But I don’t want to talk about school. Why is my mother taking me out for ice cream on a Friday afternoon when I know very well we have frozen yogurt in the freezer at home?
There aren’t very many people at the Dairy Queen, which isn’t all that surprising, since it’s late November and it’s getting much colder. Not that the temperature matters to me. Personally, I’ve never understood why people don’t eat ice cream in the winter. Just because it’s cold outside doesn’t make it any less delicious.
“Order anything you like,” Mom says.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Anything.”
I order a banana split with the works: three scoops of ice cream, chocolate, caramel and strawberry sauce, peanuts, whip cream and sprinkles. Mom gets a baby vanilla cone. I go to sit in a booth by the window, but Mom wants to sit closer to the back.
“It’s too loud up there,” she says. “Too many people.”
So we sit at a table in the very back, near the back door. There’s a bit of a draft, so I keep my coat on. I dig into my split, trying to make sure every spoonful has a little bit of everything in each bite. It’s a lot harder than you’d think. Sometimes I have to use my finger to scoop a peanut or a bit of sauce on top.
“Clarissa, I have something to tell you, and I’m just going to say it. I want you to listen and not say anything until I’m done. Then you can ask anything you want. Can you do that?”
What kind of a question is that? Apparently my own mother thinks I am an imbecile incapable of hearing someone out.
“Can you do that?” she asks again.
I nod.
“I want to hear you say yes, I can do that.”
“Yes, I can do that,” I say, rolling my eyes and licking caramel sauce off my plastic spoon.
“I picked you up today on my way home from the hospital. I had a meeting with an oncologist, Dr. Fairbanks.”
The hospital?
“An oncologist is a doctor who specializes in cancer. Clarissa, honey, I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer.”
Mom stops and watches me, letting the words sink in. I wait for the punch line. It has to be a joke. Not a very funny one, but then again most of Mom’s jokes are pretty lame. The ice cream hardens in my throat. I manage to force it down, but I don’t take another bite.
Mom continues, “Dr. Fairbanks says there is no reason to panic, as they caught it at an early stage. I’m going to have surgery in a few weeks, followed by chemotherapy. I’ve asked Denise to come stay with us for awhile, to help out while I’m recovering.”
“Denise knows?”
“Clarissa, I asked you not to interrupt. Yes, Denise knows. She is my best friend. I asked her to come to the hospital with me. Sometimes you need another adult with you. I didn’t want to worry you until I knew what was going on.”
I want to tell her to slow down, start from the beginning. I hear all the things she’s saying, but they don’t make any sense. Her lips are still moving but my brain can’t seem to catch up.
“I’ll be working up until my surgery, and then I’ll have to take some time off. The General Hospital doesn’t have a cancer ward, and so I’ll be staying in London while I get my chemotherapy.”
Cancer? Surgery? London? Denise? Chemotherapy? There are so many things I want to shout, but I can’t. I don’t even know where to start. I can’t believe that only ten feet away people are trying to decide whether to get a chocolate-dipped cone or a small Blizzard, completely unaware that my whole life is changing. Five minutes ago I was just like them, and now all of a sudden I’m a person whose mother has cancer.
“I know you’re overwhelmed, and you must have lots of questions. But I just needed to get it all out first. Now, ask me anything you want. Anything.”
Unbelievably, Mom is smiling at me. I recognize that smile, it’s the one she gives to little kids who don’t want to get their hair cut; the one she uses to charm them into letting her take her scissors to their head and chop away to her heart’s content. Well, she’s not coming anywhere near me with that smile, I know what she’s up to. I will not be talked down to. She reaches for my hand, but I pull it back. I don’t like being touched in public. She knows that.
“It’s important to talk about this, honey.”
I open my mouth to speak, but instead of words, ice cream comes rushing up my throat and I puke all over the table.
***
At home, Mom lays a bunch of pamphlets at the edge of my bed: Cancer in the Family; Breast Cancer FAQs; Cancer is a Word, Not a Sentence.
“I thought you might want to look at these,” she explains. “In case you have any questions you’re too embarrassed to ask. Next week we’re going to see Dr. Fairbanks, you can ask him anything you like then.”
“We?”
“He thinks it’s important for you to come along.”
I wait until she leaves before tossing the brochures in the waste basket.
Blocked ID
Benji calls around seven.
“Wanna come over?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“My dad’s not here. He went to a hockey game.”
“Maybe.”
“We can watch TV.”
“There’s nothing good on Friday nights.”
“He left money for pizza.”
“Fine. But no mushrooms.”
“Can’t you just pick them off?”
“No, I can still taste them.”
“What if I ask them just to put mushrooms on half?”
“Fine.”
“Okay, see you soon?”
“I’m coming right now. I’ll bring pop.”
Mom is in her room on the phone, probably spreading the bad news. I wonder who she’s talking to, and why they have to know our business. I put my coat on, stuff two cans of root beer into the pockets and wait till I’m practically out the door before yelling, “I’m going to Benji’s!” Then I slam the door behind me and run to Benji’s before she can say anything back.
Benji is waiting for me at the door. He frowns as I burst into the house, gasping for breath.
“Did you run here?” he asks.
I can’t answer right away because I’m trying to catch my breath.
“What does it look like?”
“You never run.”
“I do so, just not in gym class. Did you order the pizza?”
“Yup. If it’s not here in thirty-five more minutes, then it’s free.”
“Great. Here’s your root beer. Anything good on TV?”
Benji’s house is set up exactly like mine. All the rooms are in the same place, except at Benji’s, nothing matches. David Denton has been married twice, and neither of those women was around long enough to spiff the place up a bit. Benji’s mom died in a car accident when he was only two, and his ex-stepmom Gayle wasn’t really the decorating type. Or the mom type, come to think of it. She was the bingo-playing, heavy-smoking, soap opera-watching type. She’s been gone for four years and their basement still smells like cigarettes. The worst thing about Gayle was that she hated dogs, and used to say terrible things under her breath whenever a dog walked by or started barking outside, almost like she was cursing them. We used to call her the Gulch, like Miss Gulch, the mean lady in The Wizard of Oz who wants to hurt Toto. The Gulch could be really fun, but she didn’t like much of anything and spent most of her time complaining. We could talk about the Gulch right in front of her and she never got it. I guess she wasn’t the smart type, either.
The only room that’s really put together is Benji’s room, but we never hang out in there because it’s pretty small and he doesn’t like things to get mussed up. We usually end up in the basement. David has a big TV with over five hundred channels, surround sound and one of those extra-long corner couches that looks expensive but is really made of fake leather. He has a real leather La-Z-Boy, but we’re not allowed to sit on it. Not that I care. Who’d want to sit in an old chair when you can spread out over a whole couch? At
Benji’s, you can turn the TV up as loud as you want and no one tells you to turn it down. But even with all this cool stuff, Benji still would rather be at my house. He says it gets too quiet here.
“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks.
“Sure. But you figure it out. I can never get the thingy to work.”
Benji picks up one of three remote controls and a menu pops up with all the different movie choices. Most of them are Oscar types. Boring.
“Can you find something funny?” I ask.
“I’ll try,” Benji says.
While he wades through the long list of movies, I think about Mom and whether I want to tell Benji about the C word. Mom told me that I should, but I don’t know if I want to. He’ll probably get upset and cry and I hate when people cry. Plus he might want to talk about it, and I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not sure it’s even real. How can you tell someone you have the C word and then come home like everything is normal and blab on the phone to your friends all night? Maybe it will go away on its own, like when some people get the flu they are sick for days and other people get over it in twenty-four hours. How can I tell Benji about it when we don’t really know for sure, for sure, yet? I’d be worrying him for nothing.
The doorbell rings and I jump up.
“I’ll get it, where’s the money?”
“On the counter,” Benji says.
Pizza makes everything better. There is nothing that a hot slice of cheesy-tomatoey goodness can’t fix, especially with lots of salty pepperoni. Delicious. I scarf down three slices before Benji asks about this afternoon.
“Did you have a doctor’s appointment?”
“No.”
“Dentist?”
“No.”
I reach for my fourth slice. I am not about to let a bunch of Nosy-Parker questions ruin a good pizza.
“Was it about your dad?”
I hadn’t even thought about my dad. Talk about a perfect cover story; Benji would be too embarrassed to ask a lot of questions, and he’d never have to know about my mom. It would be a pretty big lie to tell though, and although I have nothing against lying, I’ve never been able to lie to Benji.
“No.”
Benji puts his pizza down and looks at me very seriously. He takes a deep breath before asking, “Are you moving?”
“No. It’s nothing like that,” I say, but I can tell that he doesn’t believe me.
“You don’t want to tell me,” Benji says. He looks disappointed.
“It’s just not important enough. I don’t want to worry you.”
Benji looks alarmed.
“If it’s not important, why would I be worried?” he asks.
This is going all wrong.
“It’s just my mom. She has to go see a doctor.”
“Why?”
“Because she might—” but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud.
“Die?” Benji whispers.
“Cripes! Don’t be so dramatic! It’s just, I mean she might have—” I lower my voice before finishing “—cancer.”
There. I said it. Benji is staring at me like I said she had to have a face transplant or something unbelievable like that. When he speaks his voice is hushed, too.
“Cancer?”
I shrug.
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“Well, this one doctor thinks so, but she’s acting like it’s nothing, and she doesn’t seem sick, so maybe he was wrong. She’s going to see another doctor next week.”
“Okaaaay,” Benji says, “but one doctor already said she had it?”
“Yeah, so? She needs a second opinion. People are always getting second opinions.” At least on TV they are.
“What kind is it?”
A red hot flush rushes up my neck and spreads across my cheeks.
“Can we please talk about something else? You’re ruining my pizza.”
“Sorry, it’s just, wow. Cancer. I’ve never known anyone with cancer before.”
“Maybe cancer.”
“Maybe cancer. I’m sorry, Clarissa.”
“What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything. Besides, I said I wasn’t talking about it anymore.”
“Right. Sorry.”
We chew in silence until I can’t stand it anymore. I can practically hear Benji feeling sorry for me. That won’t do at all.
“So did you get the thingy to work?” I ask.
Benji nods. “Yup.”
“So what are we watching?”
“Miss Congeniality.”
On a scale of one to five, I’d only give Miss Congeniality two stars. But Benji loves anything with a makeover in it, and I’ll do anything to keep him distracted enough to forget about my mom, so Miss Congeniality it is.
***
A little bit later the phone rings. Benji answers. After a second he hangs up.
“Who was that?” I ask.
Benji shrugs.
“Wrong number,” he says.
Ten seconds later the phone rings again. Benji looks at it but doesn’t make a move to answer.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“It’s probably the same people.”
“What if it’s for your dad?”
Benji hesitates and picks it up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
This time he hangs up right away.
“Same guy?”
He nods but doesn’t say a word. When the phone rings for the third time he doesn’t even look at it. This is starting to get annoying.
“Cripes!”
“Just leave it,” he says.
“They probably wrote the number down wrong. Here, I’ll get it.”
Benji puts an arm out to stop me but I’ve always been way stronger than him. I grab the phone and check out the number, but the screen says blocked ID.
“Benji, what are you doing? Let me get the phone!”
“It’s not worth it, let’s just watch the movie.”
“Hello?”
“Don’t hang up on me, freak! What’s the matter? You on a date with a boy? Are you doing each other’s hair? Playing dress up?”
“Who is this?” I demand.
But no one answers. There’s a click and then the drone of the dial tone buzzing in my ear. Benji turns up the TV and pretends to be totally engrossed in Sandra Bullock and her silly beauty pageant antics.
“Have you got phone calls like that before?” I ask.
Benji feigns surprise. “Like what?” he says.
“Don’t be stupid, Benji. Do they call here a lot?”
“Was it a wrong number?”
“Cripes, Benji! Does your dad know?”
Benji pales, but he refuses to tear his eyes from the TV screen.
“Of course not. And don’t tell him. He’d just get angry.”
I grab the remote and turn off the TV.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the phone calls?”
“You weren’t going to tell me about your mom.”
“That’s different!” I explode. “That’s personal! This is, this is—” but I can’t think of an appropriate word.
“They’re just crank calls,” Benji says.
“So? I still think you should tell your dad. No one would ever call here again after the Dentonator gave them an earful.”
“He’d probably think I brought it on myself.”
“No he wouldn’t,” I protest, but part of me knows that Benji is right.
“Can we please turn the movie back on now?” he asks.
I’m far too angry to sit still and watch a movie, but Benji looks so pitiful that I can’t say no. Try as I might, I can’t get back into the plot. My mind feels like it’s racing a hundred miles an hour. I can’t get that ugly voice out of my head, and I wonder if there is anything else Benji isn’t telling me.
Bombarded
“Don’t forget, Clarissa, straight home after school today. We have
a meeting with Dr. Fairbanks at 3:45.”
I pretend to be busy looking for something in my backpack.
“Did you hear me, Clarissa?”
“Mmm, hmm,” I mumble.
Mom crosses her arms and leans to one side.
“Then what did I say?” she asks.
“You said be home before 3:45.”
“That’s not exactly what I said, but you got the gist of it.”
Benji arrives and knocks politely on the screen door. I don’t know why he insists on doing this, since the front door is open and he can see us standing right there. Plus, it’s not like he’s a total stranger or hasn’t been coming to my house every day for the past five years anyway. I wonder if there’s such a thing as too polite.
“Hi, Clarissa. Hello, Miss Delaney.”
“Are you ever going to call me Annie?”
“Right. Annie. Sorry.”
Benji licks his lips and shifts his weight from foot to foot.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
My mom smiles.
“I’m feeling okay, Benji, thanks for asking. I’m glad Clarissa told you about the diagnosis and I just want you to know that things look good. Plenty of women are diagnosed with breast cancer every day and live to tell about it.”
Benji blushes when she says the B word. I hadn’t told him what kind of cancer it was to spare him (and me) the embarrassment. A gentle soul like Benji embarrasses easily, but Mom doesn’t seem to notice. She keeps barrelling on with more and more embarrassing statistics.
“The important thing is we caught it early and we’re going to do everything we can to beat it. The doctor told me that one in nine women will develop breast cancer in her lifetime. It’s the most common cancer among women. Even men can get breast cancer. Can you imagine—”
“We’re going to be late,” I say. “Benji, let’s go.”
“Bye Miss — Annie.”
“Bye, Benji. Clarissa, I’ll see you no later than 3:30.”
I stomp out the door, slamming it behind me. Benji struggles to catch up.
He looks a little shaken.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s all she can talk about these days.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay! She’s embarrassing me! She’s embarrassing my friends.”
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