by Amy Reed
I ditch my cane at the table. I don’t need it anymore. I am tough, like Marcus said. I can do without it. I can do without any of them.
twenty-two.
MY LEG DOESN’T REALLY HURT ANYMORE, BUT I’M STILL TAKING the painkillers. Every day, multiple times per day. I don’t have a choice. If I don’t take them, I start feeling sick, like I’m getting the flu; my legs ache and my stomach churns and I feel like I want to crawl out of my skin. The pills don’t really get me high anymore; they just make everything a little more bearable, a little smoother around the edges. They make the way my parents look at me not hurt so much. They make school not as excruciatingly boring. They make my “friends” not as mind-numbingly dull. They help me to not care that I’m so behind in all my classes that no amount of tutoring is going to keep me from failing.
Mom just got my last refill, then Dr. Jacobs said no more, I’m cut off. Then I don’t know what happens. She keeps bugging me about the outpatient support group meeting I’m supposed to go to, where a bunch of Sick Kids and survivors sit around in a circle and talk about cancer. Why would I want to talk about cancer? I’ve spent enough of my life talking about cancer.
It feels like my world is on hold until I see Marcus tomorrow. First, I have to spend this afternoon with Kasey, doing the kinds of thing the old me used to love. I want to have fun, I want things to be good between us, but I’m not feeling very optimistic. Things have been tense since the blowup at dinner last week, but we’ve managed to patch things up enough to pretend we’re going to repair our bond with some good old-fashioned girl time. I wish it was as important to me as it is to her, but the truth is, all I can think about is Marcus. All I want to do is see him.
So I take four pills before Kasey gets here, a preemptive strike against whatever I may feel in her company. I know I should be rationing, but desperate times call for desperate measures. My leg doesn’t hurt, but there’s a new kind of pain, one that only comes when the pills fade away, like a fist tearing my heart through my stomach, and the noise it makes is IwantIwantIwantIwant.
I hear the doorbell, and Mom’s and Kasey’s high-pitched greetings. I take a deep breath and remind myself to be kind. It’s not Kasey’s fault I’m someone else now.
She opens my door without knocking. “You’re not even dressed” is the first thing she says.
“I didn’t realize we’re in a hurry.”
“We have an appointment,” she says. “And they’re busy on weekends.” Kasey’s treating me to a pedicure. Whoopee.
“I can’t figure out what to wear. All my clothes are, like, pre-cancer old.” I couldn’t care less about clothes, but I know Kasey will buy this excuse.
“Let’s go shopping!” she says. “You totally need a new wardrobe now that you’re getting your body back. We can go to the Bay Street Mall after we get our pedicures.”
“But I’m broke,” I say, pulling a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt out of a pile of what I hope is clean clothes. “And I don’t think my parents have any extra money lying around.”
“I’m sure they could spring for a new pair of jeans at least. Those ones are so ripped.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, pulling the clothes on. “They’re really stressed about money right now.”
“A sweater, then. Something cheerful for spring. On the sale rack.” Her smile clouds as she notices the look on my face. “Or we can just walk around and try stuff on.”
I put Stella’s hat on and look at myself in the full-length mirror. I look cool. I look tough. I see the reflection of Kasey behind me, in her short white skirt and tight pink sweater, her blond hair cascading across her shoulders.
“You’re not going to wear that hat, are you?” she says.
The pills have started their softening. I can name the look on her face “bitchy,” but it does not hurt me.
I turn around and strike a pose. “It’s my signature look.”
She tries to smile, but I can tell it hurts her face. “So what do you think? Pedicures, then mall? We don’t have to spend any money. We can walk around. Or I could even buy you something.”
“God, Kasey. I don’t want to go to the fucking mall.” The cruelty in my voice surprises me.
I watch her face as the seasons change from forced cheerfulness, to surprise, to shock, to hurt, to anger. White, cold, freezing anger.
“Fine,” she says, grabbing her purse from my bed. “Then I guess you don’t want to get pedicures, either. That’s stupid too, isn’t it? That’s just something your old bimbo cheerleader friends do.”
“Stop. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” I say the words, but my heart’s not in them. I know I’m supposed to feel something, but I don’t. The pills took care of that.
“No, whatever, it’s okay. I know I’m not as cool as Stella. I know my life is totally boring, that all my problems are pointless compared to yours. I get it.” She stops and faces me, her face red and blotchy and stained with tear-smeared makeup. All I can think is she’d be horrified if people at school saw her this ugly. “I miss you,” she says, and for a second my armor cracks. For a second my heart breaks and I see my old friend, the girl who knew me better than anyone, the girl I couldn’t live without.
“I miss you too,” I say, my head suddenly clear. I want to hug her. I want to wrap her in my arms and make everything the way it used to be.
“You don’t realize how hard this has been for me, too,” she says. And my armor is solid once again. How dare she? How dare she compare her pain to mine?
I’m a tornado. I’m a hurricane. I’m a whirlpool of rage. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry my cancer has been an inconvenience to you. What, has my dying gotten in the way of cheer practice and finding a new boyfriend?”
Her sadness, suddenly gone. Her anger is big enough to match mine. “Evie,” she says. “You’re not dying anymore. Get over it.”
The sharpest silence I have ever heard as we stare each other down.
“Shit,” she finally says, looking away. “That sounded really bad.”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“You know what I meant. I want you to be happy. But frankly, your attitude lately sucks.” She takes a step toward me and I take a step back. “Like, shouldn’t you be a little bit grateful that you’re cured and you’re going to live? Isn’t that supposed to make you happy?”
“I am happy.”
“No you’re not. You’re the least happy I’ve ever seen you. You were happier when you had two weeks to live.”
“Well, maybe you’d prefer it if I could go back to that. Maybe everyone would like it better if I was sick again. Then you’d know what to do with me.”
“Stop.”
“I think maybe you should leave now.”
“You can’t be serious. You can’t really think that. You can’t really think anyone wishes you were still sick.”
“I don’t know what I think.”
“We love you. We all just want you to be happy.”
“I want you to go.”
She reaches her hand out to touch me, but I slap it away. “Go!” I scream. I don’t want her to see me cry. I don’t want her to be here when the pain breaks through. I can feel it bubbling up, somewhere in my stomach. When it makes it past my throat, I know I’ll be a goner.
“Fine,” she says, and turns away. When she gets to the door, she faces me. “You can keep pushing everyone away if you want. But we may not still be here when you decide you need us again.” She walks away, slamming the door behind her.
If I move fast, the feelings can’t catch me. I grab Stella’s box out of my sock drawer and stuff it in my bag. I wait an unbearable five minutes to make sure Kasey’s gone. I grab Mom’s keys from the bowl by the door and walk out without telling anyone I’m leaving.
twenty-three.
I’M WITH MARCUS AND MY WORLD IS BACK IN COLOR.
Flowers burst out of the ground in every shade imaginable. The sky is a shocking, electric blue. W
e are zooming through the winding roads of the Oakland hills, going up, up, up, to the part of the city where everything glows with possibility.
“I think my parents used to take me here when I was little,” I say as Marcus pulls into a spot at the Lake Chabot parking lot. “We’d bring a picnic and rent a canoe.”
“That sounds so nice and wholesome.”
“Yeah, that’s my family. Nice and wholesome. Yours isn’t?”
“Let’s start walking,” he says, perfectly aware that he’s avoiding my question.
It is a warm, perfect day. It is so beautiful I can almost forget about my fight with Kasey yesterday. I can forget about getting stoned in Mom’s car while my phone buzzed with her unanswered calls. When I got home, the house fell into what has become a usual routine. My mom, beside herself with worry, wanting me to sit with her on the couch and talk. Wanting to try to understand why I felt the need to take her car without asking. Dad furious, pacing and throwing his hands in the air. “What gives you the right? Do you have any idea how much we worry? Do you think your actions have no consequences?”
Well, yes. So far, my actions have had no consequences. Even this. Anyone else would be grounded for sure, but Mom happily gave me a ride to the hospital to “visit Caleb” again, as if yesterday never happened.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Marcus asks as we start down a dirt path toward the lake.
“It was my idea.”
“Your leg can take it?”
“It’s not like we’re climbing a mountain. We’ll just walk until we find a nice secluded spot.”
He doesn’t question this. He doesn’t say anything about how I’m still limping. Unlike everyone else, he trusts my judgment about my own body.
Maybe my hip is a little sore. Maybe I sort of regret giving up my cane so soon. Maybe it’s tricky maneuvering around these rocks and roots, and maybe this is a lot harder than I thought it would be, but there’s no way I’m going back. The air smells like warm soil and eucalyptus, the sun is glistening off the water, Marcus is holding my hand, I have a joint in my pocket, and I’m not worried about anything.
“Where’s your cane, by the way?” Marcus says. “That cane was cool.”
“I decided I don’t need it anymore.”
“Okay, tough guy,” he says, squeezing my hand. A duck quacks good-naturedly somewhere out of sight.
“I like it when you call me ‘tough guy.’” I stop walking and pull him close. I place my lips on his. His kiss erases my pain.
“Hey, I think I see the perfect place,” he says. He holds my hand as he leads me off the trail.
After fighting our way through bushes and spiderwebs and nearly sliding down a steep ravine, we make it to a hidden beach just big enough for us. The view of the main beach is blocked by a fallen tree. Marcus adjusts some branches to hide us from the trail. No one in the world knows we are here. We are a secret.
Marcus lays out his blanket and pulls a picnic of wine, bread, cheese, and fruit out of his backpack. “FYI, this is a hundred-dollar bottle of wine,” Marcus says as the cork pops. He pours me a plastic cup full.
“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any fancier.” I take a sip, but to me it tastes the same as something that came out of a box.
“Fresh from Judge Lyon’s custom-made temperature-controlled wine cellar.”
“Very impressive,” I say, lighting the joint I brought.
“Yeah,” Marcus says. “Too bad I’m not. Impressive, that is.”
“I find you very impressive,” I say, passing him the joint.
“I think you and my dad have slightly different standards, unfortunately. You probably don’t have as much interest in my being ‘a respectable example of an educated black man in America.’” He says the last part in a very low and very serious voice.
“I guess not,” I say.
“I doubt everyone is really paying all that much attention to me, so I’m not that worried about it.” He takes a long pull from the joint. “Plus he makes me go to the whitest school in the entire Bay Area, so I’m pretty sure that makes him a hypocrite. The only other black kids in my class are these adopted twins who have two white Jewish moms, and another kid who’s, like, royalty from Kenya or something. We’re not exactly the epitome of African-American culture.” He hands me the joint. “But Judge Lyon has pretty much given up by now and leaves me mostly alone.”
“I wonder how he’d feel about your incredibly white girlfriend.”
“Well, he married my mom and she was white. Or haven’t you noticed my smooth, milky complexion?” He bats his eyes.
“Was white?”
“Was. Is. She’s not in my life anymore, so past tense seems appropriate.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs and picks up a eucalyptus seedpod and throws it in the lake. It lands with a less than satisfying plunk. He looks at me and smiles. “So that other thing you said. About you being my girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Shit. “I said that?” Shit shit shit. “I, um—it just came out. I guess I’m stoned. Wow, I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” he says, putting his arm around me and pulling me close. He says nothing more, doesn’t confirm or deny the label.
We finish the joint, the view turns into a postcard, and I gradually forget my embarrassment. We could build a little fort out of sticks and branches and steal some fishing poles from the bait shop. We could stay forever on our hidden beach and no one would ever find us.
I lay my head on Marcus’s lap and he runs his fingers through my short, patchy hair.
“Your hair is so soft and fluffy,” he says. “It’s like a baby duck. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
He doesn’t know this is a result of the chemo. Maybe I want him to know. Maybe I’m ready. But first, more pressing issues. “Do you think you could find me some Norco? Maybe some Oxycontin?”
His hand freezes on my scalp. I can feel his body tensing under me.
“No way,” he says. “I don’t fuck with that stuff. Do you?” I can hear the worry in his voice.
I turn my head to look up at him. The sun frames his face like a halo. “What? No,” I say, trying to smile as reassuringly as possible. “I heard it was fun so I thought maybe you wanted to try it with me or something. But if you don’t want to, that’s cool.”
“Don’t touch that shit, Evie.” Despite the warm sleepiness that wants me to stay lying down, I can tell this is serious enough for sitting up. “Promise me. Heroin, Norco, Oxy, they’re all the same. Meth and cocaine, too—these are all off-limits. Okay?”
“Why?” I say.
“Because they fuck you up big-time. You can’t do that shit recreationally. It owns you.”
“I think you’re being a little dramatic.”
“I’m being serious. Promise me. Please.”
The concern in his face is real; his worry is sweet, not oppressive like everyone else’s. I say, “Okay, I promise,” because it seems like he needs it so much.
“Thank you,” he says. “I feel like I can trust you. You’re the first person I’ve been able to say that about in a long time.”
A knife turns in my chest. I don’t want to lie to him. I can’t abuse his trust.
I know I should get off the pills. Maybe soon. Maybe I’ll start cutting down. Maybe next week. My promise to Marcus has to mean something. But I’m not ready. I can’t quit yet. I’m too scared.
He looks out over the lake. A family in a paddleboat floats by. The parents don’t see us, but the little boy waves. Marcus waves back.
“Someone hurt you,” I say. I am sick to my stomach thinking I could be that person, if he ever knew.
“You could say that.”
“Tell me.”
He’s quiet for a while, lost in his own private world. I want in. I want him to let me in.
“Do you want to go swimming?” he finally says.
“Isn’t it illegal? Isn’t this a reservoir or something?”
“Yep,” he says, unbuttoning his pants.
“Whoa there, stud,” I say as he pulls them off. I notice a tattoo on his shin. The letters DL in messy black-blue, as if they were stabbed there with a pen. And a date, just a month from now, of last year.
“What’s DL?” I say. “Who’s that?” I know it’s stupid to be jealous of someone he knew before me, but I can’t help it. I hate her, whoever she was. I hate that he loved her enough to make her permanent on his body.
“Someone who hurt me,” he says, and pulls his shirt over his head. His smooth, muscled chest is all I see for a moment, and I am breathless. But that warm electricity is quickly extinguished when I notice the scars on his arms. The area between his elbow and shoulder, the part covered by a T-shirt, is scored with uncountable crisscrossing scars of various depths and widths. Nothing natural would make this pattern. Nothing but someone’s own hand could inflict this kind of torture.
“Marcus,” I gasp. I look up at him from where I’m still sitting. “Tell me,” I say.
“I will,” he says. “Soon.” Then he dives into the water and disappears.
I strip down to my underwear and bra and leave my tank top on so he won’t see my portacath. I am not nervous as I follow him into the water. I am not embarrassed. For once, I am with someone who hurts, someone who’s damaged like me, someone who’s broken. Maybe I don’t have a place anymore with people like Kasey and Will, people who aspire to perfection, who are foolish enough to believe it exists, who want nothing more out of life than to avoid complications. For people like Marcus and me, complications are all we have. We have scars. He has shown me his, and I want to show him mine, too.
We meet each other in a deep part of the lake next to the fallen log. Our feet cannot find the bottom. The lake could go to the center of the earth and we wouldn’t know the difference. We wrap ourselves around each other, held up by only a few fingers laid on the slippery wood. We float, entwined, our foreheads together, the tips of our noses almost touching, our lips half a breath away from each other. I close my eyes and feel his breath tickle my upper lip. We float like this for a long time, listening to the water lap against us, breathing each other in.
