Coming Up for Air

by Nicole B. Tyndall

  He rejected having the surgery, because he was worried he wouldn’t be as good after it. And maybe he wouldn’t have been, but he also wouldn’t have needed to keep taking those pills. But he wouldn’t stop, because he was scared he wouldn’t be able to compete unmedicated. Either of those decisions could have changed a lot.

  Braden didn’t like his options, so it’s like he didn’t make a choice at all. He just kept treading water, insisting he could handle it until his college plans were settled.

  So I jumped in, too, trying to help. But I wasn’t strong enough, either, and then we both couldn’t keep our heads up.

  I had to let him go or drown.

  Remy squeezes my arm. “Hads, you can’t fight somebody else’s addiction for them. Just like I couldn’t do Mom’s chemo for her. Braden has to want to. He has to choose it himself, for himself. And your job is to take care of you.”

  I look at my sister. “You really think that?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “But, Rem, I did mess up, though, a lot.”

  “Hadley, how could you not have messed up? You’re a teenager. Your mom had cancer. You had no experience with addiction. What were you supposed to do?”

  Be a life vest, save him. “I don’t know,” I tell Remy. “Know more. Be better.”

  “Well, okay, sure. But it doesn’t really work like that, Hads.”

  “How does it work, then?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just saying that you’re not perfect, and…I think you can handle that.”

  My chest tightens. “Even with this?”

  “Even with this.”

  “Remy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry I was so awful, before.”

  She smiles. “I’m used to it.”

  “Hey!”

  “I’m just kidding.”

  “You said you talked to Judd. Did you guys make up too?”

  “Yeah. I’m kind of glad he stayed now. Who knew our almost-eighteen-year-old sister would need so much looking after?”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m glad my misery was so helpful.”

  She looks around, taking in my piles of tissues and messy hair. “Hads, let’s get you out of this room, okay? Soon?”

  I nod. “Try again tomorrow?”

  “I’ll bring reinforcements.”

  “Not Becca.”

  “Of course, Becca.”

  “But she won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Exactly.” Her lips curl upward. “But, Hads, there is one thing you have to do, like, right now.”

  “What?”

  “Brush your teeth.”

  And when I laugh, I throw my pillow at her.

  The clock ticks forward.

  Bruised and exhausted, I finally get out of the pool.

  * * *

  Two and a half hours later, an idea occurs to me, and I shoot out of bed. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Remy said, and it suddenly dawns on me. I know exactly what I need to do.

  My Great Lakes U portfolio assignment, the one for my application, is to create a collection around the theme that has most impacted my life. It can be anything in the world, and options were overwhelming. But suddenly it feels like the only way to tell a story about my life, something that feels important enough for this assignment, is to tell the truth.

  I open my laptop and scroll through until I find it: the first picture I ever took of Braden. Thankfully, even though I threw away my actual portfolio, I had all my photographs backed up on my laptop. He’s grinning in the leaves, the skin along his lean muscles glowing in the low light. I run my fingers along the screen, remembering that boy. Then I move on to the next. I chose only ten. Ten pictures to show how the most electric, vibrant person I’ve ever met turned into someone else. The life drains from his eyes; he’s dazed and far away. It’s a visualization of the addiction taking hold and Braden fading away behind it. It’s something I couldn’t see in the moment, but in my photographs, it’s undeniably clear. In my head, I let an imagined photo finish the series: Braden lying broken in a hospital bed. I hope it never comes to something worse.

  And then there are the pictures of Mom. It’s still disease, but everything about her series is different. I start with a photograph of her at home, before she was diagnosed. She’s holding a glass of wine as she tastes her spaghetti sauce at the stove, her eyes smiling and just barely meeting the camera before I snapped the shot. It’s Mom as I picture her, even now. But in her images, as the cancer treatments begin, nothing takes hold of her. Nothing replaces the life in her eyes. Even when she shows me her arm where the IV of chemo left its mark, or as she takes a razor to her head, level eyes with a proud, naked scalp. Then there are the photographs of her sitting in a tank top, revealing part of her chest, before and after the small tattoos that were necessary for radiation. Again, ten images. This is a story of a woman who is throwing punches. She didn’t become her disease; it never took over. She claimed what power she had and used it to fight.

  In my entire portfolio, I’m not in a single image. Instead, I’m somehow stretched between the photographs. I’m the witness, connecting the two: the woman fighting for her life and the boy gambling with his.

  And with these photographs lined up in front of me, it’s a little easier to believe Remy. Walking away from Braden was hard—imperfect and maybe even brutal—but I have a responsibility to take care of myself too.

  I’m going to survive all of this.

  And as far as Braden goes, the only thing I can do is hope that he decides to fight for himself too.

  “I’m not talking you out of this. But are you sure?” Mom asks as she pulls her fingers through my dark blond strands.

  “Absolutely.” We’re talking to each other’s reflections in the salon mirror. My hair is in a low ponytail, and I’m sitting in a raised chair, ready to chop it all off. It’s a surreal déjà vu moment, with me in the hot seat this time.

  Mom objects, “But you have such pretty hair.”

  “You really do,” Becca says.

  “So did you,” I tell Mom, glancing at her pixie cut, “and now you do again. It’ll grow back.”

  Mom smiles. “Yeah, it’ll grow.”

  We pause, feeling the weight of the moment, but then I shake it off. “Plus, I’ve wanted to cut it since you had to, but I let you talk me out of it. And then Braden cut his, and I thought that could count for me, but it doesn’t. I have to do it myself.”

  “Right. Which we’re totally behind. But just enough to donate, right? You’re not doing a full Britney on me.”

  “Becca!”

  “Okay, sorry!” Her hand moves into a gesture of surrender. “I support you. Even if I don’t get it.”

  “I’m feeling very supported,” I tease. “Will you take the picture now?”

  She lifts her phone, but Mom stops her. “Actually, can you hold on, for just one second?”

  She pulls a wrapped box out of her giant purse. “This was going to be a birthday gift, but, today just feels right.” She smirks. “Here. Open it.”

  “Now? Here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t this kind of a weird time to open a gift?”

  “It’s the perfect time.”

  “All right, well, thanks?” I carefully peel the paper away until I see a white box. Then I read one word: Canon.

  Instantly, my heart is in my throat.

  “Oh my god.” I swallow and look up at Mom. Her eyes are bright. “Mom, this is too much. I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. You haven’t been the same since yours broke.”

  My eyes fill with heavy tears. “Mom, my camera didn’t break….” The building emotion in my chest won’t let me finish the sentence. I can’t believe she did this for me.

  She p
resses her lips together. “All the more reason for you to have a new one.”

  My smile tastes salty. “Thank you, Mom.” It takes me a second to get the camera unboxed, but when I put the battery and memory card in, it powers up immediately. It’s beautiful. It’s the newest model, and it takes video too. “I really can’t believe you did this.”

  She looks almost as happy as I feel. “Well, believe it, baby.”

  I change the camera to automatic so Mom doesn’t have to worry about the settings, and hand it to her.

  Then I pull the hair tie out and shake out my hair. “Is my entire face covered?”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” Becca says.

  “Pretty much or totally?”

  She walks over and adjusts a few pieces. “Okay. Totally. Cousin It territory.”

  “All right, take a couple, Mom?”

  She snaps a few pictures and then walks over to show me the screen.

  I remember the night at the hospital when I caught a glimpse of the terrified girl in the mirror. This time, I’m trying to look like a Francesca Woodman, and it works. The girl in the picture is hiding. She looks afraid. But I’m not going to be that girl anymore.

  “Yes, perfect. Thanks, Mom.”

  My hairdresser, Mandy, comes around the corner with the plastic bag to put my ponytail in, once it’s no longer attached to my head. “Okay. I’m all set if you are. Take a seat.”

  What I think is: Shit, shit, shit I really do love my hair. But what I say is: “Let’s do this.” I put my hair back into a pony.

  “I’m double-checking here: You said fourteen inches, right?”

  My eyebrows join forces above the bridge of my nose. “Yes?” It sounds much more like a question than I intend. I try again, clearing my throat, and nodding. “Yes. I mean yes.”

  “That’s a great amount for a donation. They’ll be able to make a nice wig with it.”

  I squeeze Mom’s hand.

  Mandy eyeballs the length and adjusts my hair tie so that her cut will be right. Then she takes the scissors from her workstation and opens and closes them teasingly. I see my face flush in the mirror.

  Mom squeezes my hand back, but Becca puts her hands over her face. “I can’t watch.”

  I close my eyes. “Me either.”

  Mandy laughs. “Well, I have to.” Then she moves the scissors closer to my pony. “I’m going to count to three, okay?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “One.”

  “Two.”

  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

  “Three.”

  I hear the crisp sound the scissors make as they cut my hair to my chin.

  I make the highest-pitched noise I’ve ever made. With the final snip, I’m literally lighter.

  My stomach is filled with helium. “Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap.” My eyes are still closed. “Becca, did you open?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Mom?”

  “You look great, honey.”

  “You have to say that. Mandy?”

  “Well, obviously my eyes are open. And I love it.”

  “Ugh, you have to say that too!” I complain. “Becca, you have to look before me. I know you’ll tell the truth.”

  “Okay, opening.” Her pause makes my pulse race. “Oh my gosh! Hads. It’s good. It’s really good! Open your eyes.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I promise you on…Greg! It’s amazing.”

  “On Greg? Are you kidding?”

  “Just open your eyes!”

  I peek one eye open and then the other. I don’t even recognize myself. But…I like it. I think I like it? The girl looking back at me is bold. I like her. I think I like her hair too.

  “Okay, I still have to even it out. But if you ask me, you look like a badass.”

  Becca answers for me. “That’s exactly what she was going for.”

  I want to elbow her but am scared that I’ll mess Mandy up. So instead, I just admit, “I kind of feel like a badass.”

  “Perfect. But don’t move. I need to make sure you’re even.” She carefully trims along the edge, and in a few minutes, I have a wavy, very blunt bob.

  “Do you want me to wash and blow it out?”

  “No, there’s no point. I’m going to yoga with my mom right after this.” The oncologist finally allowed Mom to go back to her favorite studio, and to celebrate, I decided to go with her.

  “You’re working out?” Mandy has been cutting my hair for years.

  “Is that so hard to believe?” I ask.

  “Well…”

  I object, “I totally did this hot yoga every day for a week, once, freshman year. As a new year’s resolution.”

  Becca scoffs. “More like a new year’s challenge. Mia said you wouldn’t make it a week.”

  I look at Mom sharply.

  “Well, you aren’t known for early—” she starts.

  “But I did it,” I interrupt.

  Becca makes an amused noise. “The point was that a week isn’t a long time! You were supposed to go for a month.”

  “Whatever.” I pretend to be annoyed, but the familiar back and forth is filling me with a warm glow.

  “Well, all right, then. Case closed. She’s worked out.” Mandy is talking to Becca now. She moves back to her workstation and lifts my long, chopped pony into the air. I have a quick, passing urge to cry, but not really out of sadness, just out of change. Or maybe out of the memory of Mom’s ponytail and Dad’s gentle fingers as he held it. Mandy carefully puts my hair into its designated donation bag.

  “Hey, Mandy. This is weird, but can I actually see that for a second?”

  “Your hair?” She laughs.

  “Yeah, I want to take a picture with it.”

  “Sure.” She waves the pony at me.

  I hold it up next to my face, and Mom snaps a couple more pictures. Then I have her take one with my phone, and before I can think myself out of it, I text the image to Ty: better late—and not exactly how I pictured it—than never?

  My phone buzzes quickly: I can see your face better. And then: it’s perfect.

  I try not to worry too much about what it all means.

  And when I get up to hug Mandy, I shake my head and let the cool air tickle my neck. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have trusted anybody else.” Then I reach my hand out. “You can have this back now.”

  She wrinkles her nose and puts my hair back into the bag. “I’ll get it sent over.”

  And it’s as easy as that. It’s not when or how I thought it would be, but I kept my promise to myself.

  When I pull up to the yoga studio, my phone is lit up. It’s a text from Braden’s mom: Hi Hadley. I wanted to let you know that Braden gets out of treatment tomorrow. I didn’t want you to be surprised if you heard from him.

  My stomach flutters, but only a little. Thanks for the heads up. I hope he’s well. It’s a little stiff, but I mean it.

  I know he’s having a hard time, being out of school and watching his friends sign with universities that would have been thrilled to have him before the accident. And it makes my chest ache, thinking about how disappointed he must be. I hope that when he starts back at Lakebrook next fall, he’s recovered enough to try again.

  And I honestly don’t know what I’d do if Braden called, but I did accept his letter of apology a few weeks ago. One of the twelve steps, to make amends. I told him I’d forgive him if he’d forgive me. I’m still working on both.

  “Hadley!” Mom is outside with something flat in her hand.

  “Hey, what are you—” I start to ask, but she interrupts me.

  “Finally!” she exclaims, beaming.

  “What are you doing out here?” I ask as I get out of my car.

  She shoves the thick envelope toward me.
“It’s the big one!”

  “What are you talking—” Then I look down at it and read: Great Lakes University. “Oh my god. It’s the Big One.”

  “Big is good, right?” Mom is shifting from foot to foot, her grin spread across her face, reaching her ears.

  “Yeah. Yes. Usually, I think.” I don’t want to get my hopes up only to have them crash down around me again.

  “Well, hello? Open it up!”

  “Here?” Nervous energy tickles my skin.

  “Yeah, come on!”

  Carefully, I shift my attention to the envelope.

  Mom pulls at my T-shirt. “Did you have to choose something so wrinkly?”

  “Mom, not now. I’m kinda freaking out here.”

  “Right. Sorry.” But she doesn’t stop messing with it, so I swat at her hand.

  When I pull the paper out, I only read as far as We are pleased before I meet Mom’s eyes.

  “Are those happy tears or sad tears?”

  “Oh my god!” I shriek.

  “You got in?” she shrieks back.

  “Holy shit, I got in!” I bounce up and down before Mom grabs my hands and we jump together.

  “You got in!” And her words feel like the final piece of something sliding into place.

  Mom looks back at the studio, and then at me, crinkling her eyes. “Forget yoga. We need to celebrate! Let’s go get some margaritas and guac. Virgin for you. I’ll drive. Call Becca to meet us.”

  Except Becca isn’t the first person I want to tell. “Can I actually meet you guys there, maybe later tonight? I have something I want to do first.”

  * * *

  I can hear the doorbell ring inside the house from the front porch. My heart is hammering as the cool wind grazes the back of my neck. I run my hands along the ends of my hair, telling myself that I can do this.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other, impatient, until the door swings open.

  “Hadley!” Tyler exclaims. I can’t tell if it’s a good or a bad exclamation.