I’d always believed bad behavior eventually sent you a bill. I just never expected my sister to make billing our seventy-nine-year-old mother the reason I finally started believing it.
But let me back up, because you can’t understand what Rachel did until you understand where we were when she did it.
Six months into chemotherapy, some days I could barely make it from the bed to the bathroom.
My ridiculous coping mechanism was narrating the bad moments like a sports announcer. It was the only thing that kept me from crying, so I leaned into it hard.“Dana is off the bed,” I’d whisper, gripping the doorframe. “She has reached the doorway. Incredible form. The judges are impressed.”
My son Noah would yell from the hall, “She’s slowing down!”
“The crowd has turned hostile.”
“The crowd wants breakfast.”
“The crowd is ten years old and can pour its own cereal.”
He’d grin at that. He was ten, and at ten there is nothing better than being told you can do something on your own. He’d been saving every quarter he found in a big glass jar on his dresser, one of those giant ones that used to hold pretzels, and he was going to buy a bike with it. He counted it constantly. He knew the total down to the dollar.My scans improved that winter. Slowly, then a little faster. I’m still not all the way back, and I still need help most days, and I’ve made a kind of peace with needing it, which turns out to be its own long illness to recover from. The trick, I’ve decided, is letting people help you without letting them own you. Mom taught me that, though it cost her three thousand dollars in fake invoices to do it.
She still asks for help too. She’s earned the right to. Just the other day she called out from her chair, “Could somebody turn off that light? My hands are stiff tonight.”
“Of course,” I said, and got up to do it.
But Noah got there first. He flipped the switch, then turned around and held out his open palm to the room, grinning ear to ear.
“Anybody got ten dollars?”
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