Pale Girl Speaks

by Hillary Fogelson

  My mom and I are currently sitting in the waiting room on the third floor. We’ve been twiddling our thumbs for half an hour—so much for the preassigned, predestined, prepubescent plan. We’re both starving to death, and the thought of sneaking up to the Joyce Eisenberg Keefer breast center for cookies and milk is sounding better and better. My mom’s already made three cups of lukewarm Lipton tea using water from the bathroom sink, and I’m fairly sure she has single-handedly finished off St. John’s supply of saltines.

  Mom: You sure you don’t want any of these?

  Me: I’m gonna wait for lunch.

  Mom: It might be a while before we eat.

  Me: I’ll wait for Dad to come out if you wanna go get something.

  Mom: No, no, I’m fine.

  Me:

  Mom:

  Me:

  Mom: I could eat my arm.

  Me: Go get something. It’ll take you, like, seven minutes to walk to Koo Koo Roo from here. Go pick up sandwiches or something. I’m sure Dad’s gonna be at least another half an hour.

  Mom: Your father might want something when he gets done . . .

  Me: Yeah, so go get the sandwiches, and he can eat his as soon as his appointment is over.

  Mom: It’s right around the corner?

  Me: Yeah, walk north on Twentieth, and it’s on the corner of Twentieth and Wilshire. Get me a rotisserie chicken breast sandwich with steamed vegetables and macaroni and cheese on the side.

  Mom: You sure you don’t mind waiting here?

  Me: Mom, go.

  Mom: I’ve got my cell with me, so call if there’s a problem.

  Me: What, are you anticipating some kind of problem?

  Mom: In case the doctor needs to talk to me.

  Me: I’ll call you if there’s a problem.

  Mom: North on Twentieth, then . . .

  Me: It’s on the corner of Wilshire and Twentieth. You’ll see it. You can’t miss it.

  FIVE MINUTES LATER:

  Lahhhhh dah. Lah dee dah dee dah dee dahhh. Misty watercolored memmmmm-ries . . . of the . . . way . . . we were . . .

  FIVE MINUTES LATER THAN THAT:

  Scattered pic-tures . . .

  Papa, can you hear me? Papa, can you see me? Papa, can you something in the nighhhht?

  I need to rent that. Papa . . . Papa . . . Papa!

  Nurse: Helen . . . I’m looking for Helen . . .

  Me: Helen?

  Nurse: Her husband said she’s short, with short grayish-blond hair . . .

  Me: Oh, and wouldn’t she just love that description. I think you’re looking for my mom. I’m the daughter. She went to grab some food.

  Nurse: If you could come with me for a moment.

  Me: Yeah, sure.

  Nurse: . . . right in here.

  Me: Hey, how’s it going?

  Nurse #2: This must be your daughter. You two look just alike. Is this your natural color hair? It’s beautiful.

  Me: Actually, my natural is a little lighter.

  Nurse #2: I haven’t met many women who dye their hair darker.

  Me: Yeah . . .

  Dad: Okay, I’m done filling out this one.

  Nurse #2: If you could help us out, it—I’m sorry, what’s your name?

  Me: Hillary.

  Nurse #2:—Hillary. You look like a Hillary. We just need another witness to sign this.

  Me: Okay. What is it?

  Nurse #2: It just states that your father is agreeing to participate in the vaccine trial and that he will blah blah blah blah blah. All expenses will be blah blah, and so we want to make sure he blah blah blah blah blahs.

  Me: Uh-huh.

  Nurse #2: So if you could just sign here . . .

  Me: Uh-huh. Should I put “daughter” where it says relation, or—

  Nurse #2: You don’t need to worry about that part. You know, you look familiar to me.

  Dad: She’s an actress.

  Nurse #2: Oh? What have you done?

  Me: Um . . . mostly TV.

  Nurse #2: Anything I would have seen?

  Me: I don’t know. Maybe. The last thing I did was ER.

  Nurse #2: You know, I’ve never seen that show.

  Me: Before that, I did a couple episodes of Once and Again.

  Nurse #2: Who’s on that?

  Me: Sela Ward . . . Billy Campbell . . . Jeffrey Nordling . . .

  Nurse #2: I don’t think I’ve seen that. To be honest, I don’t really watch that much TV.

  Me: You’ve probably seen me in the halls. I’m a patient here. Melanoma.

  Nurse #2: Oh, well, there you go.

  Me: Gregory’s my surgeon. That’s how I heard about the vaccine.

  Nurse #2: Jon, you are all set. I’ll see you in two weeks.

  Me: Dad, did you have a chance to ask questions?

  Dad: Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go. Where’s your mom?

  Me: She went to pick up sandwiches at Koo Koo Roo. I’m so excited you decided—

  Dad: How long have you been waiting?

  Me: Not long. Maybe half an hour.

  Dad: Jesuschrist!

  Me: Less, less. Fifteen minutes.

  Dad: I told you girls I didn’t want you waiting for me!

  Me: I know, but we wanted to. We wanted to be here to support you.

  Dad: You wasted your whole day sitting around—

  Me: It’s only eleven forty-five.

  Dad: I just wish you girls hadn’t come all the way down here.

  Me: Well—

  Mom: There you two are. I’ve been looking all over. You all done?

  Dad: Yep. Let’s get out of here.

  Mom: What did Gregory say? Does he think the trial is worth your time? Did you ask him all the questions we—

  Me: He’s doing the trial.

  Dad: What kind of sandwich did you get me?

  Mom: What? You’re doing it?! Chicken. So, you’re doing it?

  Dad: Why don’t we find a place to sit down and eat. Someplace outside.

  Me: I’d prefer inside. It’s really sunny right now.

  Dad: I’ve been inside all day.

  Mom: It’s awfully hot out there . . . and you didn’t bring your hat.

  Me: I’ll do outside if that’s what Dad wants. I might have an extra hat in my car.

  Mom: I know—how ’bout we head back into West Hollywood. Then we can—

  Dad: I haven’t eaten since six this morning! You want me to wait until we get back into the city!

  Mom: I just don’t know a good place to sit around here, and I thought. . .

  TEN MINUTES LATER:

  After a final round of our version of Family Feud (Category: Places You Eat Chicken Sandwiches), we have all caved to our hunger and decided to devour our bounty on the benches outside the hospital valet stand. Parking attendant Paco had a few napkins to spare, so we’re eating in silence with Benitos Taco Shop napkins tucked in our shirts, protecting us from Koo Koo Roo’s special sauce. My father refuses to divulge any information pertaining to the vaccine trial. All my mom and I know is that he’s doing it. And as much as I’d like to hear every detail of everything Gregory said to my dad, I’m keeping my lips focused on the sandwich in hand. He’s doing it, and that’s all that matters . . .

  I’d kill to know what they talked about, but it’s my fear of my father’s marching back upstairs and scratching out his name on all those forms I just witnessed him sign that’s overriding my desire for a stimulating round of twenty questions. But I sure am curious. I figure Gregory must have said something pretty damn convincing in order to persuade Pa Peterman to go through with the vaccine “inconveniences.” Whatever happened up there behind those double-thick doors must have put the fear of God in my father. I can’t imagine much else that could or would convince such a man to do such a thing. He has made a decision so against everything he stands for. The man I know, the man who circled a roundabout in England nine times before admitting he might need navigational assistance, the man who never took a sick day in his twenty-odd y
ears as a stock broker, the man who has little patience for weakness and no patience for defeat—this man is not a man to volunteer for a medical trial. He’s not the man to sign up for any trial, as far as I can see, unless it’s being underwritten by Orvis. So whatever was said up there—whatever secrets passed between my father and Dr. Gregory—must have been awfully significant.

  The Positive Appearance Center and Rose’s Hair

  I did it! I passed my boards! No tuberculosis! I am a certified (certifiable) volunteer for St. John’s Hospital. My very official-looking laminated name tag is strategically clipped to the breast pocket of my light blue polyester volunteer coat so one and all can read my name and raise their voices in praise of me. It’s all very glorious—glamorous, really, you know—being surrounded by Vagisil and thrush mouth rinses and . . . death.

  Me: If there’s anything we can help you with, just let us know.

  Customer: Oh. All right.

  Me:

  Amy:

  Customer: It’s such a beautiful day today.

  Me: Has it burned off? It was really foggy when I drove in this morning.

  Customer: Oh, it’s gorgeous out. Just ga-orgous. Not too hot. There’s a little breeze.

  Me: It’s always so hard to tell once I’m in the hospital. They keep it so cold.

  Amy: Oh, I know. I’m always freezing.

  Customer: This is a great store you’ve got here.

  Amy: Thank you. Yeah . . . we’ve got a little bit of everything.

  Me: Is this your first time coming in?

  Customer: It is.

  Me: How did you hear about us?

  Customer: Well, it’s really funny . . . I was sitting with my doctor and—today I found out that I’m going to have to have chemotherapy—

  Me: Oh, I’m sorry.

  Customer:—and I was asking him about losing my hair, and I said that the hospital should have a place that sells products for chemo patients, and he said, “We do.” He must have thought I was loopy. I’ve come up that elevator about a hundred times—well, it seems like a hundred times, anyway—and I’ve never noticed this place. I can’t believe it.

  Amy: We’re kinda hidden.

  Me: I’m glad you decided to check us out . . . and did your doctor say you would definitely lose your hair?

  Customer: He said I would, but I’m not so sure. I’ve got so much hair. It’s like a helmet. It’s really, really thick. See? Feel . . . feel all this . . .

  Me: It looks very thick.

  Customer: No, feel . . .

  Me: Yeah, wow. That’s a lot of hair. But . . . you know . . . that . . . um . . . doesn’t really make a difference once the chemo starts.

  Customer: We will see, I guess. I’d hate to lose it. I don’t think I’m going to. I really, really don’t. I’ve always had such healthy, thick hair. He also said I’d probably start feeling fatigued, but, again, we’ll see. I’m tough. And I like to stay busy. It takes a lot to get me to stay off my feet. I plan on working throughout my entire treatment.

  Me: Don’t you think it might be a good idea to take it easy for a few weeks, give yourself some time to rest?

  Customer: What? You mean sit around and feel sorry for myself? Noooo, thank you.

  Me:

  Amy: If you have any wig questions, we’re here to help.

  Customer: Thank you. I think I’ll wait. See what happens.

  Me:

  Amy:

  Customer: To be honest, I’m still trying to get adjusted to the whole thing.

  Me: Losing your hair is a big deal.

  Customer: I mean the cancer. I was diagnosed a week ago, and I still don’t think it’s sunk in.

  Amy: That’s totally normal.

  Customer: Oh, I’ve gotta run. I can’t believe I’ve let the time get away from me. My husband is in the lobby—he insisted on coming with me, even though I begged him not to—he’s probably wondering what happened to me. It was nice meeting you ladies.

  Me: You too.

  Customer: My name’s Rose, by the way.

  Me: Hillary. Nice to meet you.

  Amy: Amy.

  Rose: Have a great day. I’ll come say hi when I start my treatment.

  Me: Sounds good.

  Me:

  Amy:

  Me: Wonder how she’s gonna feel when her hair starts falling out.

  Amy: I was just thinking the same exact thing.

  Dinner at Eight

  Me: What do you want to drink?

  Adam: I’ll have some red wine, if we’ve got it.

  Me: Sterling okay? Grab a glass for me.

  Adam: So, I thought you were going to stop drinking for a week. What happened to that idea?

  Me: I’m still gonna.

  Adam: When?

  Me: Soon . . . what? You want me to stop right now?

  Adam: I didn’t say anything.

  Me: I need to . . . you know . . . prepare myself. . . and stuff. . . I can’t just . . . start . . . without warning . . . or anything.

  Adam: Uh-huh.

  Me: What? I’m gonna do it.

  Adam:

  Me:

  Adam:

  Me: I can’t start tonight, anyway. I had a drink before you got home.

  Adam: Okay. Whateeeever you say.

  Me: Fine, I’ll start tomorrow.

  Adam: You do whateeeever you want.

  Me: Tomorrow. I’ll start tomorrow . . . happy?

  . . . Tomorrow

  I’m quitting. For a week. Baby steps. “Baby steps to the elevator” . . . I will go without because I need to know I can go without. I need to make sure I’m still the one in control, because sometimes, if I’m perfectly honest with myself, I’m not entirely sure.

  I feel it right now: “The Pull.” I’ve felt it my whole life, and sometimes I think it’s stronger than everything. First in high school, before I really knew what it meant and why I should be afraid of it, I felt it. It started slow, with drinks at parties spilling over into drinks after parties and culminating in drinks without parties. At freshman parties, I’d chase Bacardi with Kool-Aid. I became known as the queen of the beer bong and the princess of tequila shots. My tolerance was legendary. I’d follow Jell-O shots with more Jell-O shots. I’d drink till I passed out or threw up, whichever came first, and then I’d either wake up or wipe myself off and drink some more.

  Many weekend mornings, I could be found drooling on someone’s bathroom linoleum with most, but usually not all, of my clothes on. I’d wake up to stories of all I’d done the night before, none of it sounding all that familiar, but then again, I couldn’t account for the better part of the evening, so anything was possible. I drank enough Peppermint Schnapps back in the day that the smell of mint Scope still triggers my gag reflex, and I can’t look at Zima or peach wine coolers without my stomach turning cartwheels.

  So as I stand in the kitchen, eyes glued to our liquor cabinet, salivary glands firing while I study the beautiful bottles on the second shelf, I know I need to quit drinking. At least for a while. Just to be safe. Just to be sure I still can.

  Me: So? You notice anything different?

  Adam: No, what?

  Me: Guess.

  Adam: Um . . . you . . . cut your hair.

  Me:

  Adam: I give up.

  Me: No, you have to guess.

  Adam: You . . . um . . . dyed your eyelashes.

  Me: It’s not something on my body.

  Adam: You . . . I have no idea.

  Me: Notice anything I’m not doing?

  Adam: Something you’re not doing . . .

  Me: Drinking! I’m not drinking!

  Adam: Well, what’s that, then?

  Me: Oh, that’s just tonic and lime.

  Adam: Now, how the hell was I supposed to guess that?

  Me: I don’t know . . . I figured . . . I don’t know. Don’t bother me. I’m sober.

  Adam: This is going to be a long week—I can already tell.

  The Shakes

 
Me: Ad? You awake?

  Adam: Huh?

  Me: I think I ate something weird last night. Is your stomach fucked up? I totally had diarrhea last night.

  Adam: No. My stomach’s fine.

  Me: Maybe I’m coming down with something. Great. My parents are coming into town and I’m gonna be sick.

  Adam: When are they coming, again? I forgot.

  Me: Not tomorrow but the next day.

  Adam: I feel like they were just here.

  Me: They were. They’re going to be here a lot for the next two years.

  Adam:

  Me: I think I’m gonna throw up.

  Adam: Well, don’t do it in the bed.

  Me:

  Adam: You need me to bring you a bucket or anything?

  Me:

  Adam: Hill?

  Me: Don’t talk to me. I’m trying to keep from yakking.

  LATER:

  Ring, ring.

  Me: Hel-lo?

  Adam: Feeling any better?

  Me: No.

  Adam: You throw up?

  Me: No, but I still have diarrhea. And I’ve just been feeling kinda shaky.

  Adam: Drink lots of fluids.

  Me: I am.

  Adam: I’ve got a screening tonight. You gonna be okay by yourself?

  Me: Yeah, I’m just gonna rest.

  Adam: Okay, well, get some sleep, and I’ll be home around ten or so.

  Me: Love you.

  Adam: Love you. Feel better.

  Click.

  TEN OR SO:

  Me: Hey.

  Adam: How you feeling?

  Me: ’Bout the same.

  Adam: You need anything?

  Me: Could you just get me some water . . . and Ad? I think I figured out what’s wrong with me.

  Adam: What?

  Me: No alcohol.

  Adam: Noooo.

  Me: Yeah, I think so.

  Adam: No, it couldn’t be. You don’t drink that much.