Page 4

TWO

Lizzie got her driver’s license when she turned sixteen in March, and the four-year-old Acura Integra that had been all mine for ten months now belonged to both of us. We can barely share a bathroom, so we politicked for another car. But our parents’ logic, which basically boiled down to “you go to the same school—just work it out,” prevailed.

“I’m driving,” Lizzie said when we got to the parking lot.

“Fine,” I said. “But that means I’m in charge of the radio.”

“Oh God, you’re going to play that annoying shitkicker music, aren’t you?”

“I won’t know till I’m on the road. Make a decision,” I said, jangling the keys in front of her.

“This is why we each should have our own car,” she said, snapping the keys out of my hand.

She got behind the wheel, and I started rifling through the CDs.

I pulled out a Garth Brooks album, popped it into the CD player, and turned up the volume.

The pub is only three miles from our house, but it was enough time to make her sit through four annoying shitkicker songs.

There was a lime-green Honda Civic hatchback with a mashed right rear fender parked in front of our house.

“Nurse Demmick is here,” I said as Lizzie pulled into the driveway.

Marjorie Demmick is the school nurse at Heartstone High, a friend of my mother’s from church, and one of a small platoon of women who have been there for her during her illness.

We were just getting out of the car when Marjorie, who always looks like she’s in a hurry, bustled out of the front door of the house.

She’s short, plump, with beautiful ivory skin, and a head full of tight red ringlets. “Hello, girls,” she called out in a squeaky voice that would be adorable for a character in an animated movie, but is extremely grating in real life. “Enjoying your summer vacation?”

“We are indentured servants at an Irish pub,” Lizzie said. “Can’t wait till September. How’s Mom?”

“Well, I just spent some time with her, and this is the best I’ve seen her in months. She even put on some makeup today. I couldn’t stop telling her how beautiful she looked. And now she’s puttering around the kitchen like... like... like...” She pursed her lips and looked up at the sky, grasping for an analogy.

“Julia Child? Martha Stewart? Betty Crocker?” Lizzie ventured.

“Oh, that’s so funny,” Marjorie squealed. “You girls are so smart.”

“But you think she’s doing well,” I said.

“Oh yes. Look, I’m only a school nurse, but I think her treatment is working. And I’ll bet now that you two are here, she is going to get even better.”

Nurse Demmick was like a walking, breathing Hallmark card. I’ve never seen her anything but upbeat and positive.

We thanked her for stopping in, said goodbye, and opened the front door. The intoxicating aroma hit me immediately.

“In the kitchen,” my mother called out in a singsong voice. “I hope you’re hungry.”

The kitchen smelled like the inside of a Cinnabon. Mom was just taking a pan out of the oven. She set it down and turned around.

Nurse Demmick was right. My mother looked beautiful. She was wearing a flowery pink summer dress, her strawberry blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her face, which had been drawn and tired for months, had a rosy glow. I didn’t know if it was from the makeup or the medical treatment, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t seen my mother looking this good in a long time.

Lizzie inhaled the sweet fragrance that had hit us when we walked in and would seduce passersby on the street if we left the windows open. “Cinnamon swirl raisin bread,” she said. “What’s the occasion?”

My mother, who has never been the type to pull any punches, smiled. “I’m vertical—an occasion definitely worth celebrating. When was the last time we had a mother-daughters picnic?”

If she had asked that question when we were seven and eight years old, the answer probably would have been last weekend. But once we became teenagers, picnics at the park were replaced by volleyball team practice, homework, babysitting, and talking incessantly with other girls about boys.

“Everything is packed and ready to go,” she said, pointing to an ancient handwoven picnic basket that was sitting on the countertop. “All I need is ten minutes to make the Monkey Paws. Then we’re going to Magic Pond.”

“I’m driving,” Lizzie said.

“ I’m driving,” my mother corrected. “We’re taking the Mustang.”

The 1996 red Mustang GT convertible was my father’s gift to my mother on her fortieth birthday the year before. It had less than two thousand miles on it when she got sick and couldn’t leave the house. Dad started it every week and would drive Mom to her doctor appointments in it, but Lizzie and I had never been behind the wheel. It was Mom’s Wheels .

“Chop, chop,” Mom said. “Wash up, so we can get this show on the road.”

“I’ve got the bathroom first,” Lizzie said, bolting toward the stairs.

“You look fantastic,” I said to my mother, giving her a gentle hug.

“You should have seen me when I was your age. Boys were dropping like flies.”

She turned back to the oven, popped the golden-brown loaf out of the pan, and expertly drew a knife across the center. Steam lofted up from the fresh-baked bread.

“Perfect,” she said. “I’ve had a wonderful morning, and it’s going to be a glorious afternoon.”

And it was.

Until the four words.