“What is wrong with your friend?”
For the first time, I realize Melody has not risen or made a sound. I look over. She is still crouched on the ground, rocking gently back and forth.
“Melody?” I kneel slightly, trying to get a better look at her face. “Are you okay?”
She lifts her head slightly, and I notice she is still clutching her shovel. Her teeth are bared, giving her the look of a feral animal, and her eyes dart back and forth like pinballs in an arcade game.
“Melody,” I repeat. “It’s all right. You can put the shovel down.”
“No!” she shouts. Her voice shakes, and she raises the shovel so that it is shielding her face. “Don’t touch us! Leave us alone!”
I think of her thrashing in the dark, of her screams. I wonder if she has been attacked before. I try to make eye contact with her, but she won’t look at me. Her eyes are wild, and I realize the lines separating reality from nightmare have blurred for her. She doesn’t know where she is.
“Please,” Rafael intervenes. “Put it down.”
I reach out and place a hand on her trembling shoulder. Melody howls like a cat who has had its tail trampled on and raises the shovel, as if to strike.
Stunned, I stare, transfixed, at the shovel coming down toward me. I feel someone push me out of the way before I stumble to the ground.
“Sorry,” says Rafael breathlessly. He’s fallen too, and has landed half on top of me. “She was going to hit you.”
I try to thank him, but nothing comes out. I study his large, dark eyes and the faceful of stubble that can’t hide a faded scar running down his left jawline. I wonder briefly how he got it. His hair is cut short and haphazardly, as if he did it himself without a mirror and in a rush. Our eyes lock, and I look away, unsettled, as I disengage from our tangle of limbs.
The IT Geek has Melody in an armlock, and with Taylor’s and Margo’s help has wrestled away the shovel. Melody thrashes and sobs in his arms, her eyes still wild and blank.
“She needs help,” I say. Rafael is immediately back on his feet, but I’m on the ground in the dust, hugging my knees against my chest. I have a vague memory of a childhood swimming instructor teaching that this is a life-preserving position, that it’s the go-to position if you’re stuck in icy water. I wonder if it applies to war-torn, steamy-hot rainforests as well.
“Eduardo can carry her back to your base,” says Rafael, referring to IT Geek, who is apparently much stronger than he looks. He is still holding Melody firmly about the shoulders, rocking her slightly and whispering to her softly in soothing Spanish. Her eyes are closed and she seems to have relaxed somewhat.
“I will walk you all back,” says Rafael. He bends and offers me his hand, and I take it. It’s rough with callouses and warm, almost hot. He pulls me quickly back to standing position and lets go, but I can still feel the dry heat of his palm against mine.
“Why?” says Taylor, looking wary. “Are the gunmen still around?”
“No,” says Rafael, but his hand is on his rifle again, as if instinct has called it there. “But this is a dangerous place.”
Margo is nodding now. “Dead American kids are bad press,” she says. “Especially for a country no one’s even heard of.”
Rafael flushes at that, but says nothing. He taps at his other side, which I realize has a holster and a handgun. I recoil, shrinking back toward Taylor.
Rafael is watching me. “Don’t be afraid,” he says again, softly now. “I won’t hurt you.”
I nod, but I can’t help but stare at the gun. I tear my eyes away to watch a bird swoop by overhead. Its voice is clear and mournful, like a call to prayer. It disappears into the tree canopy, and I envy it its freedom.
“Follow me,” says Rafael, and we do.
Chapter 9
Before
“You have to take the spring SATs,” says Tess, aghast. We’re at Starbucks, our biology homework fanned out on the table in front of us. I shrug, tearing open a packet of raw sugar and sprinkling it delicately across the foamy top of my cappuccino.
“I don’t know if I can concentrate right now,” I say honestly. I take my stir stick and scoop up a mouthful of foam, savoring the sweetness of the melting sugar, a trick I picked up from my mom. She pops unbidden into my head, an image of her gagging down a glass of water. Suddenly, the sugar doesn’t taste as good. I become aware of its texture, hard and gritty, like little bits of broken teeth. I push the drink away and turn back to Tess. “I have a lot on my plate.”
“But, Cat,” Tess swirls her straw around her iced coffee, her freckled nose wrinkled with worry, “what about Stanford?”
“I’m not dropping out of high school,” I say flatly. “I’m talking about taking the SATs in the fall. Like most people,” I add.
“I know, I just…” Her voice trails off. She shakes her head, her strawberry curls nearly catching her straw. “We always talked about early admission.”
“I’ll just have to take my chances,” I retort. I take a deep breath. I don’t want to fight with Tess. None of this is her fault. “Look, I just can’t do it right now.” My voice shakes, and I feel my shoulders slump. I stare down at my overpriced drink, watch the foam slowly dissolve. I want to take the spring SATs, of course I do. It’s always been our plan, mine and Tess’s. Early admission for me at Stanford, and for her at UCLA. We’ve talked about it since middle school, dreaming our overachieving college dreams together.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, picking up her biology text so she doesn’t have to look at me. “I understand.”
“I still want Stanford,” I assure her, stirring another packet of sugar into my cup just for something to do. “We’re still on track. I just can’t manage the studying right now. All that mouse is to cheese as cat is to mouse crap.”
Tess forces a laugh. “If that’s the best you can come up with, you’re definitely better off waiting.”
“See?” I take a sip of cappuccino, grimacing. Now it’s cloyingly sweet. “I’m not ready.”
“Technically, you can take it in October and still get early admission,” says Tess, brightening. “It might not be an issue at all.”
“There you go.” Absently, I shred a napkin. Mom’s genetic-testing results were due back today. Dad had canceled his office hours to stay home with her and wait; neither would let me take another day off school.
“I won’t have you wreck your grade-point average because of me,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I’ll be fine.”
“But—”
“No, Cat.” She shook her head. “School.”
I didn’t push it. The last thing I wanted was to upset her, to sap her of her strength unnecessarily. She looked so tiny in the king-sized bed, blankets drawn up to her chin. Her gray eyes, always so large and lively, looked smaller and exhausted without lashes, and the little pink cotton cap she wore indoors to cover her head made her seem young and vulnerable, like a newborn.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” says Tess now. She’s looking at me, expectant, as if she’s been waiting for a response. Guiltily, I meet her gaze.
“Sorry,” I admit. “My mind is elsewhere. Standard procedure these days.” I blink and rub my temples, pressing my thumbs into them.
“Page sixty-three,” Tess says helpfully, pointing at a section in her textbook.
“Base pairing in DNA.”
“Right.” I find the right page and stare at the words. They march around the page like ants, evading me, and I find my mind wandering again.
Tess sighs and shuts her textbook. “Maybe we should just forget bio,” she says. She takes a long swig of her drink. “We’re not getting much done.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. I shake my head, try to focus. “Turns out I’m a lousy study partner.”
“Not lousy,” Tess says quietly. “Just distracted.”
I exhale loudly, pushing back in my chair. “The genetic-testing results are due today,” I admit.
“Oh, geez.” Tess looks appalled. “And I asked you to review DNA with me!”
I burst out laughing despite myself. “Tess, that’s not why I’m upset.”
“But DNA!”
“Forget it.” I down the last of my drink. “Seriously.”
She shoves some papers in her backpack and leans across the table, her gray eyes full of concern. “This is the test that shows whether your mom is genetically predisposed to getting breast cancer, right?”
“Yeah.” I pick up another napkin and continue shredding. I watch as the little pieces fall into my empty cup, settling down like feathers in a nest. “It’s called the BRCA gene. It causes breast and ovarian cancer. They think there’s a good chance she might have it. Her grandmother died of ovarian cancer.”
“Shit.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, but I’m lying. It’s not okay. Because if my mom has the gene, then there’s a good chance I have it, too. A fifty-percent chance, to be precise.
Tess’s eyes grow wider, and I know she’s arrived at this conclusion on her own.
“I’m not going to get tested,” I say firmly, before she can ask the question. “I don’t want to spend my life waiting for the bomb to drop.”
She doesn’t say anything. I see the tears gathering in her eyes, and I hastily begin packing up my things. I don’t want to cry. Not here.
“Is it okay if we study tomorrow?” I ask quietly. “I’m just not in the right headspace right now.”
“Of course.” Tess stands up and grabs my hand. She looks like she’s about to say something, but then changes her mind. Instead, she squeezes my fingers tightly.
“Are you going back for art club?” she asks finally. We both joined the art club in September, but I’ve barely made half the meetings. I shake my head.
“I need to get home,” I say. “Results were due around three.” I check my phone; it’s now a quarter past.
“I’ll walk you back,” she offers.
“No,” I say quickly. “You go to art. You love it.”
“I don’t need—”
“Go.” My voice is gentle, but definite.
She leans in for a hug. “Call me later,” she says softly. “Promise.”
...
I know right away it’s not good news, because my mother is ugly-crying, big heaving sobs that shake her too-thin frame and turn her face red and splotchy. My dad is patting her arm awkwardly, still dressed in the flannel pants and torn T-shirt he wore to bed last night. With a heavy sigh, I dump my coat and backpack to the ground and stare at both of them, waiting.
Dad clears his throat. “Cat,” he begins, his voice gentle, “we don’t want you to panic.”
My expression doesn’t change, even though my heart is fluttering wildly in my chest, like a butterfly trapped in a mason jar. “So it’s bad,” I say, my tone matter-of-fact. “She carries the gene.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t mean you do,” he says quickly. “It’s a fifty-percent chance. So, that’s still a fifty-percent chance you don’t have it.”
“I know how to add and subtract from a hundred, Dad.” His face falls, and I feel a stab of guilt. I look away, ashamed, my eyes landing on a portrait of the three of us taken maybe ten years ago. My hair is still in pigtails, and both my parents have a full head of hair.
My mom follows my gaze and sobs harder, her face obscured by a wad of Kleenex.
“Mom?” I go over to her side of the bed and kneel down. “Mom, it’s okay. It doesn’t affect treatment at all, and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything in terms of remission or cure, either. I’ve been doing some research, and—”
“I don’t care about me,” she says, sniffing. “I care about you. I don’t want you to get it.”
“Forget it.” I can’t think about that now. Me having breast cancer is unfathomable. I can’t even picture myself married, or having kids, or even at college, really, let alone grappling with my own terminal illness. “I don’t want to know, regardless.”
“But, Cat.” She grabs my arm. “You could take precautions.”
“Take precautions?” I echo, baffled. Condoms flash across my mind, brightly colored like a selection of lollipops. I’ve been through sex ed—the word precaution is paired in my subconscious with barrier contraceptives.
“Preventive surgery,” she says urgently. “Like Angelina Jolie.”
It dawns on me what she is referring to, and I recoil. I will not have my breasts chopped off, no way. They’ve never really even been used, not unless you count Mike McLeod’s unskilled groping at last year’s homecoming. They’re not even finished growing, or at least I hope they aren’t. I picture them lopped off, in one of those metal surgical trays like a pair of sunny-side-up eggs, and feel nauseated. What do they do with them, once they’ve been removed? Throw them out with the trash? Burn them? Bury them underground in some kind of creepy boob cemetery? I shudder.
“I’m not cutting off my boobs,” I say flatly. “Forget it.”
“Not now,” my mom says, “but later, once you’ve finished breastfeeding, or—”
“Finished breastfeeding?” Incredulous, I hug my arms protectively across my chest. “I haven’t even taken the SATs!” I flash back to my earlier conversation with Tess. Maybe I’ll take the spring exam, after all. The pace of my life seems to have picked up considerably. I glance involuntarily at the clock, as if it might give some actual sense of the passing of time.
My dad intervenes. “I don’t think we need to talk about this now,” he says. “I think maybe Mom should get some rest—”
“I don’t want to rest.” Angrily, Mom kicks the blankets off the bed. “I need to get out of this room.”
Dad and I exchange a glance. “Honey—” he begins, but my mom quickly cuts him off.
“Don’t ‘honey’ me,” she snaps. “I feel claustrophobic. I need some air.” She swings her feet off the bed. She’s wearing pink, cupcake-printed pajama pants and a thick pair of yellow thermal socks.
“It’s pretty cold out there,” I venture. It’s February, and there’s at least a foot of grimy snow on the ground. The groundhog saw his shadow last week, and we’re gearing up for another six weeks or so of winter.
“I don’t care.” She stumbles slightly as she reaches for a thick wool sweater. “I’ve finished the chemo. I need to start trying to get my strength back.”
The chemo officially ended last week. The nurses apparently celebrated by bringing in sparkling grape juice and cookies, which my mom tried to nibble without gagging. So far, though, nothing much has changed; the doctors say it could be months before her strength returns. Or her sense of taste.
I wince as her little cloth cap slips off when she pulls the sweater over her head. While I know she doesn’t have any hair under there—I’ve witnessed it—whenever she’s wearing a cap or a wig, I don’t have to acknowledge it. I don’t want to see the baldness, the few stray hairs that cling here and there.
“Someone hand me the squirrel,” she commands, arm outstretched.
Hesitantly, I retrieve the wig and pass it to her, feeling guilty at the instant sense of relief when she positions it accurately. To her, it’s a dead animal on her head, phony and uncomfortable. To me, though, it’s a way to pretend her hair hasn’t fallen out and that none of this has happened.
“Come out with me for a few minutes,” she says, looking at me. She finds and carefully zips her parka, and fishes her gloves out of the pockets. “Just out here, on the balcony.” She gestures to the little deck that’s off the master bedroom. My parents have barely ever used it.
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. My dad’s eyes meet mine, worried, but I shake my head ever so slightly. It will be okay, I communicate to him silently. He nods
slightly and passes me my coat, which is still in a heap in the doorway.
“Put a hat on,” says Mom sternly as I unlock the patio door. “I may be an invalid, but I’m still your mom.”
I grin and pull my earmuffs out of my inside pocket. “You don’t have to worry,” I assure her. “I hate being cold.”
She walks over to the railing, and leans over it onto her elbows, breathing deeply. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I kind of lost it in there. I should never have brought it up.”
“No,” I agree quietly, joining her at the railing.
“It’s just so hard, as a mother, to think of your child suffering in any way.” Little puffs of white smoke accompany her words; the air is freezing. “But you shouldn’t have to grow up so fast. At sixteen you should be thinking about boys getting to second base, not a mastectomy.”
“No one calls it second base anymore.”
“Well, whatever the current slang is for having a guy touch your boobs, then.” She grins slyly.
I glance over at her and she is laughing, her cheeks rosy and healthy-looking from the cold. The wind whips at the wig, blowing the hair around, and it looks natural, like real hair. It’s the best she’s looked in months.
My feet feel frozen, but I don’t say anything. We stand there for a long while, the two of us, not speaking a word. I follow her gaze to the neighbor’s yard. They have one of those little ponds for giant goldfish. Kurt, our neighbor, dug it himself, lovingly placing rocks and planting shrubbery around the small pool. In the summer, it has a little waterfall running into it, but now, the water is frozen over. I wonder what happened to the fish. Can they live under the ice? Does Kurt take them inside until spring? I picture the fish swimming around in buckets all winter, frantically bashing their heads against the plastic and pining for better times.
“Where do the ducks go?” Mom asks, smiling faintly, as if she’s caught my train of thought, and I remember that Catcher in the Rye is one of her favorites.
I think back to my English essay. I’d blabbered on about the loss of innocence and scored an A minus, but Mrs. Jacobs had also pointed out that the ducks, and where they go, could also represent larger questions about life, mortality, and the other side.
Undiscovered Country Page 9
