How to Live on the Edge

by Sarah Lynn Scheerger

  “Well, that’s the thing.” Ryan/Dad runs his hands through his hair. “You can control one thing.”

  “What!?” Saff and I both retort, in sync for once, equally pissed. Who is he to offer us advice?

  “Yourself.” He says. “You can decide how you manage this risk.”

  “Lovely. Tell me how to control her.” Saff kicks the back of my seat.

  “Weren’t you paying attention, Saffron?” I snark back. “You can’t. You can’t control me and I can’t control you. And we can’t control cancer.” I push open the door and get out. Before I slam it shut, I lean back in and yell, “Great pep talk, Dad.” I push the last word out of my mouth like it’s the biggest insult in the world.

  Chapter 31

  Saff talks to Aunt Tee in the kitchen while I’m hogging the bathroom, taking the longest shower in recent California history. By the time I emerge, Saff has retreated to her room and Aunt Tee insists on taking me out to dinner. I can’t remember the last time the two of us went out on our own, and it’s obvious that the test results are the trigger. I assume she’ll be doing the same thing with Saffron sometime in the next few days. As far as consolation prizes for death sentences go, I’m sure I could do worse.

  Luke drops us off at a restaurant Tee likes, and Tee rambles innocuously while we wait for our food.

  “It’s so nice to get out of the house. Other than the support group, it feels like ages since I’ve been around any humans I’m not related to. Not that I’m complaining.”

  She unwraps a straw and hands it to me, like she used to do when I was little. I accept it and insert it into my ice water.

  “So listen, Cay. I’d love for you to come to a support group meeting with me sometime. There are some women I’d like you to meet. Ladies who’ve done all kinds of different things to manage their risks—some surgery, some other techniques. There are a couple of younger women—one who opted for an early oophorectomy but has saved her eggs, and another who’s scheduling frequent screenings.”

  “You’re ruining my appetite,” I point out.

  “Cayenne . . . I’m so incredibly sorry you have the mutation. But from now on, these considerations have to be a part of your life. You need to fully explore your options.”

  “No thank you,” I say sweetly. We’re out to eat after all. No need to make a scene.

  “How can I help you when you’re so guarded all the time?” Tee folds her napkin and sets it on the table, like she’s giving up on dinner already.

  “Tee, I appreciate everything you do for me, but the best way for you to help me right now is to not make a bigger deal of this than it needs to be.”

  Another sigh from Tee. “Cayenne. I know you like to think of yourself as confident and sure of yourself, but it’s okay to admit you’re scared. Or even confused.”

  “Great, well, it’s okay for you to not treat me like a little kid.” That doesn’t come out sounding as mature as I would like, but I can’t help it.

  “I know you’re not a little kid, Cay. But you also don’t have to pretend you have everything figured out.” She gives me the smallest possible smile, one that’s more wistful than amused. “That’s one way you remind me of your mom, actually. You’re someone who’s constantly seeking. Seeking a sense of a control, seeking an identity, seeking reassurance of your value, seeking safety.”

  “Safety?” Does she even know me? I dodge safety. I give a mental middle finger wave to Lorelei.

  “Yes, in a counterintuitive way. You try to predetermine your risks. And on some level that makes you feel safe. It’s the unknown that’s hard for you.”

  Our salads are delivered to the table, but my appetite is waning.

  “I think that’s why you never study for tests,” Tee goes on. “If you were to study and fail, you’d feel inadequate. So instead, you don’t try . . . then if you fail your excuse to yourself is that you didn’t try and you don’t care.” This stings a bit. “To truly care and truly try, to truly work toward building a future—that makes you feel vulnerable. Because it means you have to step up to the plate and be responsible for your life.”

  This whole conversation feels insulting. I’m immediately on the defensive. “To be fair, life is shitty.” My voice catches, and I hate it.

  “Yes, life is shitty.” Tee grabs my hands in her own from across the table. She nearly knocks over an ice water. “It’s shitty and wonderful and unpredictable and you can’t extricate one component from the other.”

  “Yes I can.” I just feel like arguing. Aren’t we supposed to be bonding here?

  “Well, I think you’re missing out. You’re building walls around yourself that keep you from seeing possibilities—the good ones along with the bad.”

  “And where did you get your psychology degree?”

  “The choice is yours, Cayenne. You’re an adult now. You get to choose how to live your life. All I’m asking is that you consider options, even uncomfortable ones. Accept knowledge and input. Accept support.”

  My meal is ruined. I can hardly swallow the chopped salad because of the tightness in my throat. Plus the lettuce is wilted and I hate that.

  ✱✱✱

  My cluster of sticky-note journal entries is growing. I haven’t placed any in the journal yet. If I ever do, I may have to glue them on, because the sticky strips are weakening.

  Things nobody tells you when you lose a mom —Cayenne

  How bad it’ll hurt at first. Heavy compressed pain, as if your entire self has been bound up and packed into a tiny metal box an eighth of your size, and you don’t fit. You’re bound so tight you can think of nothing else but survival.

  How you get used to it after a while. You stop feeling that confinement, and then the hurt scabs up and over, covers you with a crusty outer coating that protects you. How you never ever want to peel that off. Because underneath, you’re raw, you’re bloody, you’re exposed.

  How once you’re scabbed over and crusty, you’re also kind of numb. How sometimes doing reckless things makes you feel alive again—if only for a moment.

  How this is kind of addictive. How it’s hard to stop. Even if you know you might lose the person who matters most to you.

  I chew on the back of my pen, leaving teeth marks in the plastic. I compare my entry to Saff’s entry. Mom’s death affected her in a totally different way. I guess that every person has a unique reaction to loss. I haven’t spent much time trying to understand that.

  ✱✱✱

  Saffron knocks on my door, two quick taps. I slide my Sticky note entries under a book just as she barges in. Her face is swollen. She’s engulfed by a large sweatshirt, with the sleeves pulled over her hands as if it’s eating her alive. Man, she’s taking this hard.

  Saff has done everything right, always chosen the careful path. It’s not fair for the curse to snag her too.

  “Saffron.” I reach for her. We haven’t hugged much since we were little, but I stand up and pull her in. “It’s going to be okay, you know. I know you’re not a fan of medical procedures, but we’ll schedule our surgeries together so we can sit on the couch for weeks and critique bad daytime television.” Truthfully I’m not sure I’ll be signing up for the whole surgical disfigurement deal, but it seems the right thing to say. “Anyway, even if we start MRIs at twenty, we don’t need to seriously consider surgery for years. We don’t have to stress yet.” Saff starts sobbing. I consider trying to lighten her mood by suggesting she bump up a couple of bra sizes, but I restrain myself.

  “Now.” She presses against my shoulder, trying to get something out in that hiccupy-gaspy middle-of-crying way. “We—have—to do it now.”

  I pull back to examine her, and for a split second the ground drops away from me. “Now?” My voice jumps up an octave. “Um. You just turned eighteen. And I’m not even nineteen.”

  “I know you—Cayenne. You’re going—to pretend this doesn’t—exist. You’re not gonna d—eal with it. No matter what you say, no matter what you promise me, I k
n—ow you. N—othing you say will r—eassure me. Unless I see—you do this—I won’t be able to relax.”

  I still feel incredulous. I’m so surprised that she’s not obsessing about the medical part of all this. The girl’s scared of a freaking needle . . . I can’t imagine her facing a scalpel. “Wait. You’re going to have an elective mastectomy a decade before you need to, just because you’re afraid I’m not going to follow through on mine? I think your logic is a little off.”

  “There is no logic with you, Cayenne!” She’s scream-crying now. “I don’t want to lose you! I’ll do anything I have to. Anything!” There is snot dripping down her face. I’ve never seen her cry like this before.

  I can’t stand to see her in so much pain, as if she’s being ripped apart. I want to fix this for her. “Hey. After the accident, I made a promise to myself and to the Minions. That I’ll be there for you guys. I won’t let you down again.”

  She stares at me, like she’s not sure she believes me. “If that’s true, we at least have to make a plan now. There’s op—tions. I asked Nat—alie a ton of q-uest—ions to—day.” So this explains her being in Natalie’s office for so long. Her face breaks into pieces. “Promise?”

  “I need to think, Saffron.”

  “You don’t have to promise details, Cayenne. Just pr-omise we’ll d—eal with th—is together?” She asks between sobby, hiccuppy breaths.

  “Promise,” I say, regretting the word before it’s even out of my mouth.

  ✱✱✱

  It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the solidification of the Silk curse, but Saff has already engulfed herself in planning. She’s more than on a roll, she’s on an avalanche, and it’s picking up speed. Truthfully, her enthusiasm is a little frightening.

  Apparently the first available consult with a specialist is six weeks out, since our situation is not “imminent.” So in addition to arguing with some intake coordinator about the meaning of imminent, she’s printing a whirlwind of online articles, which she’s analyzing and taping up around her room. And I’m supposed to be the unstable one? The girl is losing it.

  I need a break. I text Vanessa and ask her if she can come over to distract Saffron, because she shouldn’t be alone when she’s like this . . . and when Vanessa says she’s game, I escape.

  Do I hate asking Ryan/Dad for a lift after our last conversation? Yes. Am I relieved that he’s willing to drop me off at the secret garden and available to retrieve me whenever I want, no questions asked? Absolutely.

  I spend four hours at the garden. Thinking.

  The idea of doing this right now totally terrifies me. And will a mastectomy satisfy my sister, or will she push for us to get our ovaries removed as soon as possible too? I need to buy us a little time.

  I’ve never wanted to get married and have kids. But now there’s a tiny seed of doubt sprouting inside me. What if in five or ten or fifteen years, I realize I do want kids, and by then it’s too late?

  I don’t think I’ve met any straight guys who aren’t at least mildly obsessed with boobs. It’s hard to imagine someone being attracted to me without them. And my ovaries? Without those I won’t have the ability to create and sustain life. And isn’t that, at its core, what makes women different from men? I remind myself that that’s not always true, that I really should stop defining womanhood so narrowly, but when it comes to my body, I don’t like the idea of giving up that aspect of myself. Of limiting what my body is capable of.

  I run my fingers down my mid-region, circling my belly button. A baby could blossom in there. A child. A beautiful, perfect child. Someone I create.

  Shit. This is so stressful. I try to quiet my brain. I lie on my back and stare up at the leaves. At the way the sun shines through the cracks. At the tiny slivers of blue sky. I breathe in the earthy smell of the grass, and I focus on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

  I must be near sleep, because Lorelei hovers.

  It occurs to me that sparring with her won’t make me feel any less overwhelmed. I devised this cat-and-mouse game to protect Saff and Tee and the Minions from her wrath. But the ridiculousness of this hits me. Nothing I’ve done has helped Saff at all—we both have this gene mutation. Death isn’t some sort of strategic game. Me dying doesn’t mean Saff is any more likely to live. Me living doesn’t mean Saff is any more likely to die.

  I hope you know I’m not afraid of you. When we do this surgery, that decision will come from a logical place, not from an emotional place.

  Fear gets a bad rap, in my opinion. She’s got a creepy Cheshire cat grin.

  Well, your opinion doesn’t interest me. I’m starting not to care about you at all.

  Lorelei snickers. Clearly I’m making progress. You’re just too self-obsessed to see it for what it is.

  I corral every ounce of strength in my mind to push her away. She swirls up, as if caught in a tornado. I know she’s a figment of my imagination, but I’ve never before been able to exert so much control over her.

  Goodbye, Lorelei.

  For now.

  Once her laughter fades, I center my mind again, focusing on my breaths. Gradually my thoughts return, but not in a rapid misfire kind of way. Now they float past like they’re drifting down a lazy river. I consider each one in a removed manner, almost as an observer. As my mind settles, my options become clear.

  Chapter 32

  Axel’s man cave is the perfect setting for an after-school TV marathon. His bed sits against the wall, covered with neatly placed pillows, all smelling like his coconut hair gel. He keeps the lights permanently dim—“mood lighting,” he calls it. His room is clean and organized, totally not what you’d expect from a teenager living on his own.

  We lie on his bed, under the covers, watching (and not watching) HBO. His arm drapes over my shoulders, resting on my belly. He drums his fingers there lightly. I twist toward him, ignoring the faint ache of my ribs. I get my walking cast tomorrow, and I’ll be so glad to kiss my crutches goodbye. I wrap my arms around his waist, gently pulling him on top of me. We haven’t had much of a chance to make out since the accident, and I miss it.

  The weight of his body lulls me, and I sense the impermanence of my own skin. My breasts are only visiting. My ovaries only temporarily harvesting estrogen, let alone eggs. They’re on borrowed time. I have this urge to use them. To maximize their potential. I slip my shirt off and unhook my bra.

  Axel’s lips part appreciatively, and he dips his head toward me, kissing me hard and deep. He runs his fingertips across my side. I grab them and lead them to my breasts. The nerve endings there blossom, and I let myself succumb to the pleasant throbbing that resonates in every cell.

  He kisses the crook of my neck and I tilt my head away to give him fuller access. “You ever think of getting married young?” I ask, goose bumps prickling up all over my skin.

  Axel stops working on my neck. “I thought you were anti-marriage.”

  “I was. I am. I just . . .” I can’t concentrate with all the goose bumps. I want him to shut up and go back to my neck. But I also want to get this out in the open. “I have that gene mutation, Axel.”

  “That what—oh. Really?” He sits up, digesting. “Shit, Cay. That’s terrible.” He lets his eyes fall to my breasts, and they linger there as if he’s painting a Renaissance picture in his mind. “What do you think you’ll do?”

  “I’m leaning toward herbs, alkaline water, and acupuncture.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Well, I forgot to apply to college, so I was thinking I’ll pop out a couple babies and then pull an Aunt Tee—kiss it all goodbye. I promised Saff I’d make a plan—that’s the best I got.” I’m grateful that my constant joking makes these words so easy, even though I’m being one hundred percent serious. “Wanna make a baby? I hear it’s fun. . . at least the first couple minutes anyway. The next nine months are kind of a drag, but that wouldn’t affect you.” I decide not to mention the subsequent eighteen years.

>   His face stays somber, but with a flicker of irritation. “Come on, Cay. You don’t want kids.”

  “I don’t,” I agree. “But I do like the Minions . . . so I got to thinking . . . what if I change my mind and it’s too late? I figure I should produce a few early, before I remove my equipment.”

  The irritation has now consumed any other emotion Axel might be having. He scoots away, and I’m thinking he has no plans to go back to kissing my neck. “Cayenne. You make a joke out of everything.”

  “So I’ve been told.” I’m a tiny bit hurt that he’s not at least playing along, but I barrel ahead. “So whaddaya think, wanna make a miniscule alien creature who will take over my womb like a parasite?”

  “Whoa.” Axel holds up his hand. “I can’t believe you’re throwing yourself at me and I’m turning you down. I’ve wanted to be with you for so long. But this isn’t right. I don’t want to take advantage of you when you’re like this.” Axel climbs out of bed and pulls on his jeans. “Listen, Cayenne. Maybe we should take a break.”

  “What?” That tiny bit of hurt swells into something bigger.

  “You’re kind of freaking me out.”

  “I just told you I’m on the genetic high-speed railway to cancer and now you’re saying we should take a break?”

  “Uh, well, you suggested that I get you pregnant, which feels like a pretty big red flag to me. You know I don’t want kids, and by the way, we’re still in high school! Why the hell would I be cool with that?”

  White-hot embarrassment flashes through my whole body. “Okay, so maybe I’m going a little overboard. Sorry. I’m not trying to like, entrap you or something.”

  “No, you were just thinking about what you wanted, like usual.”

  “That’s not—that’s not fair.” Especially coming from Axel, the guy who supposedly loves my free-spirited independence. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m just a little freaked out, I guess.” Something bursts inside me, and despite my best efforts my eyes start to water.