't need makeup, Charles," and got out of the chair.

He stared at her, gape-mouthed, his own seriously overstyled hair falling across his face. "You're kidding me, right? You're on in fifteen."

"Let them see me as I am."

She walked around the studio, her fiefdom, watching her employees scurry around, running to and fro to make sure everything went off without a hitch, and that was no mean feat, given that she'd called everyone at three yesterday to change the theme of today's live show. She knew that several of her producers and bookers had worked late into the night to put it together. She herself had been up until almost two in the morning, doing research. She'd faxed and e-mailed dozens of the best oncologists in the world. She'd spent hours on the phone, relaying every bit of information on Kate's case that she'd been able to glean. Every specialist said the same thing.

There was nothing Tully could do. No amount of fame or success or money would help her now. For the first time in years, she felt ordinary. Small.

But, for once, she had something important to say.

The theme music started, and she walked onto her stage.

"Welcome to The Girlfriend Hour," she said as she always did, but then something went wrong, just stopped. She looked at her audience and saw strangers. It was an odd and disconcerting moment. For most of her life, she'd sought approval from crowds like this, and their unconditional support had buoyed her.

They noticed something was wrong and fell silent.

She sat down on the edge of the stage. "You're all thinking I'm skinnier in person and older. And that I'm not as pretty as you'd thought."

The audience laughed nervously.

"I'm not wearing makeup."

They burst into applause.

"I'm not fishing for compliments. I'm just . . . tired." She glanced around. "You have been my friends for a long time. You write to me, e-mail me, come to my events when I'm in your city, and I've always appreciated it. In return, I've given you my honest self or as close as I can without some kind of medication. Do you remember a show from a few years ago, when my best friend, Kate Ryan, was ambushed on this very stage? By me?"

There was a nervous rumbling, a shaking and nodding of heads.

"Well, Kate has breast cancer."

A murmur of sympathy.

"It's an extremely rare kind of cancer that starts not with a lump, but with a rash or a discoloration. Kate's family physician diagnosed it as a bug bite and prescribed antibiotics. Unfortunately, this happens to too many women, especially younger women. It's called inflammatory breast cancer and it can be aggressive and all too deadly. By the time Kate was diagnosed, it was already too late."

There wasn't a sound from the audience.

Tully looked up through a blur of tears. "Dr. Hilary Carleton is here to talk about inflammatory breast cancer, and to educate you about the symptoms: the rashes, the localized heat, the discolorations, the puckered skin, and the inverted nipples, to name a few. She'll remind us all that we need to look for more than just lumps. The doctor has brought a woman with her—Merrilee Comber from Des Moines, Iowa—who first noticed a small scaly patch near her left nipple . . ."

The show rolled forward as they all did, on the wheels of Tully's personality. She interviewed guests and showed pictures and reminded her audience of millions not only to get yearly mammograms but to watch for any changes in their breasts. At the end of her broadcast, instead of her usual We'll talk tomorrow tagline, she looked into the camera and said, "Katie, you're the best friend I have and the best mother I know. Except for Mrs. M., who is good, too." Then she smiled at her audience and said simply: "This will be my last show for a long while. I'm taking time off to be with Katie. As all of you would."

She heard a gasp following her announcement; this time the sound came from backstage.

"This show is, after all, just that: a show. Real life is with friends and family, and as an old friend pointed out to me a while ago: I do have a family. And she needs me now." She unclipped her microphone, dropped it to the floor, and left the stage.

On Kate's last night in the hospital, Tully convinced Johnny to take the kids home, and she took his place in the room's other bed. She pushed the bed across the linoleum floor until it practically butted up to Katie's. "I brought you a tape of my last show."

"You would think that's what a dying woman wanted to watch."

"Ha ha." Tully put the tape in the machine and hit play, then crawled into her bed. Like a pair of eighth-grade girls at a slumber party, they watched the taped broadcast.

When it was over, Kate turned to her. "I'm glad to see you'll still use me to bump up your ratings."

"I'll have you know that was poignant and powerful. And important."

"You think that's true of everything you do."

"Do not."

"Good comeback."

"You wouldn't know good TV if it bit you in the ass."

Kate smiled, but it was as washed out as her complexion. With her bald head and sunken eyes, she looked impossibly young and fragile.

"Are you getting tired?" Tully said, sitting up. "Maybe we should go to sleep."

"I noticed that you apologized to me on air. In your own way." Her smile expanded. "I mean, without admitting you were a bitch or actually saying the words. You meant that you were sorry."

"Yeah, well, you're on morphine. You probably saw me fly, too."

Kate laughed, but it soon dissolved into coughing.

Tully sat up quickly. "Are you okay?"

"Hardly." She reached for the plastic glass on the table by her bed. Tully leaned over and guided the straw to her mouth. "I started the journal."

"That's great."

"I'll need you to help me remember," she said, putting the glass back. "So much of my life happened with you."

"Seems like our whole lives. God, Katie, we were such babies when we met."

"We're still kids," Katie said softly.

Tully heard the sadness in her friend's voice; it matched her own. The last thing she wanted to think about right now was how young they were. For years they'd teased each other about getting old. "How much have you written?"

"About ten pages." When Tully fell silent, Kate frowned. "You aren't going to demand to read it?"

"I don't want to intrude."

"Don't do that, Tully," Kate said.

"Do what?"

"Treat me as if I'm dying. I need you to be . . . you. It's the only way I remember who I am. Deal?"

"Okay," she said quietly, promising the only thing she had to give: herself. "It's a deal." She had to force a smile and both of them knew it. Some lies, it was obvious, would be unavoidable in the days ahead. "You'll need my input, of course. I was a witness to every important moment of your life. And I have a photographic memory. It's a gift. Like my ability to apply makeup and highlight hair."

Kate laughed. "There's my Tully."

Even with self-regulated pain meds, Kate found leaving the hospital a difficult endeavor. First of all, there was the crowd: her parents, her kids and husband, her aunt and uncle, her brother, and Tully. Second, there was just so much movement—out of bed, into the wheelchair, out of the wheelchair, into the car, out of the car, into Johnny's arms.

He carried her through the comfortable, pretty island house that smelled of scented candles and last night's dinner, just as it always had. He'd made spaghetti last night; she could tell. That meant tomorrow night it would be tacos. His two recipes. She rested her cheek against the soft wool of his sweater.

What will he cook for them when I'm gone?

The question made her draw in a sharp breath, which she forced herself to release slowly. Being home would hurt like this sometimes; so would being with her family. In a strange way, it would have been easier to spend her final days at the hospital, without all these reminders around her.

But easier wasn't the point anymore. Time with her family was what mattered.

Now they were all in the house, scattering like soldiers to their different tasks. Marah had herded the boys into their room to watch television. Mom was busy making casseroles; Dad was probably mowing the lawn. That left Johnny, Tully, and Kate, making their way down the hallway toward the guest room, which had been redecorated for her homecoming.

"The docs wanted you in a hospital bed," Johnny said. "I've got one, too, see? We'll be like Ricky and Lucy in our twin beds."

"Of course." She'd meant to sound matter-of-fact, to simply acknowledge what they both knew: soon she would have trouble sitting up and the bed would help, but her voice betrayed her. "Y-you painted," she said to her husband. The last time she'd seen this room it had been barn-red with white trim and red and blue furniture—a casual, beachy look with lots of painted antique pieces and shells in glass bowls. Now it was pale green, almost celery-colored, with rose accents. Family photos were everywhere, in white porcelain frames.

Tully stepped forward. "Actually, I did it."

"Something to do with shysters," Johnny said.

"Chakras," Tully corrected him. "It's stupid, I'm sure, but . . ." She shrugged. "I did a show on it once. Couldn't hurt."

Johnny carried Kate to her bed and tucked her in. "The bathroom down here is all set up for you. Everything has been installed—railings and a shower seat and all the stuff they recommended. A hospice nurse will be coming by . . ."

She wasn't sure when she closed her eyes. All she knew was that she was sleeping. Somewhere a radio was playing "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" and she could hear people talking in the distance. Then Johnny was kissing her and telling her she was beautiful and talking about the vacations they would someday take.

She awoke with a start. The room around her was dark now; she'd slept through the remaining daylight hours, obviously. Beside her, a eucalyptus-scented candle burned. The darkness lulled her for a moment, made her think she was alone.

Across the room, a shadow moved. Someone breathed.

Kate hit the button on her bed and moved to a sit. "Hey," she said.

"Hey, Mom."

She grew accustomed to the darkness and saw her daughter, sitting in a chair in the corner. Although Marah looked tired, she was so beautiful that Kate felt a cinching in her chest. Being home again made her see everything and everyone with perfect clarity, even in this gray darkness. When she looked at her teenage daughter, with her long black hair kept out of her eyes with little girl barrettes, she glimpsed the whole arc of life—the child she'd been, the girl she was, the woman she'd become.

"Hey, baby girl." She smiled and leaned sideways to turn on the bedside lamp. "But you aren't my baby anymore, are you?"

Marah stood up and moved forward, twisting her hands together. For all of her grown-up beauty, the fear in her eyes made her look ten years old again.

Kate tried to figure out what she should say. She knew how much Marah wanted everything to be normal, but it simply wasn't. From now on the words they said to each other would be weighted, remembered. That was a simple fact of life. Or of death.

"I've been mean to you," Marah said.

Kate had waited years for this moment, actually dreamed of it in the days when she and Marah had been at war; now she saw it from a distance and knew that those battles were just ordinary life—a girl trying to grow up and a mother trying to hang on. She'd give anything for another fight, actually; it would mean they had time.

"I was a bitch to grandma, too. That's what teen girls do: rag on their mothers. And your Aunt Tully was a bitch to everyone."

Marah made a sound that was half snort, half laughter, and pure relief. "I won't tell her you said that."

"Believe me, honey, it will come as no surprise to her. And I want you to know something: I'm proud of your big personality and spirit. It will take you far in this life." On those last words, she saw her daughter's eyes fill with tears. Kate opened her arms and Marah leaned down to her, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

Kate could have held on forever, that was how good it felt. For years, Marah's hugs had been perfunctory at best, or a reward for getting her way. This was the real thing. When Marah drew back she was crying. "Remember when you used to dance with me?"

"When you were really little, I'd hold on and twirl you around until you giggled. Once I did it so long you threw up all over me."

"We shouldn't have stopped," Marah said. "I shouldn't have, I mean."

"None of that," Kate said. "Put down the bed rail and sit by me."

Marah struggled with the rail, but finally got it down. She climbed into the bed and pulled her knees up.

"How's James?" Kate asked.

"I'm into Tyler now."

"And is he a nice boy?"

Marah laughed at that. "He's totally hot, if that's what you mean. He asked me to the junior prom. Can I go?"

"Of course you can. But you'll have a curfew."

Marah sighed. Some habits were in the teen DNA; the disappointed sigh, it seemed, simply couldn't be overcome, not even by cancer. "Okay."

Kate stroked her daughter's hair, knowing she should say something profound here, something that would be remembered, but nothing extraordinary came to her. "Did you apply for a summer job at the theater?"

"I'm not gonna work this summer. I'll be home."

"You can't put your life on hold, honey," Kate said quietly. "That's not how this is going to work. You said a summer job would help you get into USC anyway."

Marah shrugged, looked away. "I decided to go to UW, like you and Aunt Tully."

Kate worked to keep her voice level, to imply that this was simply an ordinary teen/parent talk and not a glimpse of the rocky future. "The USC drama school is the best around."

"You don't want me that far away."

That was true. Kate had gone out of her way to tell her defiant daughter that California was too far away and that drama was not a smart major.

"I don't want to talk about college," Marah said, and Kate let it go for now.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 697