by Sarah Ready
Again, she shrugs. How do teenage girls put so much meaning in a shrug?
“Well, when your big screwdriver plan doesn’t come to fruition, let me know. I’m good at finding dirt and—”
“No, thank you. I’d like my little sister to stay out of jail and grow up to become a productive member of society.”
“Society is boring.”
I rub the spot between my eyebrows. There’s a headache coming on.
She continues, “Anyway, it’s obvious the committee is doing some back door dealings and general shadiness. There’s no other reason for them to have dumped your project when it was all in the bag.”
“It’s called politics. Besides, when did you become a conspiracy theorist?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Yeah, yeah. I’m going to my room. Remember, I’m good at breaking and entering.”
“Didn’t hear that,” I say.
“Someday you’ll admit you love having me around,” she says.
I sink back to the couch and let out a long sigh. For her sake, I hope not.
9
Dany
* * *
Three weeks after the surgery I’m in an exam room at the hospital. The drains are gone. The staples are gone. The cancer…
The paper gown scratches my skin and I want to itch the scar on my chest. My mother stands across the room. She looks between me and the doctor. I look down. The vinyl of the exam table is cold against my bare legs. Why is it that everyone else gets to wear clothing during these conversations? The doctor wears a long white coat, buttoned-up shirt and pleated khakis. My mother is in her Burberry coat and Donna Karan wrap dress. Me, I’m in cotton underwear and a blue paper gown that opens at the front. I try to fold the edges more closely together so that I’m not so exposed.
“What do you mean it’s not gone?” my mother asks. Her voice drips ice.
The air conditioning kicks in and the edge of the paper gown flaps open. I flash the room. Did anyone notice? No? I pull it tighter. It crinkles and scratches my skin.
“The cancer spread beyond the breast tissue…” he says.
A rushing noise fills my ears. I took a boat tour of Niagara Falls once, I couldn’t hear anything but the thundering of water on water. This is the same. I look between the doctor and my mother. Their lips are moving. My mother is pointing a long thin finger at the doctor. He flinches back, then puffs up and starts talking again. The waterfall noise is carrying me along. I shake my head. Their muffled voices start to come back as the roar fades.
“We need to start chemotherapy immediately. The course will last…” The doctor’s voice fades out again.
My entire body is numb. It’s like I’m sitting outside of myself. Like I’m perched on the exam table next to my body watching everything happen. I can’t feel anything. Not the scratchy paper gown. Not the cold of the air conditioning. Not the pinchy scar on my chest. Not panic. Not fear. Not anything.
They turn to look at me.
The doctor says something.
I shake my head. “What?” I ask. My voice echoes in my ears.
“…this week,” he says.
I blink. There had to have been more to that sentence.
“Pardon me?” I ask.
“I’d like to start treatment immediately. With the aggressive nature of the…”
I’m going to be honest, nothing the doctor says is sticking with me. None of the words he’s using are familiar. None of the sentences make any sense.
The cancer was gone.
It was gone. Wasn’t it?
Plus, the sound system is playing eighties megahits.
My heel swings in time to the guitar and beats against the metal table legs.
My one and only secret, that one thing in my life I hide from my parents, Shawn, my friends, the whole world, is my obsession with eighties rock. There’s something about it—it’s unapologetic, loud and brash, alive, so alive. When no one is around, I’ll plug in my headphones and imagine I’m dancing and free. I never listen to eighties music where people can see me or sense my enjoyment. And I’ve never danced. Never. Even when I’m alone.
This is the first time I’ve ever heard eighties music in my mother’s presence. I focus on what the doctor is saying. I get the gist. The tone says more than the words.
“How long?” I ask.
The doctor clears his throat. “The cycle length of adjuvant chemotherapy for your case may last anywhere between four and six months. The goal of course is cure. We base our cycle length on evidence-based medicine utilizing clinical trial data and—”
“Not how long is the treatment. How long do I have to live?”
The music is winding up. It’s the hit about counting down the seconds until she’s gone. What kind of sicko plays this song in the cancer wing anyway? Doesn’t anyone else sense the irony? Or is that the point?
I’m not numb anymore. Feeling has come back. Denial mostly. If I run, run away far and fast, this might not happen.
“Daniella,” my mother gasps. But she doesn’t say anything more. Her mouth closes in a tight firm line. Then her shoulders straighten and she turns to the doctor.
“How long?” she repeats. Her left hand starts to shake. She clenches it and the shaking stops.
Oh Mom.
“A few months, a few decades. Daniella may have a normal life span. It depends on how she responds to treatment. The mortality rates vary based on stage…”
His voice drones on and Latin terms blur into indecipherable medical-ese. I guess the scientific terms are a way for doctors to distance themselves from the crushing emotional news they have to deliver every day. It’s easier to say, “You have a neo-blasto-cystic goober blob on your transverse pectoral wing ding to which we can apply cryostistic protocols in an evidential procedure” than to say, “I’m sorry, you have cancer and will probably die soon.”
The song playing over the sound system ends on a drastic crescendo. The entire conversation of the cancer isn’t gone and you have to start chemo and you might not make it took less than five minutes.
I stand. The paper gown hikes up and I push it down. “Thank you, doctor, for your time.” I hold out my hand for him to shake. He hesitates then comes forward. His hand is cold and strangely soft. His grip is loose.
An eighties love ballad gears up on the speakers. There’s a burning sensation spreading through me. An acrid taste like day-old bitter coffee settles in the back of my throat. I try to swallow it down but it’s lodged there.
His hand falls away. The syrupy chords play on.
“Go ahead and get dressed. I’ll send in a nurse to walk you through what to expect.” He leaves. The door closes with a sharp snick.
“I loathe this song,” I say. “Loathe it.”
“Darling. Get dressed,” my mother says. Her voice is high and brittle. On the verge of breaking.
She turns her back and I slip out of the gown. There’s a small sink and mirror on the wall. I stare at my chest. The faded bruises. The six-inch-long incision scars. The still-swollen puffs. I look at my face. My eyes. They’re haunted.
I turn away from the mirror. I have the sudden urge to hurl the metal instruments on the wall at the glass. Let it shatter into a thousand pieces. My fingers itch to grab the reflex hammer.
“Daniella, what’s taking so long?”
I startle. I’m still in my underwear. The paper gown is a ball in my hand. I hold it so tightly that my fist is white and cramping. I could tear the gown. Rip it apart. Shred it.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Just a moment please,” says my mother. “Daniella?”
I take a breath and loosen my fingers.
“Of course,” I say. With monumental effort, I take a mental weed-whacker and ruthlessly slice all the weeds of fear that just sprouted into ten-foot-tall monsters. I leave a wasteland inside.
Then, I gently fold the gown and set it on the exam table. I put on my post-mastectomy supportive camisole, my cashmere sweater, my woo
l pants, my dress shoes.
The nurse comes in. She describes the treatment. I listen carefully, hearing nothing, then thank her for her help. As I walk down the carpeted hospital hall next to my mother, I have a vision of walking down the aisle at my wedding.
Before the cancer, that’s all I wanted. A wedding. A marriage. A life.
I make a decision. I’m going to survive. I’m going to live long enough to get married. Walk down a different kind of aisle. I’m going to survive. It’s not the end.
10
Dany
* * *
A few days later, I start my chemotherapy cycle.
I’ve been poked and prodded. Blood samples taken. More oncologist visits. Blood pressure. Pulse. Temperature. Height and weight. Explanations of what to expect, et cetera, et cetera.
I sped from denial to anger lightning quick. The oncologist referred me to a therapist, Ms. Dribett. She told me anger was good. It would motivate me to change and heal. She said I was moving along the stages of grief. Soon I would experience pain or guilt. Then depression. Or all of the emotions again and together or out of order.
I told her as politely as possible that I wasn’t going to experience her stages. Because soon this would be over and I’d go back to my life. No stages necessary.
Ms. Dribett wrote something on her legal pad and told me that my response was common. A natural part of the denial stage.
At the end of the session I thanked her, and again promised that she shouldn’t worry. There would be no guilt, no depression, none of that. I wouldn’t let cancer define me. It was merely a small thing that happened, not the whole of me, or even a sliver of me. I would be past it in a flash and everything would return to normal.
On the day I start treatment I’m led to the chemotherapy lounge by a plump, chatty nurse.
It’s the room with the laughter. The four women receiving treatment stare as I’m led to my chair.
The nurse pokes around with a needle until she find a good fat vein to insert the IV tube. That’s where they’ll pump in the chemo. Apparently, I’m going to be here for hours.
“What are you here for?” asks a woman in her late thirties. She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt with dancing cats. “My name’s Matilda.”
“I won’t be here long,” I say. I give her a polite smile and turn to the nurse. “Do you have any magazines?” I ask. I’m acutely aware of the other women staring at me.
The nurse sets down a wide selection of magazines on the tray next to me. “Buzz if you need anything. I’m around the corner.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I look at the magazines as she walks away. I like the spring flowers on the cover of the gardening one.
I don’t want to talk to the women around me. I’m not going to be here long enough to make friends. I’m already making a list in my head of all the things I need to do. Research cancer treatments, holistic diets, exercise plans, alternative therapies. Anything. Everything. Also, go talk to Shawn. Again. In person this time. If I can get him back, then I’ll be that much closer to my life plan. Somehow, I know that if I can win Shawn back and have my wedding then I’ll also beat this cancer. They’re connected. Logically, it’s crazy, but I know it’s true. Win love back, beat the cancer.
“My name’s Geraldine.”
I look up at the woman in chair across from me. She smiles and goes on.
“You may call me Gerry since we’re chemo pals. Looks like they hijacked your hooters. They didn’t Frankenstein me like they did you. No cutting away the bits over here. You look appalling by the way.” I can’t turn away from Gerry. She has to be in her late seventies. She’s wearing a lime green sequin track suit, pink heels, and has a beehive updo. “Matilda over there.” She points to the woman in the cat t-shirt. “She’s the nicest.” Matilda gives a shy smile and waves. “The knitter on the end is Sylvie.”
I obediently look at the woman knitting an orange pumpkin hat. Her fingers are moving quickly as she pulls the yarn. She glances up at me. “I have to finish this hat. My grandbaby is due in June.”
“Oh, congratulations,” I say.
She smiles and I imagine her as a grandmother, lovingly peddling knitted sweaters with matching hats, or handing out chocolate chip cookies and milk. She has on a cardigan that I bet she knit and a soft-looking scarf. She’s maybe mid-fifties, her hair has only a little steel gray. A young grandmother.
“Sylvie will probably die before the baby reaches one year old. But that’s life,” says Gerry.
“Rude,” says the final woman.
“Truth is rude,” says Gerry. She points to the woman that spoke. “That’s Cleopatra. She’s grumpy today because she’s constipated.” I study Cleopatra. Her face is wrinkled and pinched up like a prune. Her hair is jet black and sticks up in a violently curling pixie cut. I can’t place her age, she’s dark skinned and anywhere from fifty to seventy.
“Constipated Cleopatra,” says Gerry.
Sylvie laughs and then clucks her tongue. “Phooey, Gerry, you made me drop a stitch.”
“Fix it then,” says Gerry. “Also, don’t think the rest of us aren’t constipated too. We simply handle it better. It’s either that or the runs. One or the other. Or both at the same time, consta-runs. You’ll see.”
“Oh,” I say. For lack of anything better. I blindly reach for one of the magazines and open it. The IV feels strange in my vein. There’s a sharp cold sensation spreading from the needle.
“Gerry, it’s your turn today. I’ve been waiting all week to hear more about David,” says Matilda.
“Humph,” says Cleopatra.
Matilda leans toward me and explains.
“To pass the time we agreed that anytime we’re at chemo together, one of us will tell a love story. A real romance from our own life. I love romances.” Matilda beams. “Last time, Gerry told us about David.”
“Bah,” says Cleopatra. I get the distinct impression that she doesn’t approve of much.
Matilda leans forward and says in a single rushed breath, “He asked Gerry to marry him, but her father said no. David worked on their farm and loved Gerry for years, but he never told her until one day Gerry fell off her horse and he saved her. He picked her up and carried her home and he kissed her, and then Gerry knew—”
“I knew that I loved him,” says Gerry. Her blue pencil-lined eyes sparkle and a slow smile spreads over her bright pink lips. “And that he was the man I was going to marry.”
I want to ask how long ago this was. One thing stops me. I don’t want to be friends with these women. I think that if I get close to them, then somehow I’ll be admitting that I’m like them. Or that I’ll be here long enough to hear the end of their stories. It won’t happen.
“Go on,” says Matilda.
“Bah. This David character never existed, I’ll bet my appendix,” says Cleopatra.
“Appendixes are expendable, dear. Bet your colon,” says Sylvie. She winks at me. I look away.
Gerry scowls. “Well, I’ll tell you about David. Or we can watch my colonoscopy video again. I put it to music. That thing was pleading for a soundtrack. I’ve got it on my tablet.”
“Eek,” says Matilda.
“Oh boy,” says Sylvie.
I smother a strangled laugh. Music dubbed over a colonoscopy?
“Humph,” says Cleopatra. “Fine. Tell us about David.”
“Please,” says Sylvie.
“Go on, Gerry” says Matilda.
Gerry shifts in her seat and spreads a knitted blanket, courtesy of Sylvie, maybe, over her lap. She poses like a grand dame about to give a royal announcement. I pretend to read the magazine but really, I’m listening.
“My father, a well-off cattle farmer, refused David’s suit. He decreed that no dirt-poor migrant worker would ever marry his daughter. He said David was not even fit to brush the dirt from my horse. He fired him.”
“No,” whispers Matilda.
“That’s because Daddy knew David only had one
thing on his mind. Like a stallion chasing a mare in heat,” says Cleo.
“Have you seen a stallion’s equipment? That mare is one lucky lady,” says Sylvie.
“No interruptions,” says Matilda.
Sylvie cackles wickedly and my image of a sweet, innocent grandmother is wiped away.
Gerry continues. “David left that very day. My heart was broken. I snuck out of the house to say goodbye. We met in the peach grove. I gave him a lock of my hair and promised to wait for him. He promised me that one day, he’d be back. The richest, most educated, most worldly man, in not only Stoutsberg but the whole darn world. He swore that soon he’d be worthy of me. I thought he was already, but he wouldn’t run away with me. Instead, he picked a peach. He cut it up and fed me the pieces, then kissed the juice from my lips.”
“Innuendo, dear?” asks Sylvie with a hopeful glint.
“Humph. Purple prose blather,” says Cleo.
“No interruptions,” says Matilda.
“And then he handed me the pit, and said, ‘Geraldine. My heart. Plant this, and before it bears fruit, I’ll be back to marry you. Our children and their children’s children will eat peaches from our tree.’”
Gerry settles back into her chair and closes her eyes. Everything is silent except the clicking of Sylvie’s needles.
Finally, Cleopatra grunts. “Fine, have it your way. Did your imaginary randy stallion come back?”
“Did he?” asks Matilda.
I flip a page in my magazine and pretend to be absorbed in how to prune perennials.
Of course David came back. That’s how all these fake love stories end, with the lovers getting their happily ever after. I agree with Cleopatra. This David character isn’t real.
“Well?” says Matilda.
I tilt my head to hear Gerry’s answer.
“No. He didn’t.”
“What?” I say. I’m shocked out of my feigned indifference.
“Humph,” says Cleopatra. “Looks like you had to find someone else to eat your peaches.”
Sylvie chokes on a laugh.
