by Karin Cook
“Never mind,” I said, “thanks anyway.” I moved to the hair accessory aisle.
At the register, Nick sifted through a fist full of Hallmark cards—all get well soon and missing you, with balloons and happy elephants and bandages in bright colors. He held each one up for us to see. “I couldn’t decide,” he said, “so I bought all of these. You can each give her some.”
For the first time, I saw that he looked scared too. But I didn’t know what to say. Wasn’t he supposed to be making us feel better?
Elizabeth chose a nail kit with pastel emery boards, a clipper, and frosted polish—all in its own case. I presented a row of miniature bottles, samples of shampoo and conditioner. Nick paid for everything with a new twenty-dollar bill which the druggist snapped between his fingers before putting in the drawer.
On the way home, Nick went through the drive-in window at Burger King and let us order Whoppers, onion rings, and shakes to go. A treat, he called it, even though we already had a week’s worth of groceries at home. I could see him wrestling inside himself, something I couldn’t quite understand. His eyes were a bit red around the lids, watery and twitchy, and wouldn’t stay on either Elizabeth’s or my face very long.
When we were deep into our food, he turned the radio up. A twangy man’s voice sang, Bad, bad Leroy Brown. Baddest man in the whole damn town. Nick held his fist up like a microphone and began to sing along, a wide smile on his face, eyes dancing crazily. Elizabeth and I rolled our eyes at each other, embarrassed. Badder than old King Kong. Meaner than a junkyard dog. We drove down along the water, past the clam stand and the town dock. The pussy willows were bursting; white silky hair pushing out of the brown velvet capsules like a torn couch. Elizabeth made a plate of her paper bag and spilled some onion rings in a neat pile on her lap. She guarded them with her elbows. I wanted to wait until we got home to eat mine. Nick reached over and plucked a ring off Elizabeth’s lap. Leroy looked like a jigsaw puzzle, he sang, with a couple of pieces gone.
Nick let us stay up late to watch The Love Boat. The captain’s daughter, Vicki, usually wore a halter top, but when Julie McCoy helped dress her in a long, strapless gown, the captain didn’t approve. It took Elizabeth the entire show to wrap Mama’s present with loose-leaf paper and tape.
After Nick turned the TV off, I went upstairs to my room, took my dictionary down from the bookshelf and climbed into bed. I looked up the word lump, searching each letter for hidden meanings and wrote the official definition in my notebook. Suddenly I heard footsteps and panicked. Elizabeth nudged my door open, like a cat, and creaked across the bare floor to the edge of the bed, her pale green nightie twisted around her. She wedged herself next to me and read aloud over my shoulder as I wrote.
“Lump, a solid mass of special shape …” she paused. “What’s esp.?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
She continued, her voice soft and halting, “ … one small enough to be taken in the hand; hunk.”
I took a deep breath, impatient.
She stopped. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” I said. “Keep reading.”
“Three. A swelling or … what’s that word? protuberance.”
“A bulge,” I said. Her eyes opened wide, impressed. I didn’t tell her I had already looked it up.
“ … as one caused by a blow or formed by a tumor or cyst. What’s that last word?”
I shrugged.
“Look up tumor,” Elizabeth said.
And I did:
tu mor (tōō’mər) n. I. a swelling on some part of the body; esp., a mass of new tissue growth independent of its surrounding structures, having no physiological function; neoplasm; tumors are classified as benign or malignant
Silently, I copied the words, one at a time. Benign, malignant, both with their g’s followed by n’s—one hidden and silent, the other lodged harshly in the center. I knew somehow these were the key words.
“What does it mean?” Elizabeth asked.
“I don’t know.” I stared at my bookshelf, squinting until I lost focus. Above my desk, the TransAlt maps curled and flattened in the draft from the window, the little streets rising and falling, like they were breathing.
“Look up surgery,” Elizabeth said.
“You look it up.”
I shoved the dictionary at her and pushed my head under the pillow. Quiet and cushioned from the world outside, the new words pulsed against my skull: growth, bulge, tumor. Elizabeth pushed the dictionary aside and let it fall to the floor with a thud. I didn’t turn over. Before long, I felt her curl up next to me.
“Can I sleep with you?” she asked softly.
Mama loved when we slept together. It usually meant that we were getting along. It also meant that she could prolong the bedtime ritual, tuck us in with stories about when we were babies, the way we seemed to look out for each other in the world even as infants, how she could see our personalities forming almost from the beginning. Her voice would grow more and more faint. Then, when one or the other of us yawned and grew sleepy, she’d wrap her arms around our shoulders, and pull us into a giant three-way hug. She never left us right away; she’d linger in the doorjamb, watching as we squirmed into place, witnessing our ease with each other’s bodies as the covers took shape, admiring that she’d made two such perfect little girls.
The next morning, Elizabeth and I begged Nick to let us stay home from school.
“I don’t feel well,”
“Me either.”
“I might even throw up.” I said.
“You can’t go see your mother if you’re sick,” Nick said.
Elizabeth pleaded in tears. “Please don’t make us go to school.”
“Okay, okay, girls,” he said, “just, you know, get dressed—we’ll go visit.”
At the hospital, Nick parked in the lot marked “Doctors and hospital staff only.”
“The little rules don’t apply to me,” he said when Elizabeth confronted him. He liked to see how much he could get away with, using freight elevators to avoid lobbies and cutting lines in the deli. But he would never speed or run a red light. He had respect for the rules of the road.
“Visiting hours aren’t until ten,” he said, “but let’s see what we can do.” He smoothed his shirt down into his khaki pants.
“Are we dressed all right?” Elizabeth asked. It frightened her that we’d been allowed to come to the hospital without any attention to our clothes. She’d fussed all morning over what to wear, trying on sundresses over turtlenecks.
Nick stopped and looked us up and down, spinning Elizabeth around as if she were on a runway. He watched her closely, narrowing his eyes until the lines around them deepened. His eyes met mine; he seemed momentarily to be asking for help. But before I could respond, he gathered himself. “I think we look great,” he said at last, extending an elbow to each of us. He walked us to the side door and left us with instructions to stay put while he went around to the main entrance.
Elizabeth was furious. “Now where is he going?” She kicked at some roots under a shrub until the dirt flung up on her new Capezio dance shoes. She licked her thumb and rubbed the white leather. “I don’t see why he gets to go in first,” she said.
“Just shut up,” I said. My palms were clammy. The smell of the tar in the parking lot made me nauseated. I was nervous, worried that I wouldn’t know what to do in a hospital, or what to say to Mama.
The door released and Nick swept us in under his arm. “Three flights up,” he said and began the climb two steps at a time. Elizabeth let the bottom of her bag strike each step until I came up from behind and grabbed one handle. When we got to the top of the stairs, Nick turned to wait for us. “Try to be cheerful,” he said, “you know, for your mama—she might need a little cheering up.”
The hallway of the hospital was bright but empty. There were metal carts of food, wet vegetables that smelled like bad breath, waiting outside a few of the rooms. Nurses darted in and out o
f open doors with pockets full of plastic and gauze. As we walked down a long corridor counting off room numbers and checking for Mama, I caught sight of one gaunt patient tented by a white sheet, her bare leg draped over the side of the bed.
When we arrived in the doorway of room 14 West, Mama was sitting up, waiting. She had on a blue-and-white-striped robe that I had never seen before. She adjusted the front and retied the belt as we entered. Her chest looked padded underneath the printed gown. She pulled a sheet up high on her waist. Her hair was arranged in a tangled ponytail that hung off to one side. Smiling as Nick had told her to, Elizabeth went straight to the bed and cozied up next to her. I felt a large hand on my back—Nick’s pushing me forward. I was forced and awkward, as if in the presence of strangers.
“I’m feeling so much better,” Mama announced, looking at Nick. She had a plastic bracelet on her arm. I stayed back, afraid of her dazed eyes and messy hair. She had applied too much blush. I sat in the beige, rubber-cushioned chair at the foot of the bed.
“Tell me some news from the outside world,” Mama said.
“Well,” Nick started, “you’re sorely missed. The neighbors, the drivers, everyone’s asking for you. Right, girls?”
“What did you tell them?” she asked.
“That you were here, having a minor procedure.”
Mama nodded at him and then turned to us. “It’s not a secret,” she said, taking a sip of water from a straw. “I just don’t know if it’s anyone’s business.”
“I see my mother has already sent you some flowers,” Nick said, plucking the card out from among a basket full of pink and white carnations. “You can always count on her to be there with a bouquet.”
“I thought it was sweet,” Mama said.
Elizabeth slid off the bed and went to retrieve our gifts and cards from the shopping bag. I could see how Nick stiffened each time she climbed on and off the mattress, but Elizabeth didn’t notice.
“Lizzie, can you open it for me?” Mama asked. “I’m not supposed to move so much.” She gestured toward her right arm. It was propped up on pillows with her hand above her elbow. The corner of a plastic sac hung out from under the sheet at the side of the bed. Hemovac, it said in black letters on the tab. It was dark with blood.
Elizabeth held one card open while Mama looked at the inside. The Magic Marker words. Hugs and kisses. Our careful, looping signatures. Mama patted the bed twice, motioning for me to join them. I moved toward Elizabeth.
“Come, get on the other side,” Mama said, her bottom lip quivering. “But watch the IV stand.”
I walked around the hanging plastic bags, sat down on the edge of the bed and lifted the tubing away from my legs. I was afraid to hug her. I had images of myself yanking the tube out of her arm, causing her to bleed, the fluid spilling onto the floor. I watched the sugary water drip down the tube, toward the needle and disappear behind the tape into her skin. She held each of our hands in her left one and rubbed her thumb across our knuckles.
“What I need you both to do,” she said, in a mock whispering voice, “is cooperate with Nick. Men need more help than they let on. Just do everything he tells you, go to school, and look after him.”
“When are you coming home?” Elizabeth asked.
“By the end of the week,” Mama said.
I leaned in close. “Where’s the tumor?” I asked.
Mama seemed startled, sat forward and shot a look at Nick. He stared back blankly.
“Who told you anything about a tumor?” she asked.
“I looked in the dictionary.”
She softened. “The tumor’s gone, honey. The doctor took it out.”
“Where was it?”
“Here,” she said, pointing to her right breast. “Right here.” She patted her robe gently. “I’m fine now.”
• • •
In the parking lot, Elizabeth attached herself to Nick, walking with her hand in his and questioning him nonstop. I dragged behind. So Mama had told Nick all about the tumor. She’d told him more than me, as if her tumor had been a secret between them. When it was just Elizabeth, Mama, and me, I was the one she told her secrets to. Elizabeth’s thick ponytail swung side to side as she walked.
“Nick, is Mama in pain?” she asked.
Nick put his hand on the back of her neck. “No,” he said, “these doctors are taking very good care of her.”
“Maybe she should have more visitors?” Elizabeth suggested when we got to the car.
“No. Not at all,” he said. “She’s fine with just us looking after her.”
“How do you know?” I said. “You haven’t exactly known us forever.” I could hear my teeth gnashing, my jaw clenched, in the long seconds of silence I’d made. I slammed the car door behind me and curled up in the backseat.
By the way Nick stomped around to the driver’s side, I half expected him to explode at me. But he was silent and stayed silent all the way home. When we pulled into the driveway he turned around, his arm hugging the headrest, and looked right at me.
“We’re all upset,” he said, his brows arched high. “I think it is best if we try not to take it out on one another.”
At 4:00, Samantha Shaptaw called to find out why I hadn’t been at school. I stretched the phone cord through the pantry and sat in the stairwell.
“Mama had to have a tumor removed,” I whispered.
“Oh,” she said, drawing in breath between her teeth in a kind of hiss. “How bad is that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Ask your mom.”
“What about your permission slip for that movie?” Samantha asked.
After hanging up the phone, I went upstairs and sat at my desk. I unfolded the letter about “And Then One Year” from Mr. McKinney, careful to keep it looking fresh. The prerequisite for getting your period involved your parents going to a screening of the period movie. You are encouraged to attend the second viewing with your daughter. If you are unable to attend, please send a legal guardian. A dotted line separated the notice about the movie from the permission slip. I cut along the tear-line and flattened out the creases. Then, after rummaging around in my cardboard box of important papers, I found an old spelling test Mama had signed. Carefully, I traced over her signature, practicing the slant of the F in Frances and the looped B in Burbank. I copied her name onto the permission slip, first in pencil, then in pen. Finally, I erased the faint shadow of pencil and brushed the eraser shavings onto the floor.
Downstairs, Nick was heating up dinner. He seemed distant, cloaked in a quiet brooding that I hadn’t seen before. I felt bad for what I’d said, so I decided to help. I poured some frozen Tater Tots into the toaster oven and turned the dial to the right until the oven glowed red inside. Nick opened a can of peas and heated them on the stove. Elizabeth was busy digging in the kitchen drawer looking for batteries. I could see that she and Nick had forged some kind of bond in my absence.
“Will these work?” she asked and held up a new pack of double A’s.
“They have to be bigger,” Nick said, “check in the flashlight.”
When she came back into the kitchen, there was a tape recorder tucked under her arm; the buttons were as big as piano keys. She looked over at me and smirked, tossing her hair confidently. “So Mama doesn’t miss anything,” she said, resting the machine on the table.
I set the table for three, folding the paper towels in triangles the way Mama would have. I could never remember which direction the silverware went, something about the knife protecting the spoon, or the other way around.
As soon as we were seated, Elizabeth pressed the red record button and said, “Talk.”
“Mmm,” Nick said as he chewed his meatloaf.
“Yum,” I said.
Elizabeth hit STOP. “Have a real conversation.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You’re ruining it.” She slumped on her stool and pouted. “I’m starting to hate you.”
“Real nice,” I said, holding my
gaze, hoping to make her feel guilty.
“Come on,” Nick said with his mouth full, “the last thing we need right now is a fight.”
The wooden table had a wobble and Elizabeth and I waged a silent battle with our elbows, each willing the table to rest on her side.
“Can we start over?” Elizabeth asked, holding the reverse button on the recorder until it began screeching.
She held it out to me. “Talk about school.”
“I didn’t go today,” I said.
“Yesterday.”
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s a lie,” Elizabeth said.
I glared at her, horrified that she would threaten to reveal my secret about the period movie in front of Nick.
“How about we just talk about this nice dinner we’re having,” Nick said. “I’ll start …” He straightened into his six-foot frame and combed his hair with his fingers as if he were about to be filmed. His long-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned, his white T-shirt showing. He ran his tongue over his teeth and smiled his warm smile. Elizabeth pressed RECORD and held the silver and black box up to his face.
“Act natural,” she mouthed.
“Well, Frances,” he started, “we’re having some meatloaf tonight. Lainey DeWitt made so much, you’ll even get to try this batch.” Nick talked easily, citing the specifics of his day, as if Mama were right there with us, her face cupped in her hands, smiling wide at him.
Even though she was only going to be gone four days, my mind had taken to playing tricks on me. In the middle of a sentence, while walking down the stairs or brushing my teeth, suddenly the question would overtake me. What did she look like? Just for a second or two, I would forget. Sometimes, a particular feature would disappear—her nose, her hands—and I would have to focus deep within me to bring it back. The house felt large without her. There were new sounds and shadows at every turn. I narrowed my eyes at the empty place setting, the bulb from the overhead lamp shining hot on the seat of her chair. On a normal day, she might have been perched there, drawing each of us out, as insistent as the conductor of the band, reminding us to chime in with the news of our day. We still needed coaxing to talk in front of Nick. Everything here was still new.