Coming Up for Air

by Nicole B. Tyndall

  When I put the camera down and plug in Dad’s electric razor, an uneasy energy fills the cramped bathroom.

  With a quick look at me, Judd gives Remy a squeeze before he takes over. He picks up the razor and moves it from hand to hand nervously. “What number are you thinking, Mom? A one? A two?” He adjusts the settings on the clippers. They both pretend to laugh a little, but then he steadies himself and turns it on. The razor buzzes. “Here goes nothing.”

  He puts it to her head, leaving a trail of dark fuzz in its wake. Halfway through, he turns to Remy. She nods and steps forward. When they’re done, Mom opens a drawer to get a new blade for her razor—the last step. It’s Dad’s turn now. He turns the handle on the sink and waits for the water to get warm. Swallowing, he slowly lathers her head with his shaving cream and picks up the razor.

  “Wait,” Mom says breathlessly. Her hair has been replaced with a thick white foam, and she has a determined look in her eye. “I want to do it.”

  Dad looks a little relieved. “All right.”

  I hear the last of her hair quietly snap away as she slides the razor across her scalp. None of us speak. She moves it again and again, shaving as much as she can reach. She’s a force, and I capture the moment again with my camera.

  Eventually, she looks to Dad. “Marc?”

  And then Dad carefully shaves the places she couldn’t reach, uncovering more and more skin. Her scalp looks as vulnerable as a newborn, but she glows with rebellious courage.

  The whole thing doesn’t take more than thirty minutes.

  Dad gently pats her head with a towel, and she faces her reflection: her head is smooth, round, and smaller than I expected. Various lengths of Mom’s hair surround us on the floor. She looks like a cancer patient now. I try to unthink it, but I can’t deny the truth. There is another truth here, too, though; harder to find but present, nonetheless: in this moment, she’s strong and she’s brave.

  I try to be those things as well, as I take a final image. I don’t want her to do this alone. If she can do it, so can I.

  Buying time, I walk into her closet and take a few deep breaths before coming back with an ornate box in my hands, a fancy designer scarf from a friend at book club. One of many gifts after she was diagnosed. I take it out of the box, and the material is smooth on my hands.

  I nervously run the silk through my fingers as I speak. “Mom? I want to go next.” My heart hammers.

  “Yeah,” Judd jumps in, running a hand through his dark, unruly curls. “Me too, Had. I’m in.”

  Remy freezes.

  Mom looks up at me and her face is resolved. “No.” She takes my hand and squeezes before she pulls the scarf from me. “Thank you, but no.”

  Remy exhales.

  “That’s it? The lawyer doesn’t have an argument? Just no?” I ask. But the truth is, I’m relieved too.

  “That’s right, honey. Just no.”

  And after weeks of building myself up to the task, it only takes that one word for me to back down. I feel a tiny, rotten flower of shame bloom in my stomach.

  Mom lifts the scarf to tie it around her head, but when the material touches her scalp, she jumps. “Oh my gosh, it’s so cold!” A sound escapes her, a sound that I would call a laugh in any other circumstance. “Do we have anything cotton?”

  All five of us do laugh then—just a little.

  Dad disappears for a minute and comes back with a worn-looking T-shirt decorated with an obscure band’s logo, something he wears a lot on the weekends. Mom raises her eyebrows as he lays it flat onto the counter, takes the discarded scissors, and slices through it without hesitation. When he’s finished, he stands behind her, and judiciously ties the piece of cotton around Mom’s head.

  She speaks in a voice meant only for him. “That was your favorite.”

  He only shrugs. “You’re my favorite.”

  Later that night, I can’t stop thinking about webs of hair tangled between fingers. I feel like I’m caught in one of those webs, thrashing. I pull at strands on my own head, wondering if mine will start to fall out. My body keeps following her symptoms. No doubt from stress, but it feels like an echo of her illness. I am made of her.

  I can’t believe I chickened out. I shouldn’t have let her do it alone. I wonder if Remy feels that way too. I wish I could get myself to talk to her about it. I let out a shaky breath. The fear is building inside me, worry stacking atop worry, growing to heights I’m afraid to climb. I need something, someone, to make me feel better.

  I won’t bother my family. It feels too selfish. I think about calling Becca or Ty, asking them to come over. My parents wouldn’t want Braden here in the middle of the night, but they would understand me needing a friend. I can’t be alone anymore.

  Then I remember the key around my neck. The one Braden gave me shortly after the diagnosis.

  Screw the rules. What do rules matter when the world might be taking away Mom? I already broke them anyway, when Braden showed up the other night. And I’ve been so distracted with Mom that I still haven’t pressed Braden on how his appointment went. Why does everything have to fall apart at the same time?

  Are you awake?

  I wait a few seconds. No sign of typing, no response. When I call, he doesn’t pick up.

  Forget it. I don’t care. I’ll wake him up when I get there.

  I switch my pajama pants for jeans, grab my camera, and pass through the dark house. And then I step right out the unalarmed back door. I don’t even care about being caught.

  I just need to see him.

  I move purposefully, quickly, and for a long time, watching the dewy grass leave moisture on my shoes. I take pictures of trees in the distance to pass the time, observing as they get closer and closer, then find new ones to focus on. Braden only lives a couple miles away, but I’ve never walked there before. I have no idea how long it takes me. But eventually, I’m outside the basement door.

  * * *

  I pull the key from the chain around my neck and unlock the door. I take off my shoes once I step inside, holding them between my fingers. Something inside me warns: You don’t belong here. What about his parents? But I ignore the feeling and pull my phone from my pocket to light the path ahead of me. Braden’s room is in the basement, so I just need to walk down the hallway to get to him. My socked feet sink into the carpet as my footsteps get faster.

  I twist the handle and open his door, and he doesn’t stir, even when I go to sit on the bed. “Braden?” I slide my fingers gently through his hair. “Brade?”

  He still doesn’t move, and it strikes an unexpected fear through me. Not again. I shake him harder and call his name for a third time.

  Slowly, Braden turns over in his bed and flutters his eyes. My body sags in relief. “Hadley?” he asks in a voice thick with sleep.

  He sits up, and the plaid duvet slides down his chest. He moves a hand to brush his messy hair from his face. I unzip my jacket and set it in a pile next to my shoes.

  “Hadley,” he murmurs sleepily, as if he answered his own question. “Come here.”

  As his voice moves on my skin, the urgent energy inside me takes over. I climb into his bed and onto his lap. My hands tremble when I hold either side of his face, but my mouth is sure on his. I don’t want to talk. I can’t find anything to say.

  I run my hands down the length of his rib cage, across the broad space of his shoulders, along the muscles of his back. My fingers, my body, my brain, my heart—they’re all begging to feel something that doesn’t hurt. I pull him closer, and the love I feel for him starts to fill me up. Love so strong it nearly matches the fear, the two emotions boiling together under the surface of my skin. For once, I don’t try to push them away. I feel it all. I let the tears fall from my face to his. He doesn’t pull away, and my gratitude is so deep it aches.

  Love is a risk. I know that,
even more so lately. Anything loved can be lost. But right now, I don’t care. This love makes me feel alive, and I need that. I need the pressure of his body. I need to feel him move, to hear his heart, to watch him breathe. I want all the proof I can get my hands on. He’s wearing only his boxers, and I pull my layers off to match. I want his skin on mine. Healthy, young, healthy, young, alive, safe.

  He pulls away, for just a second, to look me in the eye. Even in the darkness, I can see his thoughts brewing. I stare back. After a moment, he nods and pulls me back into him.

  Hands tangle in my hair as he meets my intensity, no words necessary. I press myself into him, as if I can take some of his strength in this mysterious world of night. He gives me everything, and I take it without reservation.

  * * *

  Afterward, his thumbs move along my cheekbones, my jaw line, and across my neck. He holds me tightly with our bodies pressed together, rubbing my back. I try not to compare the moment to my parents, earlier, in the kitchen. I am not sick.

  Neither of us says anything. There aren’t any words. And in this quiet, safe space of his arms, I cry. The real release my body needed.

  I don’t know how long I sob into his chest, but eventually, I lift my head. My body is spent, bone-tired, but my mind is finally clear. The panic has left.

  He clears his throat. “Did something happen?”

  I whisper, “Her hair.”

  He nods, understanding. “I’m sorry.”

  “It just feels…so real, now.”

  He sits up, leans against the headboard. I grab one of his T-shirts from the other side of the bed and slip it on. It smells like him, faint chlorine and pine. When I sit back down, I lean my head into his left shoulder. “Sorry.” I move to readjust, but he puts an arm around me.

  “No, it’s okay. It’s feeling way better.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I look at him. “My mom isn’t the only one I’m worried about, you know.” He doesn’t say anything. “Did you tell them about what happened?”

  “I really am fine, Hads. The specialist gave me some new stuff, same kind of thing, but they work better. And no big deal, but I broke a record at our meet yesterday.”

  He looks so happy and relieved that I am confused by the nagging voice in the back of my head. “But if it’s the same, won’t the same thing happen when you stop again? Shouldn’t you talk to them about the surgery?”

  “I’m still doing physical therapy.” He frowns. “I thought you’d be psyched for me. I’m doing exactly what the doctor said.”

  “But did you tell her—”

  “I’ve got this, Hadley.” His tone is steel, leaving no room for argument. Then he exhales some of the tension away. “I just want you to be able to focus on your mom, okay? I already got in the way last week, and I don’t want to do that to you again.”

  “Are you sure? I—”

  “God, trust me, okay? You can even ask Coach. He’s giddy that I’m back to myself.”

  I can’t let go of the concern all at once, but I manage a distracted apology. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” It was an away meet, and Mom was feeling sick, but I still feel a pang of guilt that I opted to stay home instead.

  “You’ve got a lot going on, Hads. And you never said you’d be there. It’s all good. Plus, nobody’s surprised I’m breaking records.”

  I brush aside his bigheadedness. “So you like the new doctor?”

  “I do.” He leans toward me and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “And can we talk about how freaking great the timing is, because the Richmond meet is this week—last one of the year—and we’re going to freaking annihilate them,” he says. “I’ve got this.”

  I make a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, wanting so badly to believe him. “All right, well, I’m glad you’re happy, Varsity.” I can’t help the smirk on my face.

  He returns it. “I thought that dumb nickname was James’s thing.”

  “Nope, I love dumb nicknames,” I tease. Then I put my hands to my neck and pull the chain out from under Braden’s shirt. “Hey, and thank you for being here tonight, for this. I was…” I don’t know what to call the state I was in. “It wasn’t great.”

  He furrows his brow. “Don’t. I’m here. I want to be.” He looks up from his lap. “It’s what you do when you love somebody.”

  “Let them sneak into your bedroom for a middle-of-the-night booty call?”

  “Literally anytime. My body is at your disposal.” He puts his hands behind his head. “I’m happy to serve.”

  “Gross.”

  “You love it.”

  I shake my head, but he isn’t totally wrong. Not about the stupid comment, but the way I feel right now. I relax against him and embrace feeling normal and safe. I press my body into his, and he tucks me close. I try to soak up every second, but I feel the clock tick-tick-ticking, and I know that I can’t stay here forever. I have to get home. I’m being reckless, even if it saved me.

  “Brade, will you do one more thing for me?”

  “Probably. What is it?”

  “Would you drive me home?”

  His eyes twinkle. “Hadley, I’d drive you to Mexico if you asked nicely.” His eyes snag on my bare legs. “But you have to put some pants on. So your dad doesn’t murder me if we get caught.”

  “Braden Roberts get caught? Never.”

  He smiles. “Just a precaution. Can’t go risking you.”

  “Deal. But can I wear your shirt?”

  He squeezes my hand. “It’s yours.”

  I untangle myself from the blankets and retrieve my clothes from the floor. As I fasten my jeans, I notice several orange pill bottles sitting on Braden’s dresser. I take a step toward them, curious about the new prescription, when Braden’s arm finds its way around my hip. He pulls me toward him and kisses the top of my head. He’s fully dressed now.

  “I told you not to worry about it.”

  “I just—”

  “Please, Hadley, let me deal with it, okay? Let me take something off your plate.”

  I trust him, don’t I? I have to stop looking for problems. “Okay.”

  “Are you ready to Bonnie and Clyde out of here?”

  “Yeah.” I shove my own shirt into my coat pocket. “Let’s go.”

  We go out the way I came in. Quietly, Braden opens the driver’s side door, puts the car in neutral, and starts to push it to the street. At first he uses both arms, but then he pulls the injured one back, continuing one-handed. I join him, and together, we push. It’s not nearly as hard as I thought it would be. Once he’s determined we’re far enough away from the house, he gestures to the car with his head, and we both get in.

  Inside, he turns the key and shoots me a self-satisfied smile. “All right, Bonnie. Let’s get you home.”

  * * *

  The next day, when I open my eyes, the first thing I see is Braden’s T-shirt. Then I’m assaulted by memories of Mom’s bald head. I picture her fingertips pressing against the bare skin, and my heart splinters.

  The whole morning is like a lingering bad dream, but somehow I make it to school, and to my locker, in one piece. The only thought I can keep in my head as I try to remember what books I need is that the hallway is way too loud. The end-of-the-year excitement is radiating in the halls. They’re full of people laughing and yelling, guys slapping one another’s lockers. Each time they slam closed, I jump. What class do I have first hour today? Does it matter? I know I should be worried about finals, but I just can’t muster it. I’ve been dodging Becca’s texts inviting me to study with her. I let my eyes shift out of focus when I feel someone approaching me.

  I look up.

  “Oh my god.” The words leave my mouth the minute I see Braden’s face, which is no longer su
rrounded by his signature long hair. He buzzed it so short that he and Mom are nearly matching. He looks nervous, but he’s smiling a little. “Oh my god,” I repeat. “When did you even have time to do that?”

  “This morning.” He runs a hand along the buzzed tips. “Is it that bad?” He’s more uncomfortable than he’s letting on. I know he takes solace in certain things: his clothes, his shoes, his athleticism. His hair is high on that list.

  “You wouldn’t even buzz it for the team.”

  “I’m the fastest no matter what my hair looks like,” he says.

  “I love it,” I answer, shaking my head in disbelief. It makes his cheekbones stand out, makes his lips look fuller. I can’t believe he did this for me, for Mom.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  He did for her what I couldn’t. And he didn’t even know about my promise to myself. I stand on my toes and throw my arms around his neck. The words come from a broken place in my chest. “Thank you, Braden.”

  “Always, Hads.” But when he looks at me, something about his expression looks different. Dazed. I pull away and try to get a better look, but he averts his eyes.

  “Hey, Brade, everything okay with you?”

  “Yeah, I told you I’m good—”

  “Roberts!” a tall, lanky guy calls. His hair and eyes are dark, especially against his pale skin.

  “Logan.” Braden nods at him. “You remember my girlfriend, Hadley?”

  “Of course, man. Hey, Hadley.”

  “Hi.” I try to sound friendly. I think he’s on the swim team too.

  Logan looks at Braden. “So, Roberts, I forgot to tell you at practice this morning, but I found that—”

  “Hey, you know what, Logan, not to be a dick or anything, but I’m going to walk my girl to class. Is that cool?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll find you at lunch, all right?”

  And then Braden puts an arm around my shoulders and leads us away just fast enough to make me wonder whether something strange is going on.