8. Blair
8
BLAIR
I sit at the end of the table, my eyes fixed on Maggie. She's laughing at something Mr. Johnson said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. But I can see the fatigue etched into her face, the way her shoulders sag ever so slightly. The chemo's exacting a staggering price, and my heart clenches with worry.
The cottage buzzes with warmth and cheer. Twinkling lights drape the windows, casting a soft glow over the mismatched collection of chairs around our extended dining table. A small Christmas tree stands in the corner, adorned with handmade ornaments—mostly Max's creations from school. The scent of pine mingles with the aroma of various dishes brought by our neighbors.
"Blair, honey, can you pass the green bean casserole?" Mrs. Granger calls from across the table.
I nod, picking up the dish and handing it down the line. My fingers brush against Mr. Peterson's weathered hands as he takes it, and I feel a surge of affection for these people. They're more than neighbors; they're family.
Max darts between the adults, showing off his new toy car to anyone who'll look. His energy is infectious, making everyone around the table smile. I catch his eye and give him a small wink. He beams back, then races off to tell Mr. Johnson a story about Santa.
"This pie is delicious, Maggie," Mrs. Rodriguez says, helping herself to another slice. "You'll have to give me the recipe."
Maggie waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, it's nothing special. Just something I threw together."
But I know better. That pie took her hours, and she was exhausted afterward. Still I know seeing the joy it brings our friends makes it worth it to her.
I wish she would have bought a fucking pie, and saved her energy.
She nearly punched me when I suggested it.
The conversation ebbs and flows around me. I listen as Mr. Peterson recounts his last fishing expedition, embellishing the size of his catch with each retelling. Mrs. Granger and Mrs. Rodriguez discuss their plans for the community garden next spring. Through it all, I worry. That next year, we might be missing some faces. That next year, there will be a big gaping hole at the other end of the table.
"Blair, dear, you're awfully quiet," Mrs. Johnson says, patting my hand. "Everything alright?"
I force a smile. "Just taking it all in," I reply, not wanting to dampen the mood with my worries.
Max chooses that moment to climb into my lap, his small body warm against mine. "Aunt Blair, can we open presents now?" he asks, his eyes wide with excitement.
"Soon, buddy," I promise, ruffling his hair. "Let's let everyone finish eating first."
He nods solemnly, then turns to Mrs. Johnson. "Did you know I was in the school play? I was a tree!"
The table erupts in laughter and encouragement, and I feel a swell of love. Max is so at ease with these people, so cherished.
As the meal winds down, I start to clear plates. Mr. Peterson and Mrs. Rodriguez jump up to help, despite my ordering them to sit the fuck down. "Nonsense," Mr. Peterson says gruffly. "You and Maggie did enough cooking. Let us handle this."
I catch Maggie's eye across the room. She's settled on the couch, looking pale but content as she chats with Mrs. Granger. Our gazes lock, and I see my own fears reflected in her eyes.
What if this is the last one?
Max's eyes light up with each present he unwraps. The adults all trade happy smiles. We all remember the joy. That's why we hold off on presents until after dinner. Because our neighbors and friends, especially the ones with us tonight, the ones without little ones in their families, deserve a little taste of that joy. And through it all, Maggie watches Max with a look that makes my throat tight. A look that says she's trying to commit every moment to memory.
"Look, Aunt Blair! A fire truck!" Max exclaims, holding up his latest gift.
I ruffle his hair. "That's great, buddy. What do you say?"
"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson!" he chirps, already reaching for the next package.
Mrs. Rodriguez hands him a carefully wrapped package.
"This one's from me and Mr. R, sweetie," she says, her eyes twinkling.
Max tears into it, revealing a model airplane kit. "Wow! This is so cool!" he says, bouncing on his heels.
As the night wears on, our guests start to leave. Mr. and Mrs. Granger are first, living just two doors down. Mr. Peterson follows, shrugging into his coat. I hug him. "Thanks for coming," I whisper, throat too tight for anything else. Mr. Peterson's eyes are misty as he clasps my hand. "You take care of them, Blair," he says gruffly.
It’s not just me. We all see it. She’s fading.
Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez are next. They hug Maggie a little longer than they ever have, then come to me for a hug and kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas," Mrs. R says.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Soon, the house is quiet. Max is asleep under the tree, surrounded by a sea of wrapping paper. Maggie's standing on the carpet beside him, hand pressed to her lips, face a picture of love and longing. I grab my phone and take a photo of both of them. Max is going to need to see how much she loves him.
"It's time to take him to bed," she says, bending to pick up Max, but just lowering herself to the floor has her panting. She sits, head bowed, shaking hands on her lap.
"I've got him," I say softly, scooping Max into my arms. There's a thick layer of snow outside, but somehow, he still smells like dirt.
"Gimme that worm," he mumbles, then drops straight back to sleep. This kid puts his whole effort into everything he does, whether it's sleeping or catching bugs. Everything is full tilt, all the time, and I love that about him.
Lowering him carefully to his bed, I move to the doorway, watching Maggie tuck him in. Her movements are slow, deliberate, filled with love, like she knows her opportunities to do it are limited.
It's too much.
I retreat to the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands.
I'm elbow-deep in suds when Maggie's voice breaks the silence.
"I'm stopping chemo."
The plate I'm holding slips from my hand, clattering in the sink. Breathing deeply, I clutch the edge of the sink, letting my body absorb the impact of her words. I turn slowly, meeting Maggie's eyes.
"Mags..." I start, but she holds up a hand.
"I've made up my mind, Blair. I'm tired of being sick from the treatment. Nothing tastes good, and I feel like it's destroying what little bit of health I have left. Everything is a blur of nausea and exhaustion. How am I supposed to be a mom when I can barely stay awake? Max deserves better."
I swallow hard, fighting back tears. "But there might be a new treatment, or?—"
"No," Maggie says. Her tone is soft, but there's steel coating the words. "I've been down that road, Blair. You know that. You were with me the whole time. I've done everything they asked me to do. I let them inject me with every drug they could get their hands on."
Her eyes are shining with tears, and that scares me more than anything else. Maggie's always so strong. Even when she's curled up on the floor next to the toilet, heaving, she doesn't crack. But now, she's letting me see it. The pain, the sadness, and the resolve. "I've been living on borrowed time for years. It's time to stop fighting and spend the rest of the time I have left living."
"I don't want to watch you waste away," I whisper. I want to yell it at her. For her to know how deeply I hate every word coming out of her mouth. But I can't.
I can't catch my breath.
Maggie crosses the room, taking my soapy hands in hers. "I know, honey. It sucks, and if I could spare you, I would, but I need you with me for this. You and Max are my whole world."
The dam breaks. I drop my forehead to her shoulder, sobbing. She holds me tight, her own body shaking.
"Remember when we were kids?" Maggie says on a shuddering exhale. "And I got sick the first time?"
I nod against her shoulder.
"You were there for me then, too. Crawling through my window at night to hold me when I was scared. Making me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry."
I pull back, wiping my eyes. "That's different. We were supposed to grow old together, Mags. We're supposed to be those inappropriate ladies sitting in the town square, yelling at the kids. I'm really looking forward to that."
Maggie chuckles. "I bet you we could do that right now. Cancer gives me a free pass, right? Plus, the whole dying thing. We can buy ourselves some matching tracksuits and park our lawn chairs on the sidewalk outside the café."
If she's still here in the spring... "I like that idea."
"I want to live, Blair," Maggie says, her voice strong. "I want to laugh with my friends, sit on the porch, and love on my son. And when it's time... I want to go in my own bed, with you and Max holding my hand."
I take a shaky breath, shoving down all the things I want to say. I won’t beg, or scream, or manipulate her. I can’t. It’s her life. "Okay," I whisper. "Okay. We'll do it your way."
We stay up late into the night, talking and laughing like we've done for decades. But as I lie in bed later, staring at the ceiling, the weight of it all comes crashing down.
Dad's only been gone a year. How am I supposed to lose Maggie too? How many more people can I watch slip away?
I curl into a ball, muffling my sobs in the pillow. For Maggie's sake, I'll be strong. I'll laugh and plan and make every day count. But here, in the dark, I let myself fall apart.
Because tomorrow, I have to put myself back together. For Maggie. For Max. For the life we still have left to live.