Pale Girl Speaks

by Hillary Fogelson

  Me:

  Mom:

  Howard:

  Nurse:

  Dad: Howard, let’s do this. Let’s get it over with.

  Howard: I’m gonna need you to drink a little more fluid before we start again. We need to try and get your veins pumped up.

  Dad: Girls, go home.

  Me: We’re not going home. Mom and I will wait in the lobby.

  Dad: I don’t want you spending your whole day—

  Me: Tough shit. We’ll be in the lobby. The sooner you drink some juice or something, the sooner we can all get out of here. Mom, come on, let’s go.

  Mom: I’m gonna stay here with—

  Me: Mom! We’re not helping this situation. We’ll be in the lobby.

  Me: I told him. I told him this morning to watch the caffeine.

  Mom: I think it was his nerves. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was nervous this morning.

  Me: He needs to start taking responsibility for his health. On the mornings he’s getting the vaccine, he needs to have a good breakfast and drink lots of fluid. He needs to stay away from the coffee and all that shit until after his shots.

  Mom: He’s gotta have some coffee in the morning; otherwise he’ll get a headache.

  Me: So he gets a fucking headache. You treat him like he’s five . . . okay, yeah, you’re right. He should be able to have his morning coffee. That’s only fair. We wouldn’t want to deprive him of anything. We wouldn’t want him to alter his life in the least to accommodate this little “problem” he has. You know what, I don’t think I want to wear sunscreen anymore! I like the beach. I like getting burned. I should be able to get burned. I shouldn’t have to wear sunscreen or hideous sun-protective clothing for the rest of my fucking life! Not if I don’t want to—

  Mom: That’s not the same thing.

  Me: It is the same thing! It’s exactly the same fucking thing! He’s gonna have to make concessions. He may not like it. It sucks, I know, but it’s how it is—and don’t make it worse. You’ve gotta stand up to him and tell him to stop acting like a petulant child.

  Mom:

  Me: I’m going to Koo Koo Roo. I’m gonna pick up sandwiches. You want something?

  Mom: Your father said he’s not hungry.

  Me: That’s fine. I’ll get him something and it can shrivel up and rot in my car, for all I care . . . he’s gotta eat sometime.

  And Then There Was Light

  A week without the bottle! A whole, entire seven days of hell, but I did it. Parents in town and all. I planned on celebrating my achievement with a big, fat drink but then thought better of it and decided a new lip gloss would be sufficient. Adam wasn’t convinced a week on the wagon was enough to merit much of anything, considering how many years I’ve been sucking down the sauce. It wasn’t until I suggested he give up red meat (his lifeblood) for a week that he changed his tune, cocked his head, raised his arms to the heavens, and shouted, “Praise the lord, you did it!”

  No sign of reindeer slippers. Seems her therapy slot has been filled by a gangly teenage boy. He sprinted past me a few moments ago—complete disgust emanating from his every pore. He was muttering something under his breath that sounded remarkably similar to “fuck her,” which I assume referred to the woman who whizzed by only seconds later, shouting something about “next week’s meeting,” “washing his mouth out,” and “not my fault.”

  Dr. Lesaux: You ready?

  Me: Yep.

  Dr. Lesaux: Here . . . let me rearrange these chairs for you . . .

  Me: It’s so bright in here.

  Dr. Lesaux: My last client likes a lot of light.

  Me: I love it. My pupils thank you.

  Dr. Lesaux: So . . .

  Me: So, I quit drinking for a week.

  Dr. Lesaux: Congratulations.

  Me: Thank you, thank you.

  Dr. Lesaux: What prompted this?

  Me: I just had been thinking a lot about how I’ve been feeling lately—kinda out of control and stuff—and, I don’t know, it just seemed like the right thing to do. Plus, Adam didn’t think I could do it, so of course I had to prove him wrong. I’d do almost anything to prove him wrong. He’s not wrong a lot.

  Dr. Lesaux: And did you notice any changes in your mood or your behavior when you weren’t drinking?

  Me: Yeah, I mean, the first few days were pretty rough. I actually thought I had the stomach flu or something. I had diarrhea and I was nauseous and shaky, but then, like, by the third day, my stomach calmed down, and I guess I was just more irritable. But my parents were in town, so, I don’t know, they could have had a lot to do with my level of irritability.

  Dr. Lesaux: And how did your parents’ presence affect you?

  Me: They made it harder to stay sober. My parents drink like fucking fishes, no question about it. I mean, we all do. My whole family. But it’s like . . . it’s like . . . tradition. Like, Adam’s family, when they all get together, they eat. When my family gets together, we drink. Maybe it’s a Christian thing . . . not that we’re religious. It’s definitely an Irish thing.

  Dr. Lesaux: And what about your mom? Last session you were particularly concerned about her drinking.

  Me: I had this realization last week, before I stopped drinking. I had just talked to my mom on the phone, and she was having a g and t, and I was about to make a g and t, and I started thinking that maybe it wasn’t her drinking that was bothering me so much, but my own. Almost like I recognized myself in her or something.

  Dr. Lesaux:

  Me: It was like what we talked about a while ago when we were dealing with my dad. I remember you basically told me that I had to accept his way of dealing with his cancer. You kept emphasizing that we are different people and so we each have our own way of coping. What I realized with my mom is that we cope in the same way. When we get stressed, we drink more. So . . .

  Dr. Lesaux: So . . .

  Me: So . . . I don’t know. So that’s why I decided to stop drinking.

  Dr. Lesaux: But are you still worried that your mother drinks too much?

  Me: Yes, except I’m not as worried. Maybe she drinks too much, maybe she doesn’t. What I really need to focus on is how I feel about how much I drink. I think I was, like, totally projecting my shit onto her. I mean, yes, I wish she drank less or quit for a while or something, but I also wish my dad wanted to talk about his cancer and I wish I had bigger boobs and I wish Adam didn’t have to work so much. I wish that a lot of fucking things were different. I wish I didn’t have to be here talking to you. I wish I had never gotten melanoma . . . but most of those things are things I have no control over. My drinking—that, I can change. I’m not saying I’m gonna stop drinking or anything. I just think I’m gonna be more aware. I’m gonna try to be more aware. I’m gonna try and catch myself if I notice I’m drinking, like, four drinks a night or something. I don’t think I’m an alcoholic. Of course my mother, at this point, might disagree, but I just think I need to take control a little more.

  Dr. Lesaux: This is a big step.

  Me: I don’t know about that. It’s progress, though, right? Progress is good. Progress is always good.

  Just the Two of Us

  Okay, so, it’s a little awkward. I admit it. My dad and me in a car together. Together and alone . . . please, God, don’t let there be silence. Silence hurts worst of all. Radio. No radio. Windows up. Windows down. Cancer. No cancer. It all feels wrong.

  My dad and I are on our way to a healthy, apple-a-day-keeps-the-doctor-away breakfast and then on to the hospital for a round of cancer cell Pac-Man. The car ride has been . . . trying, to say the least. We’ve covered rising temperatures in the Midwest and debated the implications of aerosol use on future weather patterns. We’ve considered Adam’s movie release schedule for the next twelve months and determined that Universal’s string of hits is due solely to the unique vision and creative insight of its marketing department. We’ve marveled at how, despite years of drug abuse, Stevie Nicks’s voice really h
as improved with age.

  And so now, twenty-five minutes into this torturous commute, with all “safe” topics far, far behind, I find myself hanging on by the short and curlies. I’ve spent the last three minutes milking “ol’ reliable”: asking an endless string of remodeling/home-improvement questions in a desperate attempt to fill the air with something other than the occasional traffic-related sigh and/or throat clearing.

  Me: . . . and even though I know the slate would look better, I don’t think our balcony can support the weight. What would you guess the weight limit is? Per square foot?

  Dad: I’d have to look at your balcony again.

  Me: Sam, our contractor, mentioned something about floating the tiles. Do you know anything about how they, you know, do that?

  Dad: They create a foundation with some “give,” which allows the tiles to move without cracking. Because the balcony is exposed to direct sun and rain, the tiles will change size. They’ll shrink or expand, depending on the weather, so you want them to have the ability to move without worrying about anything separating or splitting.

  Me: Are the labor costs a lot more expensive with “floating”?

  Dad: Labor will be more, because of the extra time involved, but material costs will be minimal.

  Me: Maybe next time you’re out here we’ll have a new balcony . . . well, not next time, since you’ll be here next week. But maybe the time after that. We should figure out where we’re gonna eat breakfast. Do you know where you wanna go?

  Dad: I’ll leave that up to you.

  Me: Well, we’ve got several options. There’s Babalu. It’s a Cajun-y, southwestern kinda place. It’s got great blue-corn muffins and eggs and hash and stuff. Maybe it’s Jamaican. Yeah, it’s definitely not Cajun, now that I think about it. Adam and I used to go there all the time when we lived in Santa Monica . . . um . . . there’s an Au Bon Pain. They have bagels and chocolate croissants—

  Dad: Wherever you want.

  Me: There’s also an IHOP . . .

  Dad: Let’s do that. Is it close to the hospital?

  Me: Yeah. Well, they’re all close, so . . . whichever.

  Dad: IHOP. That’s easy.

  Me: It’s right across from the hospital, so we might be able to leave the car in their lot and just walk over to your appointment.

  Dad: I don’t want you to do that. You don’t need to go with me.

  Me: I know, but I might as well go with you, since I’m driving you to the airport.

  Dad: Oh, no no no.

  Me: Yeah, we already discussed this.

  Dad: No, we didn’t.

  Me: I told Mom I was taking you.

  Dad: No. That’s absolutely crazy. The airport will be a madhouse, and it’ll take you all day to get home.

  Me: No, it won’t. It’ll take me probably half an hour at the most.

  Dad: You can’t go in with me when they give me the shot.

  Me: That’s fine. I’ll just wait in the lobby area. Maybe I’ll go say hi to Amy in the Positive Appearance Center.

  Dad: You’re going to waste your whole day—

  Me: Dad. This way, we’ll have a little more time together. I’m taking you to the airport.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER:

  Me: I’ll have two egg whites scrambled and a side of wheat toast.

  IHOP Server Extraordinaire: That it?

  Me: Actually, could I also get a side of tomatoes?

  I.S.E.: Garlic or rosemary?

  Me: No, tomatoes. Just a couple of slices.

  I.S.E.: I’ll have to ask. I’m not sure we have tomatoes—and you?

  Dad: I’ll have the blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon, and more coffee when you get a chance.

  Me: Dad, don’t you think you should lay off the coffee until after your appointment? The caffeine, your veins . . . remember?

  I.S.E.: You want more coffee or not?

  Dad: Make it decaf.

  Me: Oh, and what kind of decaffeinated tea do you have?

  I.S.E.: Chamomile.

  Me: I’ll have that, then.

  I.S.E.: It’s gonna be a couple minutes for the tea.

  Me: That’s fine. God, I haven’t been to IHOP in so long. It reminds me of when we lived in Atlanta and I used to go to Bob’s Big Boy with Nina after soccer games.

  Dad: I wonder whatever happened to her . . .

  Me: Nina’s family went to Bob’s all the time. Remember, Nina’s mom never cooked. They ate there, like, twice a day . . . yeah . . . I always liked the breakfast buffet. I remember they had really good mini–blueberry muffins.

  Dad:

  Me: They don’t have Bob’s out here . . . I remember that place always had a hard time hanging on to their Big Boy. It became a really popular thing to steal.

  Dad: I bet most kids stole it on a dare.

  Me: Definitely. So, how’s work going?

  Dad: Good.

  Me: Has it been busy?

  Dad: Not too bad.

  Me: Been doing a lot of traveling?

  Dad: A lot of day trips. New York, Chicago, Cincinnati . . .

  Me: I’m sure those are the worst kind. The day trips probably really mess with your body clock.

  Dad: They can.

  Me: . . . yeah . . .

  Dad:

  Me: That’s it. I can’t do this anymore. I’m wiped out. Too much effort for too little reward.

  I need some new material, but my mind’s blank. I am completely tapped out. Zip, zero, nada. I am speechless and taskless. I’ve shredded all the napkins within two feet of my limbs, with the exception of the one draped across my father’s multiweather/multitask Orvis corduroy cargo pants. I have checked and rechecked the salt and pepper shaker tops for signs of tampering by some rebel teenager. I have even created miniature origami swans out of emptied Sweet’N Low packets. Any psychologist worth her salt would have a field day with the evidence on this table. I need something—anything—to keep my hands busy. My mind is racing . . .

  Me: I’m in real trouble here . . . the silence is deafening . . . for the love of all things holy—

  I.S.E.: Here you are. Pancakes for you . . .

  Me: Those go over there. I had the eggs.

  I.S.E.: Who had the wheat bread?

  Me: I did. And I never got my tea.

  I.S.E.: Oh. No one brought it?

  Me: Nope.

  I.S.E.: Anything else you need besides the tea?

  Me: Not for me.

  Dad: You want some coffee?

  Me: No, I’m fine. I’m off coffee for a while. I’ve been drinking mostly green tea. It’s really good for the immune system. I’ve been getting this loose tea from Chinatown. It’s got, like, corn kernels in it. It’s really good. I’ll send you some. It almost tastes like liquid popcorn. Mom would probably love it.

  Dad: Your mother’s starving me to death.

  Me: She’s just trying to get you to eat healthier.

  Dad: We should probably head out in a couple minutes.

  Me: We just got our food. What time is it? We’ve got, like, twenty-five minutes. It’ll only take five minutes to walk across the street.

  Dad: Okay.

  Me:

  Dad:

  Me:

  Dad:

  Me: . . . mum.

  Dad:

  Me:

  Dad:

  Me: . . . yum.

  Dad:

  Me: You want my other piece of toast?

  Dad: You sure you’re not going to eat it?

  Me: Positive.

  Dad:

  Me:

  Dad: Bite of pancake?

  Me: No, thanks.

  Dad:

  Me: Could you hand me the salt?

  Dad:

  Me: Thanks.

  Dad:

  Me:

  Dad:

  Me:

  Dad: Miss . . . could we get some more napkins over here?

  Me:

  Dad:

  Me:

  Dad:

  Me: Wow, I’m st
uffed.

  Me: That was good. They make good eggs. It’s all the butter, I guess.

  Dad: You sure you don’t need anything else?

  Me: No, I’m good. You get enough?

  Dad: It was the perfect amount.

  Me: Miss . . . check.

  We walk across the street to the hospital, and I finally give in to the silence, the quiet I’ve been battling since daybreak. I take a deep breath, a breeze lifts my hair off my forehead, and I am reminded of long drives home after hard soccer games. My dad and me. Alone. With the top down on my father’s lime green convertible Bug, we’d ride home quietly, each in our own world, the stereo playing softly in the background, usually an old tape of the Beatles or Neil Young, the volume turned down so low it was hard to tell if it was playing at all. The wind drying the sweat on my face until my skin felt caked and tight. I’d watch the kudzu whip by as I wove my arm up and down like a roller coaster, feeling the force of the wind against the palm of my hand. I’d replay the game in my head, reminding myself of things I’d done wrong. Reassuring myself of all I’d done right. My mouth sweet from the Gatorade. My fingers sticky from the orange quarters.

  I’d occasionally glance at my father, his right arm resting on top of the steering wheel, his left dangling over the car door. I remember I always thought he was gonna get it cut off someday, hanging it from the car like he did, but he never seemed to worry. His coach’s whistle still around his neck, whistling when the wind caught it just right. It was some of the only time I ever spent alone with my father. Just the two of us. The coach and the player.

  As my father made the final turn onto our street, the sun would come glaring through the dusty windshield. We’d raise our hands to our brows, blocking the sun from our eyes, squinting the same squint, our noses uniformly crinkled and upper lips raised to expose our front teeth. We were together on those Saturdays. Quiet and apart, but together . . . and the silence was comfortable back then.

  Tom: Hey there, you two.

  Dad: Hey, Tom.

  Tom: Jon, you can head on back. Howard’s ready for you.