LIZZIE, MIKE, AND TALLULAH
FIRST CAME MIKE’S headaches. Lizzie had said, “Oh, Mike, it’s probably just one of your sinus infections.” A week later, when the headaches hadn’t stopped, she told him that his store, Housatonic Hardware and Bait, could do without him for two hours while he went to see the doctor.
Mike put off making a doctor’s appointment, of course. He stopped complaining too. Then one night while he was changing a ceiling bulb in the kitchen he got dizzy and fell off a stepladder.
A week later, Mike reported, “Dr. Sassoon says my ears are fine. Says my pressure is on the low side. Maybe that’s why I’m getting the dizzy spells. He wants me to go to Pittsfield and get an RMI.”
Lizzie corrected him. “MRI,” she said. “It’s not an RMI, Mike. It’s called an MRI.”
Mike didn’t say anything more. He smiled at her. She smiled back. It was, she knew (and she didn’t know how she knew), the beginning of his memory confusion. Three days later Mike was diagnosed with a benign meningioma.
Benign. That was the word Lizzie hung on to. Benign, she thought. “Benign” means good. “Benign” means Mike will be okay. Even though the neurologist said, “It can grow. It can grow and it can choke the brain.”
Lizzie and Mike—and Gaby—began learning the language of brain cancer. Primary tumor, electron microscopy, hyperfractionated radiation therapy, anaplastic astrocytoma. They searched every website—medical, homeopathic, spiritual. They read the stories of others, focusing on the tales of survivors like the “miracle girl” from Austin, Texas, who stunned doctors as her tumor miraculously grew smaller. Gaby was there every step of the way, but she never interfered, never offered an opinion unless it was asked for.
Lizzie and Mike talked with Emily’s husband in New York, a neurological resident. Bart belonged to the generation that always insisted on the truth. “It could be a bad result,” Bart said. “It’s not a foregone conclusion, but the news is not great.”
When they hung up the phone Mike said, “What the hell does Bart know? He’s a kid—like Emily. He’s not even a real doctor yet.” Lizzie pretended to agree, but she knew that, like her sister Emily, Bart was a superstar. He knew plenty.
A few days later Lizzie noticed that the left side of Mike’s face had begun drooping—ever so slightly, but she noticed it all the same. So did Tallulah.
To Mike and Lizzie’s relief, and to nobody’s surprise, Gaby had put herself in charge of eight-year-old Tallulah. The grandmother and granddaughter had sleepovers and hikes with Tom through the Berkshires and visits to Kurt’s farm. They took a candy-making course with Stacey Lee Saturday mornings at the culinary school in Springfield. And Uncle Marty came to visit at least every other day.
It was Gaby whom Tallulah decided to ask the question they all knew she would eventually ask: “Is my daddy going to die?” Gaby closed her eyes for a moment, and she thought about what she would want to know if she were an eight-year-old with a very sick dad. She’d want the truth. So Gaby gave her the truth, gently: “I don’t think he’s going to die. The doctors don’t think he’s going to die. But, sweetie, we can’t be sure yet. I won’t lie to you. We’ll just pray for the best, and we’ll wait and see. I’ll be right here with you.”
It was never hard for Gaby to tell the truth. But this time she hated every word that came out of her mouth. And later that night, as they ate too many of the chocolate-covered cherries they’d made that morning, Gaby and Tallulah held each other, and they both cried.
“You’re a brave, brave girl, Tula,” Gaby told her.
“I know,” said the little girl. “I got it from you.”