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by Angie M. Brashears

  But I still didn’t make an appointment, not yet.

  My turning point? Not the hip pain, pretty much always there, even when I was doing nothing to cause it? Waking up in pain didn’t clue me in. I finally called and made an appointment with my doctor when I sat down and did the math. Somehow, I’d managed to take a 300-count bottle of Motrin in just under a month. My poor liver.

  Sure, if one of the girls was having cramps, I’d send them, while singing my catchy tune, to the medicine cabinet. Well, if I’m being generous, they maybe took ten pills, between the three of them, total. Then the real problem set in. Scaring the bejezus out of me.

  Cramps and calendars, and I tried to think back to my last period. Months ago? Could I be pregnant? I heard that you’re hips hurt when you get pregnant. Something about your body stretching out. I have been really tired lately. Sick to my stomach. All clues pointed to get a fucking test, stat.

  If I really thought it was something like an unplanned pregnancy, I would’ve charted a course for a different doctor.

  Even back then, I knew it wasn’t a pregnancy scare. Because I made an appointment with the doctor who’s known me since birth. Knows my parents on a first-name basis. I’ve played in his pool, eaten at his BBQs. I bopped into the office in my paint smock for a quickie hello and a checkup. Hoping to be back before the paint dried on my latest creation. Just a script, maybe an X-ray, but I never thought I’d get the surprise of my life. And that only came after countless tests—blood and urine—plus a trip to the hospital for those X-rays with an added bonus of an MRI.

  I fake a yawn that turns real. Chemo wears you out. “I’m beat. Gonna take a nap till Mom gets back. Tell her I’m definitely staying for dinner.” The light-hearted tone of my voice is only skin deep.

  The crushing anchor that is my truth weighs heavily on my soul.

  Tonight it is, then. Unless I want to do a shore-to-ship call to let my brother in on my news.

  ……

  Lying back on my mom’s pressed bedspread takes work. I hold both hips like a basket of eggs, careful to support them as I go. It’s a habit. I lie stock-still until I’m sure there will be no searing pain to deal with. Once I’ve got the all-clear from my body, I extend my arms, always listening for the first protest, the first twinge, but there’s none.

  So I get to work and make snow angels. My arms decimate the frontline of artfully arranged throw pillows. She’s got them three deep against the headboard, so I use a combination of swim maneuvers and heel pushes to move higher. My arcs become wider, I burrow in, and really get going. Most end up on the floor. Yet I continue pushing through them, mussing up her perfectly coiffed bed. It’s what’s expected of me.

  Because I usually mess everything up.

  The reason I know it’s my calling card, like a tic?

  My mom doesn’t even bother to comment about my unruly ways anymore, not even with a dirty look, before she’s on it. Bending to pick up pillows like it’s the most natural thing to leave a neat space and come back to a hurricane alley. Not a word, just sets about fluffing and straightening the minute she sees the bedlam I’ve left her bedroom in.

  Wait until she hears about the shambles I’ve left my body in.

  Who’s gonna leave you messes to clean when I’m gone, Momma? Melancholy washes over me at the thought. She’ll grow old with disuse when I’m gone.

  God knew what he was doing when he shoved this little bundle into my mom’s belly. I was a chaos baby, one who never ate, slept or shit when she was supposed to. I know, I’ve heard all the stories—me, of all things, paired with my orderly family. A born mess-maker, I started finger painting on every surface before I could crawl, sometimes with my own poop! That was the artist in me. Yep, give that little ball of mayhem to the mother with OCD issues. That will liven up the place.

  The saint who cleaned up every one of my messes till I found friends to do it for me. Well, one friend in particular: Lola. The peanut butter to my jelly. The pasta to my sauce. A true fixer by nature, and we gravitated towards each other like fingerprints to glass. She lives to clean up after me. Revels in my shenanigans, which she always manages to fix. At least…I think she does.

  Maybe she secretly hates me and will be glad when I’m gone. I blow a raspberry. “I’m such a downer today.” Of course she loves helping her ChloBug out. If she didn’t, she would’ve dumped me a long time ago. Simple as that.

  I look at the group text she sent.

  Dumped! That was a personal best! Less than six months in and he’s already over me. Is anyone available this Friday to come to my Dumped Drunk Party? If you are, just text. I’ll be radio silent this week. You know the drill.

  Sadly, we all do.

  She’ll give herself one work week that will be over—I look at the text—Friday, in which time she’ll be at work every day, probably early. She never misses, not even when her appendix burst, so getting dumped sure isn’t going to stop her. But once she clocks out and makes it home, every night, between the hours of five and eleven, that’s her penciled-in me-time to get over him.

  To cry, shriek, break things—that’s the allotted space to do it in. I hope her ex, Matt, knows to expect one or three hang-ups, a few drunk dials, and a couple of random tit pics. It’s the Lola way to cope. Any items with his scent on it, into the dumpster. His face torn out of every picture, maybe a backyard bonfire where she dances around his flaming snowboard. I don’t know what she’s got on the agenda this week.

  It’s her thing. Because she never lasts longer than six months with any guy, she’s got the grieving thing down to a science. When the work week ends and she’s out of tears, that’s when we come in. Her posse. We all rally around, celebrating making it through yet another break-up in one piece. Her Dumped Drunk Party.

  Em, the planner of the bunch and my chemo buddy, texted back immediately. I’m in court all week. I get out at 4:00 on Friday. The Last Drop at 5:30? Any objections? Then I’ll reserve a table.

  Roxy, the one who keeps us looking fabulous: No drinking, but I’ll eat a piece of Dumped cake. She’s ready to pop she’s so pregnant.

  And me, I’ve yet to comment. I don’t need to; they all know I wouldn’t miss it. I count the dates in my head. That’s five days away. I’ll be cutting it close, but I’ll be there.

  Besides, I don’t know what to say. I thought Matt would be a post for her to lean on at my funeral. Dammit, Lola, can you keep one guy till I die? That would be one way to tell her about my prognosis. Can you imagine? So I type nothing.

  I think of Lola and the shambles that is her love life. We’ve muscled through more than a few as a group.

  Though it is funny…I can’t think of a single other thing I’ve done for her. Hmmm. Besides giving her a whole lot of Chloe-sized problems to deal with. Not one instance where she’s called needing a hand and I’ve come on the run.

  I’ve got to change that before it’s too late.

  Okay, so top of the good ole bucket list—Or F#ck It List, just the name makes me smile—make as many messes—really create some Chloe-sized havoc—as I can in the short amount of time I’ve got left. Binge their asses on Chloe until they’re so fed up, they’ll be happy to see me go.

  “Lie.” I yawn, shoving a throw pillow between my legs. If I don’t keep them separated and at a perfect 90 degrees, I won’t be able to walk the rest of the night. The trick hip doesn’t always cooperate.

  I drift off, and think of Mason Dixon and his list. Maybe you’ve got my “dick’s” desire on that F#ck It List of yours, Masey Boy. But what about my heart’s desire? Let’s see, for one, I’d like someone else to break my news to the family unit. Preferably when I’m not around. Next, I’d like to be healthy. But that’s all that I can come up with on a moment’s notice. My “dick” is currently out of desires.

  Which leads me back to tonight’s dinner party from hell.

  Sure to be the world’s worst. It doesn’t matter what’s on the menu, cancer’s on the dessert cart. Tonigh
t’s the night. When I have the talk with my family, it’s all going to change. It’s only right. They need to know that this time next year, there’s going to be one less Christmas present to buy.

  ……

  I get the link for the Spin Show interview with Mason Dixon as promised and watch it. But it takes a while. My family is holding me hostage!

  “What do you mean there’s nothing they can do? Chloe!” My dad thinks he can yell the cancer away. He holds my mom against his side like she’s trying to run. Maybe she is. “Explain yourself, young lady.”

  Mom weeps into his shirt, not wanting to make her sick kid feel bad, only wants to know how long I’ve known.

  I sigh. It’s my mess, I’ve gotta clean it up.

  I pull up my big-girl panties and face the tears of my loved ones.

  “I’ve known since last year.”

  Looks of disbelief cross everyone’s face.

  I try to be nonchalant as I add, “I thought I’d get chemo, maybe some light radiation, and be back too normal, no sweat.”

  My mom pushes my dad’s reaching arms away. “You’ve had chemo…without me!”

  “Oh. I thought you were dieting.” I try for a joke, but no one laughs.

  Ronny, in shorts and dog tags now that the parental units is home, sits on the edge of the recliner, elbows braced on his knees, carefully berating me. When he starts, I jump at his serious tone. “Stow it, sis. At the very least, Mom had a right—no, has a right—to know. You should have told her.” With a hurt look, he adds, “You should have, at the very least…told me. Enough of the smart talk.” Both of his fists are clamped so tight the knuckles are white, as if he could kick some cancer ass. I wish, big brother.

  I reach over, squeeze a shaking fist, and say, “Thanks for dressing up.”

  “Stow it,” he mumbles, but his fist opens and swallows my hand.

  “Why are you just telling us now?” My mother’s lips are so tight; all I see is lip liner.

  “I didn’t want to tell you ever.” The looks of sorrow that age my parents before me are my undoing. The tears start. “Because of that look.” I point to all of them. “Right there,” I sniffle. “I just wanted you to be you, and not staged around me.” I pick lint from my leggings. “Especially since there’s nothing you, me or anyone can do. Not a damn thing.

  “I just didn’t want it to be all creepy around here when I come over. Like the whole eggshell walk and treating me like I need a helmet or something. Call me shellfish if you want, and I’ll go take a dip in the ocean, but please treat me the same. That’s all I want. A tiny slice of normal from my family, with maybe a scoop of happy on top in my fucked-up situation! Is that too much to ask?”

  “Language!” Dad barks out before realizing he’s just yelled at the one with the cancer. My mom elbows him in the gut.

  “That’s all right, Dad. I’m not made of glass.” I give him a smile, but it’s already started. “Besides, I’m being blackmailed by your bud, Dr. Fitzmann. He said, and I quote, ‘I will throw aside my shingle, spit on the Hippocratic oath, and renounce my position in this community just to tell your family what you’re not doing.’ I take a breath before realizing my mistake. Shit. They thought the cancer was bad; they haven’t even heard the half of it.

  Through clenched teeth, my mom asks. “What are you not doing, Chloe?”

  Here’s the other half. “Cooperating. I’m not going to have the surgery that he and my oncologist have been hyping for the last six months.”

  They don’t ask, just wait—till the end of time, if need be—for me to speak.

  I sigh. Here it comes. “An amputation. Of course, there will be no guarantee that all the cancer will be gone. Just the best parts of me.” The phony smile on my face turns the pot roast in my stomach.

  Pointing at my hip, I list the bad news, in order. “Where it started, and for some strange reason, spread.” I pat my opposite leg. “To the femur here.” Their faces give nothing away, just watch my display of hot spots. “And here.” I hold both hands up in jazz hands.

  Through a blur of tears, I say, “I’m no good without these, Ma.”

  ……

  “There has to be another way.” Dad removing his glasses to swipe at tears is a sight I never wanted to see. Powerless. That’s what I am. Now what we are. A spot I never wanted to put my parents in. The flip of a coin. Heads: you live with no hands or legs. Tails: you do nothing and die. I call tails every time. It’s really a no-brainer.

  Well, for me it is. My hands are my life.

  The whole family wants every single sordid detail of my last year. When did I have my first chemo? Did it hurt? Who was with me when I threw up? Why do I still have my hair? Did I get a second—well, then a third opinion? Will I finally admit that I’m not equipped to take care of myself and move back home?

  Well, Mom didn’t phrase it exactly like that, but I know that’s what she wanted to say.

  I feel like one of those Magic 8 balls, with only the negative answers swimming up through the mystery blue liquid. No hopeful, “Outlook good,” or “Signs point to yes.” No, I’m the cue ball with all the negative answers, the only ones I can give.

  They keep asking, hoping for a different outcome, but I keep giving them, “My reply is no,” “Outlook does not look good,” “Better not tell you now.” There’s only so many ways to say I’m dying. Tired of the Monday morning quarterbacking, I zone out and stare at the muted TV while they talk amongst themselves.

  Until my mom snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hey! We’re not done here.” I look around. It’s just me and Mom. I hear the guys moving around in the kitchen, not talking. Probably whispering about what a bad sister-daughter I am.

  I reach up and pull my mom close. “I love you, Mom. But, yes, I’m done.” I look into her pained eyes, seeing wrinkles at the corners where there were none before. “Please.”

  The guys clear their throats and make all kinds of noise when they come back in, a container of ice cream split between them. Only Dad got the custard dish full, and Ronny’s eating the majority right from the bucket. They sense that tonight’s entertainment has come to a conclusion. My mom, without a word, has morphed into my protector. Covering me with a blanket, carefully tucking in the edges—just how I like to be mummied—getting the remote, turning down the lights.

  “Your sister may want some of that,” she snipes at Greedy, who tries to hand me the ladle he’s using for a shovel. I hold up my hand, revolted. Hmmm. I never turn down ice cream. I check my watch. “Dammit.” I missed a few pills. “What do you need?” They ask in unison.

  Rummaging in my purse so I don’t have to watch them fall all over themselves to get it. I ask for, “Water.”

  ……

  As I’m flipping through cooking, reality, and home improvement options, flitting from one show to the next—which no one is complaining about, I might add—Ronny smacks his head. “No wonder you wanted to find out about Dixon. The cancer!”

  “Ronny.” But it’s more subdued than scolding. My parents’ hearts can’t take much more of this.

  “No, I told you. I hadn’t even heard of him, ever.”

  Very matter-of-factly, he says, “Lies.”

  Everything about him is bugging me. Take his current behavior, for example. He’s holding my feet up like they teach in first-aid videos. I don’t know if blood’s returning to my heart any faster, but my hip’s not hurting, so I tolerate it. Annoyed, I tell him, “Go get the Dixon thing. Is it a tape or something?”

  Without a word, he carefully puts down my feet and dusts them off. He turns to me and clears his throat. I’m in for it now. “What do you mean, like an eight track? A Beta? Maybe a laser disc? A vid-e-o? Do you want me to load a spool of film on my Super 8 projector, sis? For some moving pictures, Valley girl?”

  “Touché,” I yawn and close my eyes. When he’s right he’s right.

  It seems like I need more and more downtime lately. Soon my life will be one big nap.


  Ronny heads upstairs, and I feel a shadow over me. Dad. I open my eyes and see tears glistening in his. “Is it okay if I hug you?” He gets down on one knee and reaches for me. “You don’t have to ask,” I mumble as I get smothered in my dad’s armpit. Somehow, his beefy arm ends up around my ears, pulling my hair out by the root. I feel his glasses hit the back of my head. All I can do is submit to his messy chokehold.

  “You can hug all you want,” I wheeze. “Just easy with the headlock.”

  He laughs, smooths my hair out of my flushed face, and kisses the tip of my nose. “My little Tasmanian devil.”

  “My big, strong papa,” I whisper, but I can’t help staring at the precious strands of my hair that dangle from his fingertips.

  ……

  It turns out there’s this newfangled thing called a link, which Ronny has had to explain, in detail. He’s giving us a book report like he’s being graded. He just has to get this out. When he starts in on survival skill tactics, I’ve had it.

  I whip a throw pillow at his head. “Zippppp it.”

  And he does, no protest, no snappy remark, nothing. Just an audible click as his trap shuts. He nabs the pillow midair, and without another word he starts to fluff it.

  When it’s nice and plump, he adds it to the growing stack under my feet. He steps back to survey his work. I roll my eyes at the absurdity of my feet needing more cushioning than my head. “Are you finished? Wanna pull a mattress down the stairs next? Jeez, I’m the same old me, plus a couple of tumors, give or take.” What sounded funny in my head falls flat with this tough crowd.

  “Touché,” Ronny mutters.

  Mom makes no excuses, just runs from the room. Probably to cry amidst her pillows. “Hey Mom…” I was meaning to tell her I left a mess, but hearing her heels overhead, I know she’s already on the job.

  Dad follows, after standing on the upstairs landing and staring down at me for an uncomfortably long time. They retreat to safety behind a closed bedroom door where they can compare and contrast all my answers, reading between every line, searching for any thread of hope. My dad will give my mother all of the comfort she needs amongst her perfectly coiffed pillows. I’m clocking out.