by Anthology
She finished putting herself together—handbag, cell phone, keys—and walked through the now-familiar putty-colored hallway of the clinic. There was soothing Native American–style artwork on the walls and soothing New Age music drifting from speakers in the ceiling. As usual, everyone here was busy, hurrying somewhere with a chart or heading into one of the exam rooms. And as usual, everyone she passed offered a distracted but sincere smile of encouragement.
The waiting room was a different story. There, patients seemed almost furtive as they studied magazines or checked the inboxes of their BlackBerries. It was almost as if they didn’t want to make eye contact for fear of seeing something they shouldn’t—hope or despair or some combination of both—in the eyes of another patient.
Miranda realized none of the people in the waiting room could know she was leaving the place for good. She wouldn’t be back for three whole months, and then only for a checkup. Still, she felt an odd flicker of survivor guilt as she passed through the room, past the burbling tabletop fountain, the aspidistra plant that had doubled in size since she’d been coming here, the magazine rack, for the last time.
She stepped out into the dazzling sunshine of an Indian summer afternoon. For a moment it was so bright Miranda felt disoriented, as if she had lost her bearings. Then she blinked, dug out her sunglasses and put them on. The world came into view. Seattle in September was a place of matchless beauty, a time of warm, golden days, incredibly clear skies and crisp nights that held the snap of autumn in the air. Today had been graced with the kind of weather that made normally industrious people sit out on the patios of urban cafés, sipping granitas and tilting their faces up to the sun.
From the hospital on First Hill—also known as Pill Hill, thanks to the abundance of hospitals and medical centers in the area—she could look toward the waterfront and see the bustle of downtown, with its disorganized tangle of freeways and the distinctive spike of the Space Needle rising above Elliott Bay. Farther in the distance lay Seattle’s signature defining view—deep blue Puget Sound lined by evergreen-clad islands and inlets, the horizon edged by mountains that appeared to be topped with blue-white whipped cream. It didn’t matter whether you’d been born here—as Miranda had—or if you were a newcomer, Puget Sound dazzled the eye every time you looked at it.
A car horn blasted, causing her to jump back onto the curb. Whoops. She’d been so busy admiring the scenery that she hadn’t been paying attention to the signals. She dutifully waited for the little green pedestrian man to tell her when it was safe to move forward. It would be incredibly ironic to survive cancer, only to get squashed by a bakery truck.
She hiked half a block to the bus stop and checked the schedule. The ride that would take her home to Queen Anne, the area where she lived, wouldn’t be here for another thirty minutes.
She sat down on a bench and dialed Jacob on her cell phone.
“Hey, gorgeous,” her husband said by way of greeting.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only when I hear your special ring, babe.”
“You’re using your driving voice,” she remarked.
“What’s that?”
She smiled a little. “Your driving voice. I can always tell when you’re on the road.”
He laughed. “What’s up?”
“I just came from Dr. Turabian’s.”
“Are you all right?” This, of course, was his knee-jerk reaction these days. Jacob found the whole cancer business terrifying, and to be fair, most guys his age didn’t expect to find themselves helping a young wife through a life-threatening disease. Jacob even seemed afraid of her, scarcely daring to touch her, as if he feared she might break. At first, he had accompanied Miranda to all her appointments—the tests and treatments, the follow-up visits. He was wonderful, trying to mask his near panic, yet Miranda found his efforts so painful to watch that it actually added to her stress. In time, she found it simpler to go on her own or with one of her girlfriends. At first Jacob had fought her—I’m coming with you, and you can’t stop me—but eventually, he accepted her wishes with a sort of shamefaced relief.
“It was my last visit,” she reminded him. “And it went just as we’d hoped. All the counts and markers checked out the way Dr. Turabian wanted them to.” She took a deep breath. The air was so sharp and clean, it hurt her lungs. “I’m done.”
“What do you mean, done?”
“Like, done done.” She laughed briefly, and her own laughter sounded strange, like the rusty hinge to a door that rarely opened. “He doesn’t want to see me again for three months. And it’s unexpectedly weird. I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s as if I’ve forgotten what I used to do before I had cancer.”
“Well.” Jacob sounded as though he was at a loss, too. Afraid to say the wrong thing. “How do you feel?”
She knew what he was really asking: “When can you start back to work?” Her sabbatical from her job had definitely taken a toll on the family finances. Though she felt a pinch of annoyance, she didn’t blame him. Throughout this whole ordeal, he had kept the family afloat, juggling work and extra household responsibilities so she could focus on getting on with her treatment, which touched off an exhaustion so crippling she couldn’t work. His job, in beverage sales to large grocery chains, kept him constantly on the road. He earned a commission only, no base salary, so every sale mattered. And Lord knew, the bank account needed all the help it could get. They had budgeted for their house on the assumption that they’d be a two-income family.
“I feel all right, I think.” Actually she felt as if she had run a marathon and crossed the finish line with no one around to see her do it. The world looked the same. Traffic still flowed up and down the hills, boats and barges still steamed back and forth across the Sound, and pedestrians still strolled past, oblivious to the fact that she’d just completed cancer treatment and had lived to tell the tale.
“Good,” said Jacob. “I’m glad.”
She watched a pigeon stroll along the sidewalk, poking its beak at crumbs. “Me, too. I’d better let you go. See you tonight?”
“I’ll try not to be too late. Love you, babe.”
“Love you.” She put away her phone and pondered their habit of declaring their love, something they now did without thinking. When she’d first been diagnosed, telling her husband and kids “I love you” every time she parted from them or hung up the phone had seemed mandatory. Facing her own mortality made her painfully cognizant of the fact that every “goodbye” could be the last. Even though her prognosis had been good, she’d been careful to make certain everyone in her family heard her say “I love you” every day. As time went on, however, repetition and habit sucked the meaning from the phrase. Nowadays, signing off with “love you” was not that much different from “see you later.”
Rifling through her wallet for her bus pass, she found a note she’d written to herself on a slip of paper. In her support group, other members were big on telling you to write down affirmations and positive thoughts, and keep them tucked in your pockets, your purse, wherever you might come across them. Miranda recognized her handwriting on the note, but she had absolutely no recollection of writing it. The note said, “You can’t have today back. So make sure you spend it in the best possible way.”
A wise sentiment, to be sure, but it didn’t really illuminate what the “best possible way” meant. Did it mean surrounding herself with friends and family? Helping a stranger? Creating an original work of art? She should have been more specific. She folded the note and put it back in her wallet.
The landscaping by the bus stop was uninspired—laurel hedges, asters and mums. The plantings were hardy and dependable, if a bit boring. Miranda adored gardening, but she had become a bit of a snob about it. One of the things she’d promised herself during the treatment was that she was going to get back into gardening.
In the blue distance, the white-and-green ferryboats of Puget Sound glided back and forth between the isla
nds to the west. A tourist was parasailing over Elliott Bay and Miranda felt a smile unfurl on her lips. What a beautiful thing to do, floating high above the blue water, the rainbow-colored chute blooming like a flower in the cloudless sky. From this distance, the tether that bound the rig to the speedboat was invisible, so it really did look as if the person was flying free.
Miranda had never been parasailing. Maybe she should try it one day. She glanced at her watch, and then at the bus schedule. Maybe she should try it now.
Oh, come on, she told herself. You’ll miss your bus.
There’s always another bus. You can’t have today back, a wise woman had once written.
Miranda got up, hoisted the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and started walking. It was an easy walk since it was all downhill. She must have been going at a perfect pace because every single pedestrian light turned green as she approached it. She got the feeling the whole of downtown was urging her on.
As she crossed to the waterfront by way of a pedestrian overpass, she walked through the usual gauntlet of panhandlers. And like the other pedestrians, she averted her gaze, though even without looking, she could picture them perfectly—drowsy castoffs layered in old clothes, all their possessions in a shopping cart or knapsack. Most had battered cups out for change, some with crudely lettered signs that read, Spare Change or simply God Bless.
Miranda kept her eyes trained straight ahead. If you pretend not to see them, they’re not really there. She couldn’t do it, though, and she experienced the guilt anyone would feel for these people. She reminded herself that there were shelters where panhandlers could go for help, and all they had to do was show up. And of course, everyone knew you shouldn’t give them money. They’d only spend it on beer.
Then it struck her. So what if they spent their meager donations on beer? Maybe that was all that stood between them and the urge to walk off the end of a pier and sink to the bottom of the Sound.
She slowed her pace and took out her wallet. There were five panhandlers stationed apart at regular intervals, like sentries sitting guard duty. She didn’t have a lot of cash on her but she gave everything away, every cent, trying to divide it evenly among them. A couple of them whispered a thank-you, while the others merely nodded as though too weary to speak. Miranda didn’t care. She wasn’t doing this for the thanks.
When her wallet was empty of cash, she stuck it in her back pocket and continued to the waterfront. Down on Alaska Way, a busy street that hugged the shoreline and bristled with piers, she encountered another panhandler, this one a woman sitting on an apple crate and holding a sign marked Homeless. Need Help.
Miranda hesitated, then made eye contact with the woman. “I gave all my money to the people up on the Marion Street bridge,” she confessed.
“That’s okay. You have a good day, now.”
Miranda plucked the butter-yellow sweater from her shoulders. “Can you use this?” It was a designer piece from Nordstrom’s, made of fine-gauge Sea Isle cotton. The sweater had been a gift from her motherin-law, who believed that no problem was so huge it couldn’t be solved by a great sweater from Nordstrom’s.
“Sure, honey, if you don’t mind giving it up.”
“I don’t mind.” She handed over the sweater.
“Oh, that’s soft. Thank you.” The woman’s callused hand trembled as she smoothed it over the fabric.
“You’re welcome.” On impulse, Miranda opened her handbag. She took out the personal items—her cell phone, her keys and a bottle of pills and stuck them in her pockets. What remained were the usual purse things—a pack of Kleenex, a comb and a lipstick, a calculator, a tiny flashlight.
“This might come in handy, too,” she said.
This offer made the woman frown. “That’s a nice bag,” she said, but her voice was dubious.
She had good taste. It was another gift from Miranda’s motherin-law, a Dooney & Burke that had probably retailed for a few hundred dollars.
“I’ve got another at home.”
“You’re not from the mission, are you?” the panhandler asked. “I already tried the mission, and it don’t work for me.”
“I’m not from the mission. Just someone…passing by.”
The woman still eyed her skeptically.
Miranda heard the blast of a ferry horn, the cry of a seagull. A breeze tickled across the back of her neck and gently wafted beneath the brim of her sun hat. Out of habit, her hand went up to keep it from blowing away. But then, instead of clamping down on the hat, she took hold of the brim.
Deep breath, she told herself, and then she swept the hat off her head. She was naked to the world now. Everyone who looked at her would know she was a cancer patient. Even after all this time, she felt self-conscious. She wanted to proclaim to anyone who would listen that she was more than a patient. She was a wife, a mother, a coworker, a friend. But when all your hair fell out and your fingernails crumbled and you lost your eyelashes, that was all people saw. A cancer patient.
Survivor, she corrected herself, handing over her hat. Cancer survivor, as of today.
The woman took it, then offered Miranda a brief smile and said, “You have a nice day now.”
As Miranda walked away, she felt strangely light, unfettered, as though she were floating already. She hoped like heck the parasailing company took credit cards.
They did, of course. Everybody did. The panhandlers probably did.
Miranda had just given away all her money, but she didn’t stop there. Feeling reckless, she paid for a spin over Elliott Bay. The guy helping her into the harness gave her hasty instructions. “There’s not much to it. Just relax and let the wind do all the work. You don’t even need to change out of your street clothes. You won’t get wet, guaranteed.”
The old Miranda, the Miranda who had never looked her own mortality square in the eye, would have been terrified. Now, though, she was matter-of-fact about danger and risk. She wondered if the harness would bother her bad arm, but decided she didn’t care. She had borne worse than that lately.
“Sounds good to me.” She bit her lip as he passed the straps under her breasts. Would he know that one of them was reconstructed? And why the heck should that matter? Don’t be silly, she told herself.
He and his partner motored out into the bay, their little speedboat dwarfed by ferries and cargo barges. Following instructions, Miranda positioned herself on the platform and waited as the chute billowed with the wind and speed. Then they let her go off the back of the boat. For a second, she dipped downward, her bare feet skimming the water. She took in a sharp breath, bracing herself for the bone-chilling cold of Puget Sound. Then the wind scooped up the chute and she went drifting high and fast, like a giant kite on a string.
After her first gasp of wonder, Miranda remained absolutely quiet, just hanging there. She had learned how to be still and stoic during her cancer treatment. She had remained absolutely still while radiologists and oncologists had examined her. Still while the surgeons studied her and made lines on her with a Sharpie marker. Still while she lay on the table of the linear accelerator while a deadly beam of light was aimed at her. Still while the machine burned its invisible rays at her, making her skin blister and crack.
She was good at holding still. And now so ready to leave that behind and let the wind sweep her away.
She saw what the seabirds saw—the dark, mysterious under-water formations, pods of sea lions sunning themselves on navigation buoys, the container ships and sailboats, the blaze of sunlight on the water. She felt the cool rush of wind through her hair—what there was of her hair. The breeze ruffled it like feathers.
She laughed aloud and wished Jacob and the kids could see her now, a human kite tail soaring above the city, with its high-rises and skeletal orange cranes in the shipyards, incongruously set against the backdrop of Mount Rainier in all its glory. Maybe she would buy the ten-dollar photo the guys in the boat had taken of her soaring, because how often did you get a picture of yourself airborne? Ye
t there was something depressing in the thought of bringing a picture home to Jacob and the kids. She’d done this cool thing alone. She couldn’t remember the last time they had done anything as a family.
She gave the parasailing crew a thumbs-up as they expertly reeled her in to the deck of the boat and motored over to the dock. Once on dry land, one of the guys printed up a photo from his digital camera and handed it to her. She reached into her back pocket for her wallet.
“It’s on me,” he said.
She put her wallet away. “Thank you.”
People were extra nice to cancer patients, she had discovered. They looked at the hair loss, the broken nails, the sallow skin and the swollen bodies, and they got scared. There but for the grace of God go I. Being nice to victims was a form of self-inoculation, perhaps. She used to think that way herself before she became a member of the cancer club. By now, she had learned to accept kindnesses big and small, from friends and strangers.
Miranda thanked the man again. She would keep the picture as something to take out and study at the odd moment—a shot of herself soaring high and free, alone against the clear blue sky.
She needed to find an ATM. She walked up the hill from the waterfront and took the concrete Harbor Steps, and from there, headed toward Pike Place Market. She made slow progress on the stairs, which was yet another frustration of this disease. Only a year ago, she had been a busy, energetic woman with everything going for her—two great kids, a caring husband, a solid—if boring—job, a spring in her step. She used to pride herself on her ability to cram so much into a single day. In under an hour, she could go from company meeting room to soccer field to fixing dinner without missing a beat.
Now she got winded on a stupid flight of stairs.
That, she decided, was going to end right now.
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. This was a big day. She needed to make a big deal of it.
