Page 79 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

His answer was brilliant. “Pretend you’re making your closing argument to a jury. Only tell them the things that will get you the verdict you’re looking for.”

The most burning question over the next few days was how to break the news to Lizzie. Johnny had the simple solution for that one too.

Her flight arrived at JFK at 1:40 p.m. Thursday afternoon. That morning, at Johnny’s suggestion, I called her car service, canceled the pickup, and was waiting for her at Terminal 5 when she cleared customs.

“What are you doing here?” she said, giving me a quick sister-hug and handing me one of her bags.

“Today is National Welcome Your Sister Back to America Day,” I said.

“Never heard of it.”

“I’m a powerful mayor. I decreed it. But don’t think it’s because I love hanging with you. I just couldn’t wait to hear every single thing I missed out on by not being with Grandpa and Dad in Donegal.”

The ride home was joyful, and I couldn’t help thinking back to our last picnic at Magic Pond with Mom. These would be the few hours of calm before the bomb dropped.

“So, tell me the best thing that happened on the trip,” I said as we headed north on I-678.

“I met this real hot orthopedic surgeon at the medical conference. Her name is Olivia. She’s from Toronto. She’d been married, had a three-year-old son, caught her husband cheating, ditched him, and ultimately decided that life was more fulfilling if she played for the other team.”

“How old is she?” I asked.

“Ancient,” Lizzie said. “Your age.”

“Is this the real deal?”

“Who knows? But it’s promising enough that I opened a frequent flier account with Air Canada.”

As soon as we got to Lizzie’s house, she opened a bottle of wine. “I haven’t talked to you in days,” she said as we headed for the living room. “What have you been up to?”

I’d braced myself for this moment, but I never managed to come up with the right words. So I broke the news in her language. I handed her the lab report Dr. Byrne had given me Monday morning.

She lowered herself to a chair and read it. Twice.

“Why didn’t you call me as soon as you got this?” she said.

“If I thought you had a cure, I’d have called you immediately. But you’re going to go through hell with me. I didn’t want to rob you of these past few happy days.”

“You didn’t owe me that, Mags. I know I’m your sister, but I’m also the idiot doctor who told you you’d be fine. You could have at least called and slapped me with a lawsuit for malpractice.”

She took a third look at the lab report. “Your numbers are off the charts. How do you feel?”

“Fine. I mean, I’ve been a little nauseous lately, but I kind of chalked that up as part of the general gastric distress that comes with being mayor. But for the most part, I don’t feel all that bad.”

“Neither did Mom at first.”

“I know. Dr. Byrne said I have close to the same numbers as she did when she was first diagnosed.”

“I’ll call Dr. Honig at Memorial Sloan Kettering,” Lizzie said. “I’m sure he’ll do me a favor and be willing to see you immediately.”

“Don’t,” I said.

“What are you talking about, Maggie? Honig is at the forefront of research in hematology.”

“I know who he is. He was Mom’s specialist when she tried that last Hail Mary. There was nothing he could do to save her, and there is nothing he can do to save me.”

“And who made you an expert on medical science?” she said.

“Lizzie, how well do you know me? Do you think you’re the only one who’s been keeping up with the latest on this bad-blood shit? It’s like pancreatic cancer. It was a death sentence when Mom had it, and it’s a death sentence now. Early detection is too late. It means nothing.”