some, to think about what they mean. That you and Molly are going to be separated, even though you don't want to be. That you want to know why, why life sometimes ends too soon but no one can answer that."
I crushed the stem of a dandelion in my hand. "It doesn't help, understanding why I have nightmares. How can it help? It can't make Molly better.
"It isn't fair!" I said, the way I said it so often when I was a little girl.
"Of course it isn't fair," Dad said. "But it happens. It happens, and we have to accept that."
"And it wasn't fair that you and Mom didn't tell me!" I said, looking for someone to blame for something. "You knew all along, didn't you? You knew from the very beginning!"
He shook his head. "Meg, the doctors told us that there was a chance she would be all right. They have these medicines that they try. There is always a chance something will work. There was no way that Mom and I could tell you when there was a chance."
"Then isn't there
still
a chance?"
He shook his head slowly. "Meg, we can hope for it. We
do
hope for it. But the doctors say there isn't, now. The medicines aren't working for Molly now."
"Well, I don't believe them."
He put his arm around me and watched the sun setting.
Then he said, in his quoting voice, "'We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.' That's Shakespeare, Meg."
I was furious. "What did
he
know? He never knew Molly. And why
Molly?
Dad,
I'm
the one who always got into trouble! I'm the one who threw up on my own birthday cake, who broke the window in kindergarten, who stole candy from the grocery store. Molly never did anything bad!"
"Meg," he said. "Meg. Don't."
"I don't care," I said angrily. "Someone has got to explain to me
why.
"
"It's a disease, Meg," he said in a tired voice. "A horrible, rotten disease. It just happens. There
isn't
any why."
"What's it called?" Better to know what your enemy is before you confront it, Will had told me once.
Dad sighed. "It's called 'acute myelogenous leukemia.'"
"Can you say that three times fast?" I asked him bitterly.
"Meg," said Dad, putting his arms around me and holding me so tight that his voice was muffled, "I can't even say it once. It breaks my heart."
Mom and Dad go back and forth to the hospital in Portland. They don't take me. I am too young, according to the hospital rules, to visit, but I don't think that's the reason. I think they don't want me to have to see Molly dying.
I don't argue with them. All the times I've argued with them in the past: to be allowed to see a certain movie, to drink a glass of wine with dinner, to sit in the back of one of Dad's classes at the university, listening. "I'm old enough! I'm old enough!" I remember saying. Now I don't argue, because they know and I know I'm old enough; but I'm scared. The dreams and the emptiness at home are enough; it takes all the courage I have to deal with those. I'm afraid to see my own sister, and grateful that they don't ask me to come.
When she's at home, my mother stitches on the quilt and talks about the past. Every square that she
fits into place reminds her of something. She remembers Molly learning to walk, wearing the pale blue overalls that are now part of the pattern of the quilt.
"She used to fall down on her bottom, again and again," my mother smiled. "She always jumped back up laughing. Dad and I used to think sometimes that she fell on purpose, because it was funny. Molly was always looking for things to laugh at when she was a baby."
"What about me? Do you remember
me
learning to walk?"
"Of course I do," Mom said. She turned the quilt around until she found the piece she was looking for, a flowered pattern of blue and green. "This was a little dress. It was summer, and you weren't yet a year old. You were so impatient to do the things that Molly could do. I remember watching you in the back yard that summer. You were very serious and solemn, pulling yourself to your feet, trying
I crushed the stem of a dandelion in my hand. "It doesn't help, understanding why I have nightmares. How can it help? It can't make Molly better.
"It isn't fair!" I said, the way I said it so often when I was a little girl.
"Of course it isn't fair," Dad said. "But it happens. It happens, and we have to accept that."
"And it wasn't fair that you and Mom didn't tell me!" I said, looking for someone to blame for something. "You knew all along, didn't you? You knew from the very beginning!"
He shook his head. "Meg, the doctors told us that there was a chance she would be all right. They have these medicines that they try. There is always a chance something will work. There was no way that Mom and I could tell you when there was a chance."
"Then isn't there
still
a chance?"
He shook his head slowly. "Meg, we can hope for it. We
do
hope for it. But the doctors say there isn't, now. The medicines aren't working for Molly now."
"Well, I don't believe them."
He put his arm around me and watched the sun setting.
Then he said, in his quoting voice, "'We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.' That's Shakespeare, Meg."
I was furious. "What did
he
know? He never knew Molly. And why
Molly?
Dad,
I'm
the one who always got into trouble! I'm the one who threw up on my own birthday cake, who broke the window in kindergarten, who stole candy from the grocery store. Molly never did anything bad!"
"Meg," he said. "Meg. Don't."
"I don't care," I said angrily. "Someone has got to explain to me
why.
"
"It's a disease, Meg," he said in a tired voice. "A horrible, rotten disease. It just happens. There
isn't
any why."
"What's it called?" Better to know what your enemy is before you confront it, Will had told me once.
Dad sighed. "It's called 'acute myelogenous leukemia.'"
"Can you say that three times fast?" I asked him bitterly.
"Meg," said Dad, putting his arms around me and holding me so tight that his voice was muffled, "I can't even say it once. It breaks my heart."
Mom and Dad go back and forth to the hospital in Portland. They don't take me. I am too young, according to the hospital rules, to visit, but I don't think that's the reason. I think they don't want me to have to see Molly dying.
I don't argue with them. All the times I've argued with them in the past: to be allowed to see a certain movie, to drink a glass of wine with dinner, to sit in the back of one of Dad's classes at the university, listening. "I'm old enough! I'm old enough!" I remember saying. Now I don't argue, because they know and I know I'm old enough; but I'm scared. The dreams and the emptiness at home are enough; it takes all the courage I have to deal with those. I'm afraid to see my own sister, and grateful that they don't ask me to come.
When she's at home, my mother stitches on the quilt and talks about the past. Every square that she
fits into place reminds her of something. She remembers Molly learning to walk, wearing the pale blue overalls that are now part of the pattern of the quilt.
"She used to fall down on her bottom, again and again," my mother smiled. "She always jumped back up laughing. Dad and I used to think sometimes that she fell on purpose, because it was funny. Molly was always looking for things to laugh at when she was a baby."
"What about me? Do you remember
me
learning to walk?"
"Of course I do," Mom said. She turned the quilt around until she found the piece she was looking for, a flowered pattern of blue and green. "This was a little dress. It was summer, and you weren't yet a year old. You were so impatient to do the things that Molly could do. I remember watching you in the back yard that summer. You were very serious and solemn, pulling yourself to your feet, trying
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