Taylor scowls. “Actually, if you must know,” he says, jerkily unzipping his hoodie to reveal a UCLA T-shirt, “I’m here because I blew my freshman year and let my family down.”
I let my family down. I wonder if he’s the first person in his family to go to university. Or if he lost a scholarship, or something. I feel a pang of jealousy at his having people to let down; I doubt my father would notice if I joined Al-Qaeda. The pains in my stomach intensify briefly, but I try to ignore them.
“Oh, so you do care what your family thinks,” says Margo, raising her eyebrows. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”
“It’s a bit different,” snaps Taylor. “My father is Arthur Mendez.”
The name sounds vaguely familiar. Instinctively, I reach for my iPhone, before remembering it’s not good for much other than a camera and calculator out here in the wilderness. I feel a twinge of homesickness for Google, if it’s possible to feel homesick for a search engine.
“Arthur Mendez, really?” Margo looks reluctantly impressed. “Like the Su Casa Arthur Mendez?”
“Yeah,” says Taylor, shoulders slumped. “That one.”
Now I remember, too. Arthur Mendez is a millionaire who opened the Su Casa chain of motels. For years, he was the star of his own commercials, which always ended with a close-up of him saying Mi casa e su casa! with a wide, blinding grin. Clearly I was wrong about the scholarship thing. Taylor wasn’t a financial-aid candidate, that’s for damn sure.
“But why should it matter?” I break in. I’m not usually the forthright type, but I can’t help myself. “Isn’t your dad, like, famous for being self-made?”
“Exactly,” says Taylor, his face darkening. He riffles through his bag and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. They’re Virginia Slims, and I see Margo smirk at his choice of brand. “He never had the chance to go to university, so he expected me to go and become, like, a lawyer and MBA. He’s always going on and on about how he feels inferior because he doesn’t have an education, so he wanted to make sure I had what he didn’t have, and blah, blah, blah.” He fishes out a fancy silver lighter that looks as if it might double as some kind of James Bond spy device and flicks it open. “Now I’ve blown that, so not only am I a huge disappointment for being gay—which I’m sure he cries about when I’m not around—but now I’ve blown the school thing too.”
“That’s all very tragic, but do not even consider lighting that cigarette in here.” Margo points at his hand, looking disgusted. “I have asthma.”
Taylor gives an exaggerated sigh and tosses the pack of smokes back in his bag. “Of course you do.”
Margo glares at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Taylor pulls the sunglasses perched on his head down over his eyes. “Forget it.”
“You know, you can cut the whole ‘poor me’ act,” says Margo irritably. “At the end of the day, you’re still a hotel heir, even if Daddy is upset. The rest of us don’t have a trust fund. And Cat’s mom is dead.”
“Thanks,” I say mildly, pulling my hair back and braiding it. “I love being reminded like that.”
She at least has the decency to blush. “Sorry,” she says. “But seriously. Whining millionaires piss me off.”
“Do you encounter many?” I ask, interested. I loop a hair tie around the end of my braid. I feel cooler and less encumbered with my hair pulled back, and my stomach settles slightly.
“I went to private school,” she says dryly. “I’ve met my share.”
“I’m a failure and I’m gay,” Taylor snaps back. “You wouldn’t understand. You’ve probably never even gotten a B.”
“Of course I’ve gotten a B.” Margo rolls her eyes again.
“What was it in? Gym?”
Margo turns away and mutters something about it not mattering. I try to hide my grin, while Taylor smirks triumphantly.
“So what made you come here, of all places?” I break the awkward silence, looking over at him.
He shrugs, fiddling with his lighter. “Students Without Boundaries was recruiting outside my Stats final. I knew I’d failed, so I went right ahead and signed up. Calantes was the only placement with openings left, probably because no one’s heard of it.”
“How could you be so sure you’d failed?” It seemed like a drastic move to make before even getting your score.
“I handed it in blank,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact.
Oh.
“I need a smoke,” he says abruptly. He grabs his bag and makes a quick exit, without looking at either of us. I can feel Margo’s eyes on me, but I don’t return the stare. I haven’t quite decided if we’re friends yet. My stomach cramps again, and this time I know there’s no ignoring it.
“I’m going out to make a phone call,” I mumble, sliding off my bed. I rush to the bathroom, nearly giddy with relief as I lock myself in a stall. I sink down on to the toilet, and as my bowels give out, I wonder what the hell I was thinking in coming here. I picture Tess shaking her head, her freckles growing increasingly prominent as she begged me not to do this. I think of Dr. Shapiro, and wonder if he has ever had diarrhea in a stiflingly hot public bathroom. I fumble in my pocket for an Imodium, ecstatic at the minty sensation as it dissolves on my tongue. While I wait for the episode to pass, I watch a huge, shiny, brown beetle with a strange orange pattern on its shell scurry around the drain under the stall door. It is just out of the reach of my feet, though I don’t know if I could bring myself to step on it, even if it were an option. I imagine the sickening crunch it would make, and shudder.
When it’s finally over, I head to Barracks H without speaking to anyone, including the guy manning the tuck shop at the front. I plunk myself down at one of the phones and take a deep breath. I don’t have to look at the buttons; my fingers know the number by heart. I wait impatiently as the phone rings its usual four times before I hear her.
“You’ve reached Paula Marks. Sorry I missed your call! You can leave a message, but I’ll probably forget to call you back. Try me by email at PaulaM at Netwave dot com.”
Hot tears stream down my face as I replace the receiver. I’ve been paying my mom’s old cellphone bill for months without telling anyone. Sometimes I call it two or three times a day.
I pause, then dial the number again.
Chapter 5
Before
“How do you think I’d look as a blonde?” My mom carefully positions a wavy, platinum wig on her head and turns to face me. “Too much?”
“You look like an eighties pop star,” I say, recoiling. “Take it off.”
“Ugh.” She tosses it on the counter. “I hate this.”
“I know.” I can’t look at her. “Me, too.”
We’re at a hair salon that specializes in hair loss. The windows are tinted, and women enter and exit through the back, so as not to be spotted going in and out. The stylists’ stations are all private, as are the wig-fitting rooms. I never dreamed that places like this existed. I wish I still didn’t know.
“I’m sure Serena’ll be able to help us.” I flounder for the right thing to say, though these days it’s getting harder and harder. “She’s probably done this hundreds of times.”
Serena is the salon owner. She’s the one who warmly ushered us in, and then promptly left us in this terrifying room while she finished up with another client. It’s filled with mannequin heads that smile with empty eyes, and the walls are decorated with Before and After photos that make me feel faint. Bald women with missing eyebrows and lashes stare at me wherever I look, their eyes on me from every corner of the room. No matter how hard I try, I still can’t picture my mother that way. But it’s coming, there’s no way around it. She starts chemo next week.
“Sorry about that.” Serena is back, a subdued smile on her face. I am duly impressed; she has perfected the Cancer Smile. Friendly, but not too enth
usiastic. Sympathetic, but not pitying. Not many people have mastered it this expertly. “Do you see anything you think you might like?”
Reflexively, my mother reaches up and touches her own hair. Thick and dark and sleek like mink, it’s the almost the exact opposite of the frizzy blonde disaster she tried on moments ago. She stares at herself in the mirror and doesn’t answer.
“We’re looking for something that looks like her natural hair,” I begin, when it’s clear my mother isn’t going to speak up. “Just maybe shorter.”
“Good choice,” agrees Serena, nodding. She scrutinizes my mom, who’s still gazing at her reflection, her eyes dull. “Perhaps a nice chestnut bob? Something with bangs? Bangs are very trendy this year.”
“That sounds great,” I say quickly.
Serena unlocks a cupboard and pulls out a few wigs, spreading them out on the counter. “So you have some options,” she says, fanning out the locks with deft fingers. “The first is synthetic.”
My mom finally snaps out of her reverie and turns to look at Serena. “I don’t want synthetic,” she says quietly. “I want it to look like real hair. I know it’s expensive, but I want it to feel like real hair.”
“Good choice,” says Serena smoothly, whisking the synthetic away and tucking it back in a basket. “And a human hair wig will be a considerably cooler option.”
“Right,” says my mom. She picks up one of the wigs in front of Serena and places it on her head. “Like it’s not a billion degrees wearing a squirrel on your head.”
“Mom.” There’s a familiar, stabbing pain in my lower abdomen, and I imagine a squirrel scurrying around my small intestine. “Let’s just listen, okay?”
Serena smiles nervously. I wonder if she’s not used to cancer patients who make a lot of bitter jokes, but then I wonder how she could be anything but used to it.
“That one you’re wearing is Indian hair,” she says, pointing. “It’s lovely and very reasonable.”
“It looks great,” I say, watching Serena adjust it on my mom’s head. “It looks just like your hair.”
It does, too; there’s no way you would know it wasn’t her own, even if you were looking closely. I wonder how many people I saw every day were wearing wigs, but I just didn’t notice them.
“Is your hair naturally straight?” Serena removes the wig and inspects my mother’s hair, eyebrows knitted in concentration as she stares at the roots.
“Yes. Why?” My mother touches her hair again, and this time doesn’t let go. I wonder if she even realizes she’s clutching a fistful of hair just under her left ear.
“Indian hair is a bit different than straight European hair,” Serena explains, picking up a third wig. “This is European. It won’t frizz too much in the humidity, for example. But the Indian one will. It might be very different than what you’re used to. If you open the oven, for example, it can frizz the hair right up.”
“Oven?” My mom stares at her blankly. “I have cancer. I don’t plan on cooking.”
Serena titters nervously. “Of course,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure you’re aware.”
My mother glances over at me, her expression dubious. “What do you think, Cat?” She grabs the two wigs, one in each hand, as if she’s weighing them. “They look so similar.”
“They look the same now, but the Indian one will frizz,” I point out. “Are you going to be able to handle that?”
“Frizzy hair and cancer?” My mom covers her face in mock horror. “I don’t know which is worse.”
I sigh and look at Serena. “Will it be harder to blow-dry?” I ask. I’m the one who will likely end up caring for it. If my mom is sick, she won’t want to, and I don’t imagine my dad would be much use.
“It might be,” says Serena. “It depends what you’re used to. If you’re used to washing and blow-drying straight European hair, then yeah, it might be tougher. But I don’t want to pressure you one way or another.”
She places the third wig on my mother’s head, adjusting it delicately. Of the three, it looks the most like her. I watch her face closely. It relaxes ever so slightly as she sees how color, texture, and sheen all match her own.
“I guess we’ll take this one,” she says. She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, then looks up at Serena. “So how does this all go down? The hair falling out, I mean.”
Serena re-engages the Cancer Face and sits down next to my mom. “Do you know which kind of chemo you’re getting?”
“Taxotere and Cytoxan,” my mom says. Her voice trembles slightly. “I start next week.”
“It will start to fall out around two weeks after,” says Serena gently. “At that point, we recommend coming back. We can cut it for you, make it easier to deal with.”
My mother nods, and takes a deep breath. “Does it come out in clumps?” she whispers.
Serena shakes her head. “It depends on the person,” she says. “It’s different for everyone. But many times, yes.”
We pay for the wig. It comes with an eerie, faceless plastic head, and Serena carefully places it in a large paper shopping bag. Swinging it over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse inside and shudder. It looks like my mom’s head has been chopped off and dropped in. Nauseous, I look away and lead my mother out of the store.
...
She starts chemo on Thursday. I want to go with her, but both my parents say no, it’s not necessary, that I have to go to school and take my English midterm. So, while my mother is at the hospital having “poison dripped into her veins” (her choice of words, not mine), I actually have to sit and write an essay on The Catcher in the Rye.
Holden repeatedly wonders where the ducks at the pond in Central Park go in the winter. What do the ducks represent? How do they factor into the larger themes of the novel?
I stare at the paper and begin writing. I actually read the book back in eighth grade—my dad has a huge library I’ve been working my way through since I learned to read, and Catcher was a favorite of my mom’s—and had been excited to see it on my eleventh-grade English syllabus. Now, though, I just scribble down whatever comes into my mind. Anything to just finish and get it over with.
When it’s done, I don’t even bother checking it before handing it in.
“Are you sure, Cat?” Mrs. Jacobs, my English teacher, raises her eyebrows when I’m the first to walk my exam booklet over to her desk. I’m usually a perfectionist, painstakingly fixing commas and correcting spelling right until the bell rings.
“Yes,” I say brusquely. “I need to get home. My mom started chemo today.”
“Oh, dear.” Her wrinkled cheeks redden, clashing with the thick layer of candy-pink blush she’s caked on. Her eyes no longer meet mine. “I’m sorry. You should get going.”
“Thanks, Mrs. J.” I give her a grateful look and drop my paper in front of her. She gives me a wan smile—she hasn’t had the opportunity to master the right Cancer Face. Hers is still painfully awkward.
Tess is waiting for me at my locker. “How’d it go?” she offers me some gum. “I just had geometry. Brutal.”
“Whatever.” I take a piece and pop it in my mouth, enjoying the burst of mint. “My mom should be home soon. Let’s book it.”
Tess walks me home. Her house is first, but she insists I shouldn’t be alone. She’s nervous, I can tell; she keeps twisting strands of curly blonde hair around her index finger and fiddling with her hat.
“Have you heard from them?” she asks. “Did it go okay, at least?”
“Nothing,” I say. “My dad can’t text. He still has a phone with buttons.” I shake my head.
“And nothing from your mom, I guess.” Her eyes are full of concern.
“No.” I tighten my scarf around my neck. Even for November, it’s cold, and the air has that smell about it that winter is coming: a scent of burning leaves, frozen earth, and damp wool. �
�She would have texted if she could. But she has an IV in her arm and stuff, I think. You know, to get the chemo.”
“Right, of course.” Tess looks markedly faint. Doctors and blood and needles terrify her. She’s been putting on her best brave face these past months, letting me confide in her after googling myself into a state of fear-induced hysteria. Only once did she ask me to stop, when I talked about the shots in the stomach my mom might need to boost her immune system during chemo.
“Please,” she’d said, turning the color of my grandma’s pea soup. “I’m doing my best here, but needles in the stomach are more than I can take.”
Which, of course, was fair. A couple of months ago, it might have made me squeamish too. Now, though, it is as if I am made of stone when it comes to medical information. My mom refused to read the pamphlet on chemo side effects, and my dad said he would read it later, which he never did: the competent, capable man who was once my father has since been replaced with a frightened, depressed doppelganger, who has put on at least five pounds in junk food and wanders around the house in the dark. So, I read it. All of it. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, taste and smell disturbances. Mouth sores, aches and pains, runny nose. Hair and nail loss. Memory loss and mental fog. Someone had to know what was coming, and, as luck would have it, that someone was me.
Tess hugs me at my front door. “Give your mom my best,” she says, tears in her gray eyes. Tess has known my family since first grade. She’s slept at our house and eaten in our kitchen and once went with my mom and me to New York to see Spring Awakening. We all stayed in the same hotel room in Times Square and shared giant cupcakes as a midnight snack. This hasn’t been easy on her, either.
“Cat.” My dad is at the door when I walk in, his face visibly relaxing with relief. “I’m so glad you’re back.” I can see the crumbs on his pants, and I know he’s been into the chips again.
“What happened? Is she okay?” I feel my heart speed up. I’d read online that some people have severe allergic reactions to chemo. Had that happened to Mom?
Undiscovered Country Page 5
