Sure. We can stream a movie and eat popcorn. Saff beats me in responding. I’m guessing she didn’t have the same knee-jerk groan reaction.
How about taking the kids out to the movies? Tee chimes in quickly. I’ll pay.
I message Saff in a separate thread, without Tee. Gross. They want the house empty. I see no hypocrisy in this statement. I took advantage of the empty house earlier today but Axel and I are teenagers, not an old married couple in their thirties.
Saff sends me an “eek” emoji.
I message Axel. Have to watch Minions tonight. Going to a movie. Wanna come?
While I wait for him to respond I message Saff again. Bring Fletch. I’ll bring Axel. We can’t let Tee have all the fun. Especially on Valentine’s.
Saff sends me a thumb’s up.
Axel doesn’t text me back for an hour. Can’t make it tonight. Sorry. I am disappointed but not entirely surprised. Axel’s not a big fan of the Minions and their dirty hands. He claims it comes from working at Donut Diva, serving grimy kid after grimy kid. I’m glad he’s moved on from that job—though the boss was a crook and refused to pay him for his last week’s work. Axel actually had to go back in and take what he was owed. At least he enjoys working at the sporting goods store, although his opinion of small children hasn’t improved.
Fletch meets us at the theater with a box of chocolates for Saff. As soon as the Minions catch sight of him, they run over and leap into his arms. They love Fletch—he performs these cheesy magic tricks for them, and every time they see him, he’s prepped a new one. It’s sweet in a dorky way, I guess. This time he fans out a deck of cards, shuffling and cutting the deck. Somehow each of the Minions picks a card with her own name written on it in Sharpie. They squeal and run in circles with their cards.
After handing the chocolates to Saff, Fletch puckers up and pecks her on the forehead. I seriously have to bite my lip so that I don’t laugh out loud. They’re like a retired couple, I swear. Still, he makes her happy, so whatever.
I hate feeling like a third wheel, so I suggest Fletch and Saff see a “grownup” movie while the Minions and I watch the latest Disney release. The Minions sit on either side of me in the dark theater, hiding their faces on my shoulders during the scary parts. Their hands are soft and buttered, their breath popcorn salty, and I love every moment of it.
Truthfully, I might prefer this—having the Minions all to myself instead of being distracted by Axel. I spend more time watching their expressions than the movie itself. Their reactions are so pure: I see the fear, the humor, the excitement and the joy painted in an ever-changing canvas on their faces. It reminds me of what I might have been like at their age. Four. Young enough to believe in tooth fairies and storybook endings. For most of that year I still had a mother. Viewing the world through their eyes gives me a taste of how it might be to grow up in a typical family, with two parents who’d practically safety-proof the world to spare their children from pain.
The girls fall asleep on the ride home. I carry Maggie inside, and Saff’s got Missy. Their bodies are heavy and their heads loll from side to side. Aunt Tee and Luke are sitting in the semi-dark living room, holding hands and talking in whispers. We tiptoe past, to the girls’ bedroom.
I lower Maggie into her bed, deciding not to worry about potential tooth decay from the popcorn she consumed. Brushing her teeth would surely wake her up. I pull the covers up to her chin. “Cay?” She says sleepily. “I wuv surprises.”
“I know you do.” I brush back her hair.
“Maybe a surprise in the morning?”
“Maybe.” I kiss her forehead. I’ve set myself up for this. Last summer I created Fairy Godmother Rosetta, who leaves little trinkets, notes, or treasure hunt clues under their pillows. They had so much fun with this game that I couldn’t stop, even when I’d spent half of my babysitting money. Finally I told them that Fairy Godmother Rosetta would be taking a vacation, but that she’d pop by for a surprise visit every once in a while. I collect tiny treasures and save them in a shoebox on my top shelf for just these occasions. I’m pretty sure I’ve got some stickers, a few polished stones, and some little hair bows.
“Thank you for tonight.” Saff touches my arm. “That was sweet of you.”
“I can, on occasion, be considerate,” I joke. “It’s a stretch for me, but possible.”
“I think Tee was crying.”
“What?” My heart misses a beat.
“I’m pretty sure. Let’s go check.” Before I can respond, Saff adds, “I hope they’re not getting a divorce.”
When we pad back into the living room, they both straighten up, Aunt Tee swiping at her eyes and flashing one of those fake smiles.
“Everything is okay.” But her nose is puffed up like a pastry and Luke’s cheeks are wet. Clearly everything is not okay.
“Then why are you both crying? Luke never cries—except when the Lakers lose a game,” I say, hoping for a laugh to break the tension.
No laugh.
“You do need to know,” Tee says, and Luke nods slightly, as though he’s giving her his blessing. “Okay, come sit down. I wasn’t going to discuss this with you just yet, but I guess at this point, it doesn’t make sense to wait.”
My heart plunges to my belly. Is she sick? This is going to be bad news for sure. I edge over to the couch as though Tee has something contagious, and who knows, maybe she does. I sit as far away from her as I possibly can, forcing Saff to squeeze in between us.
Tee takes a deep breath.
“Please don’t tell me you’re dying,” I blurt accidentally.
Tee shakes her head. “Cayenne. No. Let me talk.”
Saffron reaches her hand for mine, and my throat twists up like it belongs to a cartoon character. I imagine smug Lorelei crossing her bony arms and tapping her decrepit toes impatiently, ready to collect another life, and I want to scream. Not fair! I’m the one tempting you. I’m the one you’re trying to take. Not Tee!
“I’m healthy. And I intend to stay healthy,” she says.
I try hard to hear her through my inner panic. So she’s not dying. So she’s not leaving me. I breathe and try to focus.
“But none of us can ignore our family history. It’s real. I went in to see a genetic counselor. They have this blood test that can identify certain types of cancer risk. One of them is the BRCA gene mutation, which is linked to breast and ovarian cancer.”
“What language are you speaking? BRCA?” I heard her say she was healthy, but there’s a delay in my processing. I can’t quite catch my breath and my heart is double-timing it.
“Wait. You had a genetic test?” Saff asks.
“Yes.” Tee clutches Luke’s hand.
“Do you have it? The bad gene?” Saff is clearly processing this info more efficiently than I am. I still feel confused.
“I do. It’s inherited, of course. If my mother had the gene mutation, which I’m guessing she did, then I had a fifty-percent chance of inheriting it, and so did my sister. Your mom was never tested, but it’s likely she had it too.”
All three of us are quiet, digesting.
“Listen, I’m not going to just wait around to get breast cancer. I know it’s treatable, but cancer has a wicked track record with the women in our family. No offense to Luke, but I don’t want him raising my kids alone.” Tee gestures with Luke’s hand still attached to hers. He wraps one of his long arms around her shoulders. “I’m going to have a double mastectomy. Elective.”
“Whaaat?” A fresh gut-punch of shock hits me. I imagine her boobless, with Frankenstein-like stiches across her chest. This image makes me feel ill.
“I’ll be in the hospital for a few days and I’ll be off work for two months, but it’s worth it.”
I try to stay calm, and I find myself studying her chest. She has nice boobs. “Are they going to make you new ones?” I have to ask.
“Yes. I’ll have reconstructive surgery.”
I mull this over, imagining her with different
breasts. I picture an eighty-year-old Tee with perky plastic boobs. Although I guess that’s the point. Without this, she doesn’t think she’ll make it to forty, let alone eighty.
“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Tee says. “Normally when women get implants, they’re keeping their own breast tissue and putting the implant underneath. In this case, all my own tissue will be removed. The skin will remain and they’ll be inserting an implant under the skin flap.”
“Gross.” I visualize peeled-back skin and an oversized ice cream scoop full of fatty tissue. I nearly gag.
“Cayenne!” Luke’s tone is scolding. “Try to be a tiny bit sensitive here.”
“With all due respect,” I say, for Luke’s benefit, “don’t you think this is kind of drastic? Can’t you just get mammograms?”
“Are you seriously asking her that?” Saff interrupts me, with a kind of intensity I don’t normally see from her. “Two minutes ago you thought she was going to tell us she was dying. Of course she should do this!”
“But why now?”
“Because I’m thirty-two. Your mom was diagnosed when she was thirty. I’ve been getting breast MRIs since forever, but honestly I don’t think it’s a matter of if, it’s more like when. And I’m tired of waiting for that shoe to drop. I want to know I’ll be here to raise my kids. If your mom had a chance to prevent her cancer, she would’ve done anything to be here for you two.”
The lining of Tee’s eyes is red. She must’ve been crying for a long time. “You know how we always joke about the Silk curse? For a long time I was thinking that all us Silk women are weaker, more fragile, somehow. But I actually just read this article about silk—spider silk to be exact. It’s one of the strongest substances on earth. Even stronger than steel, although I’m not sure how that’s possible. We Silk women are strong. And we’re smart. This is the right thing to do. This is the strong thing to do.”
“But what about ovarian cancer?” Saff presses. “You said the BRCA thing is a risk for that too. A mastectomy wouldn’t change that, would it?”
“Nope. The surgery to deal with that risk is called a salpingo-oophorectomy. Ovary and fallopian tube removal.”
I swear she’s speaking a whole new language. “Are you planning to do the oopha loopha too?” I ask, pretending I don’t see Luke’s dirty look. Hasn’t the man heard that humor is a coping mechanism? One of my therapists told me this more than once.
“Yes, but it’ll put me into immediate menopause, so I’d like to wait a few years for that one. But I definitely plan to. By the time they find ovarian cancer, it’s usually pretty bad.”
“But—will this guarantee you won’t get cancer?” I ask.
Tee gives me a small, almost apologetic smile. “There’s never a guarantee. There are lots of other risk factors for cancer. But surgery reduces the risk, so I’m going for it. And honestly, you girls will have to face this someday, too. You’ll have to decide whether to get tested for this mutation.”
I can’t exactly tell her that I’ve already accepted I’ll die in my thirties. It’s an unpleasant future, but it gives me a roadmap. Plus my thirties are forever from now. I need to focus on Tee, on her health and her decision. She’s still talking, and I try to concentrate on her words. “You should be doing self exams right now. It’s never too early to start.”
I glance at Luke, considering making a joke about how Axel examines my boobs enough for the both of us! I hold myself back though, thinking that comment might push him over the edge. Instead I quip, “Exactly when do you plan on hacking off your body parts?” I’m not trying to be insensitive. I’m trying to survive my inner roller coaster, and joking around is my anchor.
Luke removes his hand from Tee’s. His mouth has flattened into a thin line. “The surgery will be at the end of March. I need to be with her at the hospital. We want you two to watch the girls. If you can handle it.”
“Of course we can,” Saff reassures them. “Anything you need.”
We’re all quiet, and I’m not one for downers, so I try to think of something to alter the mood. “Well . . . I think we should have a party.”
“What for?” Luke asks. He does not seem in a mood for confetti and balloons. And truthfully, he does not seem in the mood for me.
“A booby party,” I assert. “A celebration of all things booby.”
Tee smiles, this time not a small sad smile, but a genuine one that reveals a flash of teeth. “How about this—a goodbye to boobies party?”
Saff scoots to the edge of the couch. “Ooh. We can invite all your friends.”
“We can have booby shaped cupcakes and a booby shaped piñata.” I’m getting into this. “Maybe booby ice cream sundaes. If we place the cherry just so . . .”
“I like that idea.” Tee leans back into Luke’s arms, her smile nearly offsetting her swollen nose and red-rimmed eyes.
✱✱✱
I can’t sleep. Thank god it’s not a school night. Images of skin flaps and hacked boobies invade my dreams, along with lighter visuals of whipped cream mounds and cherry-topped nipples. Lorelei swoops in and out of my awareness, taunting me. Despite my games of distraction, she’s caught us all in her wicked grasp—me, Aunt Tee, Saffron, even the Minions. Her claws sink halfway into my chest, reminding me that our lives are vulnerable to her every whim.
Why are you after us? I scream, flailing my arms, hoping to distract her so that the others can escape. Get a life!
I’m sadly misunderstood. She raises me up in one hand, looking almost wistful.
How exactly am I supposed to interpret your claws piercing my chest?
Claws? She huffs like she’s offended, but my distraction is working. The others scramble away and hide.
If this is a love squeeze, you seriously need to invest in a nail clipper.
You’re so negative. She clicks her tongue. It’s all about perspective. She doesn’t notice that her four other captives have escaped.
So you’re saying, with a different perspective, my impending doom would be all butterflies and lollipops? I flip around like a gymnast on the uneven bars, unhooking myself from her grasp.
Very funny. She wiggles her fingers, ready to impale me once again, but I dodge her and open my eyes.
Half-awake, I place my hands gingerly on my chest, where Lorelei’s claws clutched me in my dream. Just above my boobs.
Will Tee miss hers? I didn’t even think to ask her earlier. Arguably, the breast is the ultimate symbol of womanhood. What does it mean to be a woman without these parts?
I can’t imagine losing my breasts. Without them I’d feel undesirable, I’d feel sorry for myself, and maybe other people would feel sorry for me too. That thought edges under my skin and makes me cringe. Saff would say I’ve been brainwashed by societal norms and maybe she’d be right, but I can’t help it.
Tee would probably say that not having breasts is better than dying, and it’s not like I can argue with that logic, but it still pisses me off that our best chance for survival requires self-mutilation. And she admitted there’s no guarantee she won’t still get cancer!
My neurons are working overtime, my thoughts spinning like a hamster stuck on an endless wheel. I have to get up. Move around, I tell myself. Think about something else.
I tiptoe into Saff’s lilac-scented room and grab the journal from her nightstand.
I pad back to my room and flip to the spot with Saff’s bookmark. The words immediately shift my thoughts, almost as if Mom’s putting her arm around me, the way she did that time when a car hit our neighbor’s dog. I was three, I think. I remember something drawing me closer. A need to check on the dog. A need to try to fix it. I remember Mom’s arm solidly around me, leading me home. “Don’t look, sweetheart. Come this way.”
Me being me, I couldn’t help but look. But only for a moment. Then I turned back into her arms, to the smell of cinnamon and cloves from the pumpkin bread she’d baked earlier, and the soft warmth of her skin.
Things nobody tells yo
u when you become a mom
Nobody tells you that it’s nothing like babysitting. Because when it’s your own kids, it’s #@$%&#@ personal! You pour your heart and soul into your kids and there’s nothing that matters more.
Nobody tells you how much you’ll worry. It started the moment I found out I was pregnant. First . . . if you’d grow okay and be healthy, and then when you were born . . . if you were nursing enough and pooping enough (seriously), and how you were growing and when you learned to crawl, and if you were safe . . . And now of course I worry about how you’ll be without me.
Nobody tells you that you’ll be a different kind of mom, a different version of yourself, at each stage of your kids’ lives. You can’t really predict which version will pop up.
Here’s something I won’t ever get to find out. Would I have been the wanna-be-cool been-there-done-that kind of mom, who’d host the keggers at her own house so no one would drive drunk? Or would I have been the super strict you-won’t-repeat-my-mistakes and not-under-my-roof kind of mom?
The one perk about being dead is that I don’t have a chance to mess up your teenage years. Hopefully you’ll always remember me as that fun jumping-on-the-trampoline and playing-hide-and-seek-in-our-pajamas kind of mom.
Unless you hate me for being dead. Which is entirely possible. And for that I apologize. It wasn’t in my plans either.
I’m not sure I ever hated her for being dead, but maybe I resented her. Maybe I thought that if she’d really loved me, she’d have been able to fight off the cancer. I know she didn’t leave me on purpose, but somehow it still feels like it’s her fault—even though that makes zero sense.
Maybe it’s the late hour or my scrambled brain, but I close my eyes to blink and bam! I’m right back there on the trampoline with Mom. She always played with us, like it was actually fun for her. She pretended we were her kangaroo babies, holding us tight to her front while we jumped together. We played “rocket,” where she timed her bounce so that she could use her weight to propel us up high into the sky.
How to Live on the Edge Page 5