“Why would you want to be more like me?” Aunt Linda had asked, taken aback.
“Because you’re…wonderful.”
“Oh, honey.” Aunt Linda had reached over with a hand so birdlike and frail that it nearly broke Maggie’s heart. She gently squeezed Maggie’s fingers. “Don’t you realize that I could say exactly the same thing about you?”
*
On Friday, after waking from her coma-like sleep and puttering around the apartment, Maggie swallowed some flavorless instant oatmeal while texting Mark her plans to meet him later at the gallery. She also made a reservation at the Atlantic Grill and arranged for a car pickup after dinner, since finding an Uber or cab in that neighborhood in the evening was often impossible. With all that accomplished, she went back to bed. Since a later-than-usual night was on tap, Maggie needed to be rested enough not to fall face-first into her dinner plate. She didn’t set the alarm and slept another three hours. Only then did she start getting ready.
The thing is, Maggie thought, when a face is as gaunt as a skeleton’s, with skin as fragile as tissue paper, there’s only so much you can do to appear presentable. One glimpse of her baby-fuzz hair and anyone would know she was knocking at death’s door. But she had to make an attempt, and after her bath, she took her time with her makeup, trying to add color （life） to her cheeks; next, she applied three different shades of lipstick before she found one that seemed remotely natural.
She had a choice about the hair—scarf or hat—and finally decided on a red wool beret. She thought about wearing a dress but knew she’d freeze, so she opted for pants with a thick, nubbly sweater that added substance to her frame. As always, her necklace was in place, and she donned a lovely bright cashmere scarf to keep her neck warm. When she stepped back to appraise herself in the mirror, she felt she looked almost as good as she had before chemotherapy started.
Collecting her purse, she took a couple more pills—the pain wasn’t as bad as yesterday, but no reason to risk it—and called an Uber. Pulling up to the gallery a few minutes after closing time, she saw Mark through the window, discussing one of her photographs with a couple in their fifties. Mark offered the slightest of waves when Maggie stepped inside and hurried to her office. On her desk was a small stack of mail; she was quickly sorting through it when Mark suddenly tapped on her open door.
“Hey, sorry. I thought they’d make a decision before you arrived, but they had a lot of questions.”
“And?”
“They bought two of your prints.”
Amazing, she thought. Early in the life of the gallery, weeks could go by without the sale of even a single print of hers. And while the sales did increase with the growth of her career, the real renown came with her Cancer Videos. Fame did indeed change everything, even if the fame was for a reason she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Mark walked into the office before suddenly pulling up short. “Wow,” he said. “You look fantastic.”
“I’m trying.”
“How do you feel?”
“I’ve been more tired than usual, so I’ve been sleeping a lot.”
“Are you sure you’re still up for this?”
She could see the worry in his expression. “It’s Luanne’s gift, so I have to go. And besides, it’ll help me get into the Christmas spirit.”
“I’ve been looking forward to it ever since you invited me. Are you ready? Traffic is going to be terrible tonight, especially in this weather.”
“I’m ready.”
After turning out the lights and locking the door, they stepped into the frigid night. Mark raised a hand, flagging down a cab, and held Maggie’s elbow as she crawled in.
On the ride to Midtown, Mark filled her in on the customers and let her know that Jackie Bernstein had returned to purchase the Trinity sculpture she’d been admiring. It was an expensive piece—and worth it, in Maggie’s opinion, if only as an investment. In the past five years, the value of Trinity’s art had skyrocketed. Nine of Maggie’s photos had sold as well—including those last two—and Mark assured her that he had been able to get all the shipments out before she’d arrived.
“I was ducking into the back whenever I had a spare minute, but I wanted to make sure to get them out today. A lot of them are intended as gifts.”
“What would I ever do without you?”
“Probably hire someone else.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You forget that a lot of people applied for—and didn’t get—the position.”