Page 11 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“I always knew that recovering from this disease was a long shot, but I kept telling myself I could beat it. Now that I know I can’t, I woke up thinking about your father standing there at the wake, shaking people’s hands, thanking them for coming, and there’s Rita Walsh flashing her tits and offering to come over with a pan of baked ziti.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Lizzie said. “Mrs. DiMarco told me that Rita and Mr. Brennan are getting married.”

“Married?” Mom said. “That’s insane. The woman is practically the same age as his daughter.”

“The daughter is four years younger,” Lizzie said. “Mrs. DiMarco told me. Then she said Rita’s a gold-digging bitch, and she feels terrible for her friend Bernadette, and she wishes she could talk some sense into Mr. Brennan’s head, but she doesn’t think he’ll listen. Then she asked me what I would do.”

“What did you say?”

“What I said to her was I don’t know. But what I said to myself is I wonder if Mrs. DiMarco, who is divorced, feels sorry for her dead friend, or does she feel sorry for herself because she has the hots for Mr. Brennan, and Rita beat her to the punch.”

Mom leaned over and hugged Lizzie. “Child, you are wise beyond your years.”

“I guess we know why you couldn’t talk about this at home,” I said.

“Oh God, please don’t tell your father about this. I realize it’s a terrible burden to put on you girls, but if I can’t be around, I’ll die happier knowing the two of you will be there to love him, and watch over him, and... and...”

Lizzie finished the sentence for her. “Keep the bitches from digging their claws into him.”

The words hit my mother like a gut punch. But they were exactly what she needed to hear. I could see the tension visibly drain from her body. A smile crossed her lips, and her eyes welled up. “Thank you,” she said.

It was a moment I will never forget. Twenty-six years later, I would relive it. Only this time, I would be the woman who was dying, and the thought that I would be leaving the man I loved to the mercy of a calculating band of ziti-baking, husband-hungry predators would make my imminent death all that more difficult to accept.

SIX

“You didn’t tell me we were having company for dinner,” Mom said as Dad came through the door with Victor, one of our busboys, both their arms laden with food.

“Don’t worry. He’s not staying,” my father said. “It’s just the four of us, but I didn’t know what you were in the mood for, so I brought some of everything. Meat loaf, baked salmon, pork chops, colcannon, mac and cheese... a whole bunch of veggies that I’m sure nobody will eat, plus Chef Tommy made your favorite—an orange pound cake, and I’ve got a quart of vanilla ice cream. I wound up with so much damn food that I couldn’t get it all on the bike, so Victor followed me in his car. Thanks, kiddo. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Victor nodded shyly, gave Mom a quick hug, and hurried out the door.

“Finn, are you nuts? There’s enough food here to feed a village,” my mother said.

“Hey, lady,” he said, wrapping his arms gently around her. “If you don’t like it, call Pizza Hut. Girls, get the food on the table, while I kiss your mother and tell her how beautiful she looks.”

Dinner was bittersweet. It had been a long time since we’d done this as a family, and Dad was overjoyed. “So... tell me all about your outing to Magic Pond,” he said.

Mom, cheery and upbeat as ever, launched into all the fun stuff—the ride in the Mustang, the picnic, the photo album, and of course, the ritual tossing of the coins into the pond and hoping for medical magic.

“Well, you better go back there often,” Dad said, “because clearly Eleanor Majek’s magic is working.”

Lizzie and I put on our best game faces, knowing what was to come.

Years later, the two of us named itThe Last Supper, because there was enough food to feed Jesus and all twelve apostles, and because it was the last time the four of us ever sat down at the table together.

After dessert, Lizzie and I said we were going out, and we’d be home around ten.

“No drinking and driving,” came the knee-jerk Dad reaction.

“Chill out, Dad,” I said. “We’re just connecting with some old friends. We’re not going to drink.”

“And Maggie can barely drive,” Lizzie said, laughing as we went out the door.

Technically, we had told the truth. We weren’t going to drink. But we had said nothing about smoking a little weed. We’d also left out the fact that our old friends had been born in the middle of the eighteenth century. Caleb and Birdie Heartstone, who founded our fair city, were currently residing in the cemetery that bore their name.

I drove there, parked the car, and we walked along a path till we got to Caleb and Birdie’s mausoleum, our favorite spot to toke up.

I lit a joint, and we passed it back and forth, not saying a word, just leaning back against the stone crypt, looking up at the darkening summer sky, and quietly self-medicating our anxieties away.

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