“She’s fine,” he says hastily. “She’s sleeping. She had a…a bit of a panic attack toward the end, so they gave her something to sleep.”
“Was it awful?” My voice comes out as a whisper. I unlace my boots and take off my mittens, white with little pastel bows, a gift from my mom last winter. I’d been sure I’d blown my history midterm, and she’d wanted to cheer me up. BC, I think grimly. Before cancer. Back when a lousy midterm grade was a tragedy, the worst thing that could happen. Had I appreciated my life back then? Does anyone appreciate what they have before tragedy suddenly strikes? I doubted it.
“It wasn’t great,” my dad says, sighing, his face haggard with exhaustion. His sparse hair has gone even grayer since The Diagnosis, and his usual odd style of dressing has become even stranger. Right now, he’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt with a patterned tie and pinstripe pants. He looks like a parody of the absentminded professor that he is. “There were no major reactions, nothing like that, but she was so scared.” His voice breaks. “I didn’t know how to help. Nothing I said made any difference.”
“I think Mom is beyond words,” I say gently. “Even yours.”
She’s awake when I go in. She looks so small in the bed; she’s lost a lot of weight since her surgery. There’s no medical reason behind it, I don’t think. She’s just not eating. She pushes food around on her plate, making little piles and tucking bites into napkins like a picky preschooler.
“Hi, Cat.” Her knees are drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. “How was English?”
I make a dismissive gesture and crawl into the bed next to her. “Was it scary?” I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, Cat.” Her voice breaks. “It was terrifying. I saw the IV bag and I just totally lost it. I’m sure the nurses thought I was nuts. Dad was completely freaked out.”
I take her hand and squeeze it. She squeezes back, and we sit there like that, for ages, neither of us saying a thing.
Chapter 6
After
“Welcome, everyone, to orientation.” Sari, who I spotted earlier with the guitar, waves enthusiastically at the group. We’re seated in a circle outside in the field behind the living quarters. The sun is setting, but it’s still hotter than the hottest day of summer back home. I’ve been told it never really cools down during the dry season. I’d read about the heat, of course, but my only frame of reference then was the cloying humidity of a July vacation in Florida. This was more like existing inside a wood-burning oven. Taylor and Margo are there, as are five other kids I haven’t met yet. I spot the guitar propped up against a nearby stump and try not to cringe. I’d be willing to bet my tuck money she’s going to try to get us to sing by the end of this kindergarten-style meeting.
“I know you’ve had orientations back home, so this is more like an icebreaker—so you can all get to know each other!” She smiles and brushes her wavy red hair off her face. Her eyes are wide and earnest, and she has a sprinkling of freckles on each cheek like a Raggedy Ann doll. She looks like she should have her own children’s television show, where she makes up her own earnestly quirky verses to “Wheels on the Bus.”
“We’ll start by introducing ourselves. Please give us your first name, and an adjective that describes you, using the first letter of your name. For example, I’m Smiley Sari!”
“Jesus Christ,” mutters Taylor, looking appalled. He tries to stand up, but Sari wags her finger at him. “Oh, no you don’t!” she exclaims in a sing-song voice. “Everyone has to participate. Come on, it will be fun! Taylor, you start.”
Taylor sits back down, his cheeks scarlet. “I’m Taylor,” he mutters. “And I’m…” he pauses, looking ill.
“Terrific!” pipes up Sari. Margo snorts with laughter, and Taylor puts his head in his hands.
Margo is up next. “I’m Metropolitan Margo,” she says, her voice expressionless.
“I’m not sure that ‘metropolitan’ is the sort of adjective we’re looking for,” Sari interjects, her smile never slipping from her lips. “It doesn’t really describe a person. How about marvelous?”
“How about murderous?” says Margo to me under her breath. To Sari, she smiles benignly. “Why can’t metropolitan describe a person? If I had said Texas Margo, you would have pictured me with cowboy boots and a rifle.”
“Texas doesn’t start with M,” says a boy from across the circle. He’s wearing a pair of purple hipster glasses, the thick plastic kind from the sixties or whatever. I look up to see if he’s joking, but he seems totally serious. Taylor coughs into his sleeve trying to hide his laughter.
Margo gives the boy an incredulous look. “Did you really just say that?”
He looks affronted. “Well, it’s true. The adjective has to start with the first letter of your name.”
I bite the insides of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Margo shakes her head despondently. “I knew this was a mistake.”
“There you go!” Taylor looks up, tears in his eyes from laughter. “Mistaken Margo.”
“Maybe we should move along.” Even Smiley Sari has lost her smile, and there is an edge to her voice. “Who’s next?”
“Me, I guess.” I pick at the grass between my legs and avoid looking at the others. “I’m Cat. Um…” My voice trails off. I can’t think of a single word that starts with C other than ‘cookie,’ like the Sesame Street song.
“Cool Cat?” offers Sari. I feel a surge of irritation.
“No,” I snap. “What is the point of this if you’re just going to speak for us?”
Taylor hisses through his teeth. “Ouch,” he says, delighted. “Burn.” Margo looks taken aback and grudgingly impressed.
Instantly, I regret my words. Outbursts like that one are how I ended up on Dr. Shapiro’s couch. I told the gym teacher she could go to hell when she chided me for not being able to climb a rope. That was around the time they first saw the spots on my mom’s brain, so I didn’t get in trouble or anything. Everyone just exchanged knowing looks and mouthed “cancer” at each other, and bristly old Mrs. Wolf actually put her arm around me before packing me off to the principal’s office.
Sari, for her part, has the grace to look abashed. “You’re totally right,” she says humbly. “I was defeating the purpose of this exercise. I stand corrected.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t look at her, because I’m embarrassed over losing it, and now she’s being the Bigger Person and all.
“I’m Chaotic Cat,” I say finally. “I have a lot going on.” I fold my arms protectively across my chest, noticing the black streaks of dirt on the backs of my hands. I try to brush them off, but it only aggravates the problem, smearing mud across my palms. What have I gotten myself into?
“Great!” Sari scans the group nervously, eager to move on. “Who’s next?”
“I am.” A petite blonde with beautiful, long curly hair raises her hand. She has a strong Southern accent; it comes out as “Ah am Merciful Melody.”
“That’s lovely!” Sari beams at her, grateful, probably, to have someone who is not actively sneering at the icebreaker activities.
“Yes,” says Melody. “Just like Our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
For a second, everyone falls silent. I scrutinize my sandaled feet, again not wanting to meet anyone’s eye. The awkwardness is practically tangible.
Margo is the first to speak. “This isn’t a Christian program, is it? Because I’m getting on the next plane out if I somehow missed that in the brochure.”
Sari is about to reply when Melody pipes up. “It doesn’t have to be a Christian program.” She stares at Margo, gleaming eyes earnest. “The work of Our Lord Jesus Christ is everywhere. If you look deep inside your heart, you’ll find Him there.”
“I don’t think I will,” says Margo. “I’m half-Jewish and half-atheist.”
Bespectacled boy frowns from
across the circle. “I’m not sure you can be both.”
Margo scowls. “It was meant to be flippant. Do you have Asperger’s or something?”
A guy in a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap snorts. The girl next to him, clad in cut-offs and a vintage Aerosmith concert T-shirt, is actually shaking with the effort of trying not to laugh.
Melody frowns, her hands on her hips. “Is it okay to insult people, then? To make fun of Christians, and people who can’t breathe?”
It’s too much for Aerosmith girl. She lets out a raucous guffaw, then stuffs her fist into her mouth, turning away from the circle.
“Asperger’s,” says Margo, looking at Melody, her expression disbelieving. “Not asthma.”
“Whatever,” Melody replies, unfazed. “I forgive you.”
Taylor makes retching motions and Melody frowns at him. “I forgive you, too.”
“I’m gay,” he says. “Still merciful?”
Melody doesn’t flinch. “Hate the sin, love the sinner,” she says primly.
“You know what?” Sari stands abruptly and goes over to retrieve her guitar. “Why don’t we skip the name game and have a bonfire? Maybe make some s’mores?”
Orioles guy—his name is Gavin—leaps up to help Sari start a fire, nearly tripping over himself with eagerness. Turns out he’s a survival hobbyist of some kind, like that guy on TV who wanders the forest for days on end with no supplies, whispering manly comments to the camera about eating insects and grubs to stay alive. Gavin seems nice enough, but watching him furiously rub sticks together to spark a flame is deeply annoying when Taylor is waving around his lighter.
Everyone is in better spirits when the s’mores are passed around. I bite into the gooey mess of chocolate, marshmallow, and graham cracker and immediately feel restored. I haven’t had s’mores in ages. My mom and I used to make them over our gas stove with chopsticks. She was a pro at toasting marshmallows so that they were meltingly soft on the inside and crispy on the outside. I tried it by myself, once, and my marshmallow caught fire. I took it as a sign and haven’t attempted it again since.
“You okay?” Margo is next to me, delicately nibbling at a roasted marshmallow on a stick. “I think maybe we got off to a bad start. I’m not really that big of a bitch.”
I lick some melted chocolate off my fingers and nod, trying to smile. “Me neither,” I say. “Just jet-lagged and bipolar.”
We both laugh. Taylor sidles up to us, carefully balancing three perfectly assembled s’mores, which he passes out. “Ladies,” he says, nodding. “We have a problem.”
“Oh?” Margo gives him a wary look. “I was just apologizing to Cat here. I think we all got off to a bad start.”
“Forget it.” Taylor waves a sticky hand dismissively. “We have bigger fish to fry now.”
“We do?” I hold the s’more in my hand without eating it. I’m starting to feel queasy.
“Guess who our fourth roommate is.” He looks grim.
“Not Asperger’s boy?” Margo looks aghast.
“No, his name is Scott, so no gender mix-ups there. Guess again.”
“Oh, no,” I groan, realizing who Taylor is referring to. “Scarlett O’Hara?”
“Yup.” Taylor polishes off his s’more and turns to gesture at Melody, who is sitting next to Sari singing an enthusiastic rendition of “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” putting pointed emphasis on the “hallelujah” part. Everyone else is milling around, discreetly avoiding her. Even Sari’s eyes are cast downward, concentrating hard on her guitar.
“Maybe she’s not that bad,” I say doubtfully. “We shouldn’t stereotype. You wouldn’t want her to stereotype you, right?”
“True,” says Margo. “You wouldn’t want her to assume you like musicals, or whatever.”
Taylor grins. “I do like musicals.”
Margo shrugs. “Forget it, then. Just no one bring up evolution.”
I start to laugh, and Margo and Taylor join in. I don’t notice Emerson sneak up from behind and tap me on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he says. “Glad you seem to be settling in.”
“Hi,” I say. “Have you met Margo and Taylor? They’re my roommates.”
Emerson looks at Taylor, surprised. “The dorms aren’t supposed to be coed.”
“He has a girl’s name and he’s gay,” says Margo bluntly. “So it’s all good. We’re cool with it.”
Taylor grits his teeth. “It is not a girl’s name.”
“Yeah, there’s that guy from those vampire movies,” Emerson offers.
Taylor claps Emerson on the back. “Dude, you’re my new best friend.”
“Bet you can’t remember his last name, though,” Margo challenges. “Can you?”
Emerson frowns, thinking. “Is it Campbell?”
“Not even close,” she says smugly.
Taylor is about to retort, but stops when we notice a fifth person has joined us.
“Hi y’all.” Melody wiggles her fingers and turns to me and Margo. “I think we’re roommates.”
“Yup.” Taylor grins at her. “Your bed is next to mine.”
She steps back, a horrified expression on her face. “But you’re a boy!”
“Maybe I’m just transgendered,” he says, leering at her. “You need to be less judgmental. Jesus wouldn’t want you to judge.”
“Are you really a girl?” she looks faint. “I thought you said you were…gay.” She whispers the last word, as if she can’t bring herself to vocalize such blasphemy.
Margo snorts. “There are gay girls, Melanie. And anyway, he’s shitting you. He’s a guy with a penis and the whole bit.”
Melody flushes pink. “It’s Melody, and I would appreciate if you would refrain from using foul language.”
“What did I say?” Margo looks genuinely puzzled.
“You said the ‘s’ word and the ‘p’ word,” she says primly.
“The p word?” Emerson laughs. “Penis is an anatomical term.”
“Yes, well, last I checked this wasn’t an anatomy class.” Melody looks indignant.
“Look at the fire!” I interject hastily, pointing. I’m not in the mood for another argument. “It’s really going now.”
Everyone turns to look at the campfire, which, thanks to the efforts of Gavin the Ultimate Survivor Guy, is now blazing with the perfection of a gas fireplace against the night sky. I stare into the flames, mesmerized at their motion and brightness. Inhaling the tangy smell of woodsmoke, I breathe deeply and step closer so as to feel the warmth of the blaze against my bare arms and legs. I’m not cold, but the intense heat makes me feel alive.
“Any requests?” Sari points to her guitar. “I’m happy to oblige.”
Melody raises her hand, but before she can suggest “Jesus Loves Me” or whatever, Emerson pipes up. “Play ‘The Rainbow Connection,’ Sari.”
“Rainbow Connection?” Margo looks skeptical. “Like Kermit the Frog?”
Emerson puts a finger to his lips, and Sari begins to play, strumming lightly in preparation. She really does have a beautiful voice: it’s somehow both husky and sweet at the same time, and she hits high notes like a pro. She motions for us all to join in, and I hum along, remembering parts of the song from that one summer I went to camp. I listen to the lyrics and find myself surprisingly moved. It may be sung by a talking frog, but as Sari sings about ethereal voices and what’s on the other side, I picture my mother, waving to me from the other side of a rainbow, her hair long again and whipping about her laughing face and delicate shoulders.
Chapter 7
Before
I’d done a lot of reading on hair loss once we knew which chemo my mom would be getting; I wanted to be prepared. I didn’t want to walk into her room one morning and find her there, weeping over a pile of chestnut hair, a blanket pulled around her bare head. Just thi
nking about it made me feel as if someone had kicked me in the gut with a pair of steel-toed Doc Martens.
“The follicles will open between days fourteen and seventeen after chemotherapy is started,” read most articles. Forums where breast-cancer patients and survivors posted their questions and advice said the same thing. Many said their hair loss was sudden, that they woke one day to find a small animal-like pile on their pillow.
It didn’t happen that way for my mother. It wasn’t one, dramatic loss, but rather a slow, agonizing process. It fell out bit by bit, hair by hair, like thousands of bitter tears or abandoned dreams. One day at dinner, I noticed strands of hair all over the back of her dining chair, like a finely woven pattern of lace. The next day, I saw it in the shower, a little clump near the drain. On the fourth day, I find her over the sink, my father’s clippers in her hand.
“I just want it gone,” she says, her face pale. Her hands shook as she took another swipe at what was left of her hair. She’d laid a plastic bag over the sink, and the hair fell into it with a soft, crunching sound.
“I’ll help,” I say, steeling myself. Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t let them fall, not now. “Let me do it.”
Bravely, I take the clippers in hand and shave off the last of my mother’s beautiful brown locks. In fewer than ten swift movements, she is bald, a faint dusting of stubble all that remains.
“I look like a monster,” she whispers, staring at the mirror. “I look like that painting. The Scream. Edvard Munch.”
“No. No!” I shake my head furiously, forcing myself to look at her. “You look cool. Like…like Natalie Portman in V for Vendetta.”
“Cat, cut the shit. I look like the villain in a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale.” She turns away from the sink, looking exhausted. Dark circles rim her eyes, and her cheeks are increasingly hollowed. “Where’s my Xanax?” She reaches into the medicine cabinet, rummaging around.
“Should you be taking so many of those?” I try to sound casual, but I’m scared. She’s been popping them like they’re Life Savers.
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