My mom would have loved being a grandma—she would have loved these girls. But she didn’t even live long enough to see Miles get married.
Her cancer wasn’t as aggressive, as insidious, as what Anna’s mom dealt with. Anna’s mom was healthy one month, then practically terminal the next. It all moved so quickly.
But my mom was sick for years. She was first diagnosed with ovarian cancer right before I turned six. It was an early diagnosis, and the doctors called it highly treatable, so after a year of chemotherapy, she was in remission.
But the cancer came back a few years later, then again a few years after that. By the time I was in high school, the doctors had shifted their efforts from trying to cure her to trying to prolong her life and keep her comfortable.
She lived long enough to see Miles drafted and to know I’d been accepted into the Savannah College of Art and Design. Then she died on my nineteenth birthday.
It’s at least a comfort we didn’t live through the hardest years of her illness with my dad around. Once Miles was drafted, he was able to get us out, away from Dad’s emotional abuse.
Well, emotional forus.For Miles, it was a different story.
I shove the painful thought away and run a hand up and down Olive’s back, comforted by the steady in and out of her breathing.
What I wouldn’t do to give Mom the chance to see this. To see Miles’s little family, to see what I’ve done with my artand know that despite Dad’s best efforts to keep it from happening, we’ve done okay.
We’re okay.
I’m going to miss seeing daily reminders of that fact. Whenever my memories start to haunt me, I can look at my nieces, see them happy and safe and thriving, and that makes the world seem okay again.
Poppy stirs, snuggling deeper into her pillow, and her legs push against where I’m sitting on her bed. She’s clearly ready to have her own space, so I scoot over to the edge of the mattress and stand, careful not to wake Olive. I hoist her onto my shoulder and carry her across the hall to her room.
Once both girls are tucked in, covers wrapped around their shoulders and lights turned off, I head back downstairs, wishing for the thousandth time that I didn’t have to move back to Canada.
Anna and Miles are still in the living room. A hockey game is on the TV, but the volume is muted. As soon as I sit down opposite Anna, Miles grabs the remote and switches off the game.
“You don’t have to turn it off,” I say, but Miles waves away my comment.
“It’s fine. I can watch it in the bedroom. But not before you tell us your news.”
I look from my brother over to Anna. “I just got an email from the Bainbridge Studio in New York. They’ve invited me to be a guest artist for a two-week residency.”
“Sarah!” Anna says quickly, her face lighting up. “That’s amazing!”
“What’s a residency?” Miles asks, like I haven’t explained this concept to him at least five times. Is he beingintentionally obtuse? No matter how many times I explain how things work in the art world, it never seems to click.
“I explained when I had one in Savannah,” I say. “Do you remember the studio you came to see?”
“Where you did the art classes?”
“Among other things,” I say. “The classes were a small part of it, but mostly I just painted. Collaborated with other artists. The studio was open to the public, so people could come in and watch me work. That’s what I’ll be doing at the Bainbridge. Except it’s New York. So the exposure, the interest it might generate…it’s a really big deal.”
Miles frowns. “How did they find you? Is this something you just…volunteer for?”
I narrow my eyes at my brother. “It’s not volunteer,” not even trying to hide how defensive I feel. “It’s by invitation only. I could have been recommended by a professor at SCAD, or they could have organically come across my work. The point is, they only do this a few times a year, and they pickedme.”
“Sorry,” Miles says. “I never understand all the art things. Good job.”
I sink back into my chair. Milessaysgood job, but it doesn’t really feel like he means it.
“When do you go?” Anna says.
“Soon. A week from Wednesday.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry. I know that leaves you without anyone around to help. But it’s only two weeks.”
She quickly shakes her head, squeezing my fingers right back. “Are you kidding? Do not apologize for chasing your dreams. I’ll be fine.”
“What about when I’m on the road?” Milessays, looking down at his phone. “We’ve got a week of road games right at the same time.”
