According to a Source

by Abby Stern

  “I have Joan Warren, she’s a patient of Dr. Jacobs,” Robin tells her.

  The receptionist checks her computer.

  “Yes, we’re ready for you. You all can come on back.” She opens the door to the lobby and escorts us to the treatment room. I don’t know how to describe it and this sounds odd but it’s like a sick summer camp. It feels like we’ve entered a tepid rec room, and at first glance it’s an amalgamation of diverse people, from age to ethnicity to energy, who are all bonded by the fact that they’ve all already gotten what will probably be the worst news of their lives.

  I also notice the quiet. Some people have their headphones on to listen to music or watch something on their iPads. No one is laughing raucously or talking on their phone.

  I find my mind wanders from my mother to the other patients. I look at each of them and wonder about their individual stories: what kind of cancer they have, how far along they are in their treatment, what their chance of survival is, whom they’ve brought as their companions, and their mood. At first glance the chemo room appeared cold and sterile, but as I sit here longer, it feels full of hope, determination, and spirit. It takes about an hour after my mom’s blood work for the chemo to begin.

  “Joan, we’re ready to go,” Nurse Richards tells us. “I’m going to implant the port first and then will administer your chemo.” I look away as this is done. Robin and I are definitely the odd couple of sisters and while she got the doctor genes, I got the squeamish ones. I hold my mom’s hand since I can’t bear to look but she doesn’t make a peep indicating any pain. Robin taps my leg when it’s over.

  Nurse Richards says, “Just try to relax and I’ll be around if you have any questions or you need anything. I believe Dr. Jacobs is going to try to pop in to check on you as well. He likes to do that if he can between patients.”

  “What do we do?” I whisper to Robin.

  “Anything we can to distract her.” She rubs my mom’s hand and my mom tries to smile but can’t seem to gather the desire for much more than duck face.

  “So we just sit here for a few hours?”

  “That’s the idea, Ella. Anything is better than her sitting here alone,” she adds.

  “Sorry, I’m a chemo virgin.” My comment relaxes Robin, who lets out a sound that almost sounds like it could have been a small laugh even though she didn’t want it to be.

  “Does it hurt, Mom?” I ask. She’s literally being poisoned right in front of our eyes … even though it might save her life … and it’s hard to marry the incongruous pictures of what’s happening internally and externally.

  “No. That implant wasn’t my favorite thing but I can’t feel anything now.” That gives me some minor relief. “Since we have some time on our hands, I want to hear more about this new boy you’ve been seeing, Ella.”

  I know I’m blushing even though I’m trying to fight it, but it’s no use.

  “We have our second date tomorrow night.” I don’t want to sound too excited but it’s hard to stifle the intonation in my voice when I’m talking about Nick, especially after our first date. “He’s making me dinner at his condo.”

  “That’s romantic.” Her eyes brighten. “How did you meet him again?”

  “Through Holiday,” I remind her.

  Robin, never one to miss an interrogation, chimes in. “Is he an actor?” I can tell that she’s crossing her fingers, toes, and even strands of hair that he isn’t.

  “No. He’s an agent. He’s her agent.”

  “Much better.” She doesn’t even try to hide the snark in her judgment and I rush to defend Nick and my choice to date him.

  “Yes, it is. I chose power over beauty, although I couldn’t be more attracted to him.”

  “I want to see a photo of him,” my mom requests.

  I take out my phone and have an e-mail from Victoria.

  Dear Freelancers,

  As you know the World Pop Music Awards are coming up this week. Hydra Water is sponsoring the official after-party and in return for mentioning them in our coverage they have agreed to let one of our reporters inside for observation. This assignment will be eligible for points. It will be given on a first-come, first-served basis.

  Victoria

  I reply immediately and Victoria responds that the job is mine. I’m glad I didn’t wait a second longer to write her back. She sends another group e-mail within thirty seconds.

  Dear Freelancers,

  Thank you all for your interest but the assignment has been taken.

  Better luck next time.

  Victoria

  I close out of my e-mail.

  “I don’t have any photos of us yet. Let me look and see what I can find online.” I go to WireImage and search for Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar and am able to pull up photos with Nick from his last premiere. I return the phone to Robin and she scrolls through the photos.

  “I don’t see him,” she says. “All I see is Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar.” I lean across my mom’s lap and point to Nick standing off to the side of Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar while he’s being interviewed.

  “He’s right there. In the black Tom Ford suit on his phone,” I tell her.

  Robin groans. “Do you have any real-life photos?”

  “Well, he has Instagram but you can only see his profile photo because his account is private,” I explain.

  “So why don’t you add him?” Robin wants to know, thinking that this problem has an easy solution. I know my sister has been out of the dating game even longer than I have, but you’d think that someone with her intelligence wouldn’t ask a question that contradicted decades of sexual politics.

  “Robin, I can’t add a guy I like that I’ve only been out with once! Do you know how desperate that is?”

  “Yeah, because your whole family is trying to stalk him online and you pretending you don’t like him as much as you do paints you as the picture of sanity,” she pokes, and I can’t help but laugh at how this does look a bit stalkerish … even for me, whose most valuable skill on my résumé is technically stalking.

  “I think he’s very handsome,” my mom adds after seeing the photo.

  “He’s a really nice guy too but he also has that agent thing where you know he doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants. It’s so hot.”

  Robin rolls her eyes and mimics me but gives me an amplified Valley-girl voice. “It’s sooooo hot.” She is on one today and laughs at her own ridiculousness. Now that the stalking is over we need something to do. “Do you want to watch TV, Mom?”

  “No, I don’t watch daytime TV except for Wendy and it isn’t on yet.”

  Robin reaches into her tote bag.

  “If you’re up for it, I brought something to keep us occupied.” She pulls out her iPad and after a few swipes hands it to my mother. “I had all of our old family photos converted to digital files.”

  I move my chair over to the other side of my mother so I can have a better look. I have to give Robin credit; my mom has gone from lethargic to lively looking through the unexpected scrapbook. We’re enjoying it just as much as she is. Robin has almost every moment of our lives that’s ever been documented on the tablet. The terrible school plays we were both in. Birthday parties with family, with friends, and all of the carby confections we ate along the way. She stops on a childhood photo of Robin at a fairy-princess birthday party.

  “Oh my goodness, that’s Christine Stone. Robin, do you remember her daughter, Sara?” she asks her.

  “Sort of, I think?” Robin obviously doesn’t but wants to humor mom.

  “I will never forget Sara’s fourth birthday party. When she blew out the candles on her cake she told the entire party she wished for a better mother. I didn’t know whether to laugh or call child protective services.” She giggles and the other patients stare—it’s not malicious and they’re not angry but they’re wondering what she could find so funny during chemo treatment. After a moment they return to their companions or their solitude
, but my mother stays transfixed on the iPad and never notices that they stared. “After all these years I can’t believe that’s stuck with me.” She swipes again. “Ella, look at how adorable you were in your soccer uniform.”

  “You were adorable but terrible,” Robin recalls.

  “First of all, tennis turned out to be my sport. Second of all, I was not.” I know I wasn’t a champion fullback but it was a participation sport. I got a trophy.

  “It’s not that you were so bad, you just didn’t really care about the ball being in play. All you wanted to do was gossip with your friends and then you were surprised when the other team came charging at you,” she clarifies.

  “Okay that does sound like me,” I admit.

  My mother continues swiping and finds a gem that I don’t remember ever seeing before.

  I study it. “Robin! When did you have multicolored hair? How do I have no memory of this?” The girl in this photo definitely shares my DNA.

  “Probably because it lasted for about six hours before Mom dyed it back herself in the kitchen sink.”

  “Is that when you spent the night at Kelly Nixon’s house when her parents were out of town?” My mom tries to recall the circumstances of this incident because Robin had innumerable acts of disobedience.

  “Yes.” Robin twinkles, recalling her youthful antics.

  “I had completely forgotten about that. I never thought that your rebellion would extend to stealing Ella’s Kool-Aid to dye your hair. If I would’ve seen this coming I would’ve locked our pantry like the liquor cabinet.”

  “You know, Ella, you aren’t the only trendsetter in the family.” Robin straightens her shoulders. “Look at how many celebrities dye their hair crazy or multiple colors today, thank you very much. I was fashion-forward and way before my time.”

  I can’t argue with her. “Yes, Robin, you were a true Van Gogh. Never appreciated in your time.” Robin sticks her tongue out at me playfully the exact way Marianna is so fond of doing. My mom swipes again and we are all eagerly awaiting the next memory and it’s Robin and Jeff on their wedding day.

  “You were the perfect bride.” Mom beams.

  “Thanks, Mom. My goodness, I can’t believe how young Jeff and I look. Maybe I need to pop down to the dermatologist and see what he can do for me.”

  “Please, you work weirder and longer hours than I do. You look great for your lack of sleep and having an energetic four-year-old,” I remind Robin.

  My mom turns to me. “I hope I’ll be able to see you get married.”

  I don’t like her talking about not being here even if it is a possibility and I snap at her. “Why would you even say that? Of course you will!” I catch my breath and let my emotions subside. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be all huffy. It was just upsetting to hear you say that.”

  I can see in her eyes she accepts my apology.

  “Maybe things will work out with this Nick fellow…” she says lingeringly. Leave it to my mother to be killing the cells in her body and more concerned about me finding a husband.

  “One date at a time, Mom. Can we swipe to the next picture and get me out of this pressure cooker?” I beg.

  She smiles and swipes again to a family photo from the summer we spent at Lake Champlain in Vermont in our coordinated denim shirt–and–white shorts ensembles … with my dad. Our last family photo.

  “I can’t believe how long it’s been,” I slip. I didn’t mean to weigh down this experience even more but it just came out when I saw the photo. I always thought I was older but looking at that picture now, I realize I was just a kid when he died.

  “Fifteen years next July,” my mom reflects, brushing her finger over him on the iPad. Seeing our last photo together while my mother is in the middle of getting chemo … the emotions are a bit too much to tolerate and somehow we’ve managed to make cancer even more depressing.

  “I brought something, too.” I want to lighten the mood, and neither my mom nor Robin seems to have any objection to me changing the activity. I pull this week’s issue of The Life out of my purse. Robin doesn’t object and we huddle back around Mom.

  “I need to see what her diet is for this postbaby body five weeks after delivery,” Robin exclaims with a lot of doubt. My mother flips to the page with the article and Robin scoffs. “Please, there’s no way that Foreign Lingerie Model Turned Business Mogul can claim she lost all that weight, ‘running around with the baby.’ It’s medically impossible even with a superhuman metabolism. I smell a secret tummy tuck. There, El. You have a new story. You’re welcome.”

  “Just because it took you over a year to take the baby weight off with Marianna doesn’t mean that’s how long it takes for everyone,” I jest. Robin smiles but also looks like she sort of wants to obliterate me … in the most loving way possible. My mom loosens her shoulders and rests her hands in her lap. We may not be Wendy Williams but she’s enjoying watching our spirited sibling sparring, and the return to a more tongue-in-cheek dynamic is making her feel at ease. “I think we would all much more enjoy the article on Self-Deprecating Clumsy Awards Season Darling’s hair transformation.” I flip to that page.

  “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you girls. This is horrible and I know I’m going to feel even worse as the days go on but having both of you here with me makes this tolerable.”

  I’ve been trying to hold back my emotions all day. Between chemo and cancer and the photo of my dad and now her saying nice things I can’t hold it in any longer.

  “Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom.” I rush out of the treatment room and am able to find the bathroom without feeling like I’m navigating my way through a cornfield maze. I go into the first stall of the empty bathroom and the door swings shut behind me as I grab a piece of toilet paper and use it as a makeshift tissue. Before I leave to check the mirror for any smudged makeup, two women enter in medias res of what I come to learn is a confidential gossip session and I immediately overhear one of them mention Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star. My ears abruptly perk up.

  “I actually feel really sorry for her,” the first woman says. “You can tell none of this was her idea.” I stare at the women’s feet through the bottom of the stall. They’re wearing sensible heels that I can tell are made from expensive leather so I’m guessing they’re either doctors or high up in hospital personnel. I don’t want to risk leaving the stall and having them clam up, so their identities will have to remain a mystery.

  “I know,” the second woman agrees. “She is showing signs of improvement, though.”

  “Youth is on her side for that. But after this who knows if she’ll ever be able to live a normal life?”

  “Doctors can only help her heal physically. The rest is in God’s hands. I’m praying for that girl every day.”

  One of their pagers rings and they both flee the restroom as quickly as they arrived. I grab my iPhone from my pocket.

  Hi Victoria,

  I’m not sure if you can use this or not but I’m at the hospital where Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star was hospitalized and while I was in the bathroom I overheard two women talking about her. I don’t know who they are but they work at or for the hospital in some capacity. They said that she’s showing signs of improvement but they aren’t sure if she’ll necessarily ever be able to have a normal life.

  Victoria responds immediately.

  Thank you, Ella. I will see what I can do and will keep you posted on your points. I’m still hunting for a source that knows what triggered her breakdown. It’s my top priority. If you can find that out you won’t need to worry about points anymore!

  I return to the treatment room a little more confident and a lot less emotional to find Dr. Jacobs with my family.

  “… I won’t know anything until I know.” He seems particularly stringent when I arrive. “You need to be patient and trust me,” he tells them.

  “We do, Dr. Jacobs. It’s just our nerves and the time that’s making her mind wand
er,” Robin explains. From what I’ve seen, Dr. Jacobs doesn’t seem like a man who’s familiar with the concept of nerves or free time and with that is paged and excuses himself.

  “What were you guys talking about?” I ask.

  “I wanted to know when he would have an idea if I’m responding to the chemo,” my mom tells me.

  “You will,” Robin insists. “I know he can’t or won’t guarantee anything, but Dr. Jacobs never lets cancer win.” We return to the iPad, and I’m memory lane’s next target as my gawky teen years flash before my eyes, giving me a small dose of horror and my mom and sister a nice laugh.

  Even with the minor hiccups, the hours that I thought would be torturous flew by, and it feels wrong to say but I enjoyed our time there.

  “Can I get you anything?” Robin asks Mom when we return to her hospital room.

  “Thank you, but no. I’m exhausted.” She sighs. “All I want to do is get in bed and watch The Wendy Williams Show.”

  We help my mom into bed and she immediately grabs the remote and turns on the TV.

  “Can I watch with you?” I ask.

  “Of course, sweetheart, snuggle in.” She lifts her arm for me to find my spot.

  “Room for one more in there?” Robin asks. Robin has never made it a secret that she’s not the biggest fan of the show but she’s doing her darn best to make an effort.

  “Always.” My mom lifts her other arm and her energy is waning.

  “Do you have to grab Marianna from school?” I ask.

  “Jeff is picking her up, which is nice because I didn’t realize how tired I am.”

  I let out a little grunt and realize how tired I am, too. We all are because we fall asleep together for a little nap before Wendy interviews her first guest.

  Fifteen

  “He’s cooking for you? At his condo?” Jess asks with a suggestive look in her eye.