Words That Start With B

by Vikki VanSickle

  Hopestead House is smaller than I expected. It looks like any old house, neat and tidy, painted white with blue shutters. The curtains are all shut, but they’re ruffled along the edges, like old-fashioned skirts, with light sneaking out from underneath like petticoats. There’s even a wraparound porch with a wicker loveseat out front. Inside a place like this you’d expect to see a mom baking cookies, or an old lady knitting in a rocking chair, not a lot of cancer patients with needles sticking out of their arms. My stomach clenches like a fist; will there be needles in Mom’s arm?

  I step out of the car and wait for Denise to grab her bags.

  “Ready, kiddo?”

  We walk up the neat little stairs, past the flower boxes, and in through the front door. One of those embroidered pillows hangs in the window, white with blue stitching. A Stranger is a Friend You Haven’t Met, it says, surrounded by a whole lot of little blue flowers. They have five points, like stars. Maybe one of the cancer patients made it. Maybe they have someone come in and teach them how to embroider while they recover. But I can’t imagine Mom sitting in a circle, gabbing away, stitching a welcome sign or a pillow, though. She’s not what you’d call a crafty sort of person.

  “Hello?”

  Denise and I stand in the front foyer, looking around for signs of life. The only thing that makes Hopestead different from a regular house is the desk set up just under the stairs. There isn’t a receptionist in sight, but a little sign that says “Back in 5” sits on top of a pile of paperwork. Somewhere in the house a TV is on; I can hear the rise and fall of the laugh track of some stupid sitcom, but it isn’t loud enough to tell what sitcom it is.

  “Clarissa?”

  And suddenly she’s there: wrapped in her old purple bathrobe, the one that’s worn out in places, like the elbows on an old teddy bear, standing at the top of the stairs. I am relieved that, even though her hair is pulled back and I can tell from here it’s greasier than usual, she still looks like Mom. In my head, I have been picturing her as one of those concentration camp survivors from the videos we watched in history: thin, grey and bald. I’m surprised to find I’ve been holding my breath. I let it out.

  “Surprise,” I manage to say, but the word wobbles in my throat. Holding tight to the banister I take the stairs two at a time until I’m right in front of her. Mom smoothes the hair from my forehead and steadies my chin in her hand.

  “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”

  I manage to hold it in until we get to Mom’s bedroom. Once we’re safe inside I press my face into her bathrobe and let it all out. Feeling Mom’s hands running through my hair and tickling my neck just makes it worse. I sob and sob until my nose is runny and the front of her robe is damp with my tears. Finally the tears stop coming but my body still shudders, like it has more crying to do. The skin on my cheeks feels tight where my tears have dried.

  “Better?” Mom asks.

  I nod.

  “Good.”

  When I pull away I see that she’s been crying, too. Her skin looks grey and pulled tight, especially under her eyes.

  “You don’t look good,” I say.

  She laughs.

  “Well, I’m not exactly at the spa,” she says.

  “Is it bad, Annie?”

  I’m surprised to hear Denise. She must have come in right behind me, but I was too busy crying like a baby to notice. She’s sitting in the rocker across from the bed, hands folded primly in her lap, like an old lady. She looks tired, too. Maybe she’s been tired for awhile and I never noticed.

  “Sometimes,” Mom says. “But not always. It’s better when you have visitors.” She gives my shoulders a squeeze.

  “We brought you something,” I say.

  I wiggle out of her arms and reach for the night bag at Denise’s feet. For a moment I can’t find the movie, and I think I might cry all over again. But no, there it is. I hold up My Best Friend’s Wedding and smile triumphantly. Mom claps her hands and smiles widely.

  “Good choice!” she says.

  “We thought you might need it,” Denise says.

  “To tell you the truth, I’ve had a grade-A, red-alarm Julia Roberts kind of day,” Mom says.

  Denise snorts. “Join the club.”

  ***

  There’s enough room in the bed for all three of us. I curl in next to Mom with my head close to her shoulder. She runs her hands through my hair like she used to when I was little and occasionally rests her chin on the top of my head. Denise sits near the end of the bed and attacks my mother’s toes with a new nail polish called Winter Berry. Her pink tackle kit sits open beside her like a big sprawling octopus.

  “Your nail beds look like the trenches, Annie,” she says. “I’m leaving you a good moisturizer and some aloe socks.”

  I had forgotten that chemo does bad things to your stomach, so Denise and I divide the gas station provisions between ourselves. I eat string after string of Rainbow Twizzlers, the ones Benji says taste like soap but that I just can’t get enough of. Mom sips ginger ale from a paper cup and sucks on all-natural honey and lemon candies.

  As comfortable as I am, I keep twisting around so I can sneak glances at Mom. Even though she’s only been gone a week it feels like forever. It’s nice to turn around and see her sitting right behind me. But you can only twist around to stare at someone so many times before they start to notice.

  “What are you looking at?” Mom asks.

  Well, now that she’s brought it up, there is one thing I’ve been wondering about, but I don’t want to ruin this moment. It feels normal — me, Mom, Denise and Julia Roberts.

  “I was just thinking …” I start.

  Mom raises an eyebrow and waits for me to continue. Sometimes there is no other way around something; you just have to say it.

  “You still have your hair,” I say.

  Mom shifts and I sit up, not wanting to hurt her.

  “Yes,” she says. “I do, for now.”

  That “for now” hangs in the air like a thundercloud waiting to ruin everything. Mom loosens her ponytail and fluffs out her hair. It’s then I see that it’s not just greasier than normal, but it’s thinner, too. I am alarmed at the amount of hair that clings to the elastic. Mom runs her fingers through her hair, raking out even more strands, and inspects the ends.

  “I’m thinking of cutting it short,” she says.

  “Oh, Annie,” Denise says and suddenly she’s crying. “Oh, Annie, your hair!” she sobs.

  I don’t know where to look or what to do. I feel sad and uncomfortable and a little like laughing all at the same time. Just like everything else she does, Denise makes a big production out of crying — hiccupping and shaking and howling away like a dog. I’m sure they can hear her all over Hopestead House. Although I guess I should be thankful we’re not outside or at the mall or something.

  Denise keeps saying, “Your hair, your hair,” over and over again. It’s starting to get on my nerves. For someone who is supposed to be my mother’s best friend she isn’t being very considerate. It’s not like her hair is going to fall out. How does she think Mom feels, hearing someone go to pieces over something that isn’t even happening to her?

  “Shhh,” my mother says. “DeeDee, it’s going to be all right. It’s just hair; it’ll grow back. That’s what hair does.”

  “B–but you’re a stylist, Annie!”

  Mom shrugs. “So, I’ll be a bald stylist. Maybe I can get a job at Curl Up & Dye.”

  Denise laughs wildly for a second, but then her face crumples and she’s at it again. Mom rubs her arm.

  “DeeDee, it’s not forever.”

  Denise blows her nose into her sleeve and wipes her wet eyes with the back of her hand. Disgusting.

  “I know,” she says. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  As Mom shushes Denise, I think about Benji’s essay and how he was right. Even when things are bad, Mom helps other people. She’s the one with the cancer, but somehow she ends up being the strong one who makes other pe
ople feel better. Remembering the essay I feel ugly and ashamed that I didn’t think of it first. How can I be so blind? What else have I gotten totally and completely wrong?

  Breakfast

  We three are so tuckered out from crying that we fall asleep before the movie’s over. I awake with a start the next morning and find Denise snoring away beside me. I can’t remember the last time I slept so soundly. My arm is stuck under her pillow. Carefully, so as not to wake her, I pull it out and shake away the pins and needles. Static buzzes on the TV screen. It reminds me of the mornings Mom would get me up and say, “Quick, Clarissa, come look! The weather station says it’s going to be a snowstorm!” I would rush downstairs and see the static on the TV and then hear Mom laughing away upstairs. Just another example of a bad Mom joke, the kind I’ve been missing with her gone.

  I let my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness and take a good look at the room. Mom has a corner room on the second floor. It has windows on two sides and a big iron bed covered in quilts, which squeaks when you climb into it. A low bookshelf is crammed under one window and full of books with titles like I am Not my Breast Cancer, Breast Cancer: A Survivor’s Guide and Real Women Talk about Cancer. There is also a bible and a stack of fat romance novels.

  On the nightstand, next to a glass of water, is a slim journal with a pen sticking out of the top like a bookmark.

  “Good morning.”

  Mom yawns and sits up, rubbing at her eyes.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “It’s my journal,” Mom says. “I read somewhere that it can be therapeutic to write down your feelings during the process.”

  I stare blankly at my mother. I have never known her to write down anything, not even a grocery list. Keeping track of your feelings sounds awfully granola to me. All of a sudden I notice that there are candles on almost every surface. Maybe they’re those aromatherapy candles. In one week these Hopestead people have taken my mother and turned her into a granola hippie. Mom is running a finger up and down the spine of her new hippie journal. I hope she doesn’t read it out loud, but at the same time, I wonder if she’s written anything about me.

  “Are you hungry?” she whispers.

  I nod.

  “Come on, let’s go downstairs to the kitchen. I want you to meet everybody.”

  We slide out of bed as carefully as we can, not wanting to wake Denise, although I’m not sure that’s even possible. She snorts once and rolls over, taking up the whole bed. Mom wraps herself up in her bathrobe and I throw on my fleece. Together we pad downstairs.

  The kitchen at Hopestead is bright and sunny and surprisingly full this early in the morning. Two women sit across from each other, leaning over steaming mugs of tea. One of them has a nubby knitted cap pulled down to her ears. She’s completely bald underneath. Her skin looks greyish, like clay, but she smiles and her eyes are friendly.

  “This must be the famous Clarissa,” she says. I’m surprised to hear that she has a British accent.

  Mom puts her hands on my shoulders. “Morning everyone, this is my daughter Clarissa. The light of my life, or the highlights in my hair, as we say in hair business.” I can’t believe my mom would make a hair joke in front of the bald lady, but she laughs just as hard as anyone else.

  “Lovely to meet you.” she grasps my hand and shakes it. “I’m Joanne, and this is Carrie.”

  Carrie nods at me. She is all wrapped up in a bright scarf and wearing a kimono. She looks like an actress in a black and white movie, except for the bruises on the inside of her elbow. Carrie catches me looking and readjusts her kimono sleeves.

  “From the needles,” she explains. “They look a lot worse than they are.”

  I’m too embarrassed to say anything else.

  Another woman stands at the counter, buttering toast. Her hair is growing back in fuzzy patches all over her head. I can’t stop staring at her face. There’s something weird about it, but I can’t put my finger on what. When I finally realize it’s because she has no eyebrows or eyelashes, I feel bad for staring and I look away quickly. I read about that happening in one of the pamphlets Mom gave me before I threw it away. If it bothers her, she doesn’t act like it.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have anything exotic, like bacon or eggs,” she says wistfully. “I used to love the smell of bacon frying. Now it just makes me nauseous. Ah, well. C’est la vie! Toast?”

  I take a plate of toast, butter it and sprinkle the whole thing with cinnamon sugar. Joanne and Carrie shove over to make room for Mom and me at the table.

  “Thanks, Susan,” my mother says to the bacon-lover with no eyebrows.

  I eat and the ladies sip their tea in silence for awhile.

  “Clarissa drove all the way up from home last night to surprise me,” Mom says, winding my ponytail around her finger. She hasn’t done that in ages. It’s comforting.

  “She doesn’t look old enough to drive,” Joanne says, brushing my cheek with her finger. I flinch only a little. “What’s your secret, love?”

  “Denise drove,” I explain.

  “Denise is my oldest and dearest friend,” Mom adds. “We left her upstairs sawing logs like an old lumberjack.”

  The ladies chuckle.

  “Is this your first visit to Hopestead?” Susan asks from the counter, where she spoons loose tea leaves into a bag.

  I don’t say anything but I nod, aware that my mouth is full of toast and not wanting to seem rude to these polite women. I can’t remember when I ever had such a polite meal.

  “This is my third time at Hopestead,” Joanne says. “And you know what they say, third time’s a charm.”

  “So, your cancer came back?” I ask. Somehow I don’t feel so bad about asking her questions.

  “Unfortunately,” she says. “First time in my left breast, second time in my right, now I’m afraid it’s found its way into my lung.” She leans close to me and lowers her voice. “Persistent little bugger, isn’t it?”

  Susan frowns. “Don’t scare the poor thing, Jo,” she scolds. To me she says, “Don’t worry. Not everyone relapses.”

  “But it is a fact that some do,” Joanne adds. “No need to lie to the girl. Clarissa here looks like she’s made of the strong stuff.”

  “She is,” Mom says.

  I feel about ten feet tall. And very grown up.

  Joanne gestures at her chest. It’s then I notice that her bathrobe hangs flat where the other women’s robes curve out from their bodies. “All this is a very small part of my life,” she says. “It’s never stopped me. Did you know that last year I travelled to Costa Rica? I rode horses in the surf and I even tried zip lining.”

  “Really?” I ask, unable to picture this woman flying down a mountain on a thick wire.

  Joanne nods. “And the year before I ran a half-marathon.”

  Even if you don’t like running, you have to admit that’s pretty impressive. Joanne looks like she is at least sixty years old. Maybe older.

  “Don’t expect me to take up running,” Mom says. “Although it might be nice to go on a trip.”

  My heart leaps. “Really?” I ask.

  Mom smiles and nods. “Why not?” she says. “We’ve never really been anywhere.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Joanne says.

  The women chat about all sorts of things, comparing T-cell counts, asking after family members, arguing about some TV show they’ve all been watching. It isn’t all cancer this, cancer that. They laugh and joke like they’re just a normal group of friends having a normal breakfast. But something has been bothering me. I wait until Susan and Carrie leave, and Mom is clearing the dishes.

  “Can I ask you one more thing?” I ask Joanne.

  Joanne leans close to me, like she’s about to share a secret. “Anything,” she says.

  “Aren’t you angry?” I ask.

  Joanne thinks for a moment before answering. “I used to be. I used to be very angry, indeed. And there are still some days where I want to slap someone hard acro
ss the face or scream ‘why me’ at the top of my lungs. But so many good things have come of it all. I know that’s very hard to believe, but it’s true. If I hadn’t been diagnosed with cancer, I may have been content to sit on my fat bottom and never go anywhere or do anything my whole life. Sometimes you need a little hardship in life to get the blood flowing. Just think, if I hadn’t been diagnosed, I never would have come to Hopestead and met such good friends,” Joanne says. “My mother taught me there is always a silver lining. You just have to look for it. I think it pays to think positively, don’t you agree, Clarissa?”

  “Yes,” I agree.

  Joanne winks.

  “Smart girl.”

  Bittersweet

  Before she has to check in at the clinic, Mom and I go for a long walk. It’s one of those perfect winter days where the sun is bright and the air is crisp but not too cold, and you can almost believe that spring is just around the corner. Hopestead is in a nice neighbourhood with nice looking houses. Families are coming and going, off to get groceries or go to work. People raise their hands and say good morning as we pass by, like we’re regular neighbours and not strangers who are staying in the cancer house. It feels good.

  “The other women seem nice,” I say. “Especially Joanne.”

  Mom smiles. “I thought you would like her. She’s one of my favourites, too. An amazing woman, full of spunk. She reminds me of you.”

  I don’t know how an old British lady with cancer can possibly remind my mother of me, but I like that she’s been thinking about me. And I like that she called me spunky and not moody. I want to tell her that I’m sorry I didn’t listen when she called every night, and that I’m sorry I seemed so disinterested in her life at Hopestead. Instead I say, “I’m glad that you have friends here.”

  “Me too. They’ve been very helpful. But enough about me, I want to hear about you. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

  It’s easier to talk about things when you’re walking. Maybe because you can keep your eyes on where you’re going, and you don’t have to look someone in the eye and feel them staring at you and judging you — or worse, feeling sorry for you. I tell her about Benji and Terry DiCarlo, Denise almost burning the house down and how Michael Greenblat won’t leave me alone and now everyone thinks I have a crush on him. I don’t tell her about Mr. Campbell or the letters. She doesn’t interrupt and waits until I’m finished before saying, “You’ve been busy. Anything else on your mind?”