by Andre, Bella
She was looking forward to returning to a normal life, getting her house in order, her garden planted, her finances under control. This house was at the absolute top end of what they could afford, and when she’d taken leave from work, she’d told Jacob they should sell the place and live somewhere cheaper. He wouldn’t hear of it. She suspected that in his mind, giving up the house was an admission that she wouldn’t get better, that she wouldn’t be going back to work. There was no way he would concede that.
She’d been grateful for his stubborn insistence on keeping the house she loved, but beginning next year, their mortgage rate would adjust, and the payments were going to balloon. She shuddered, thinking about the size of the check they’d have to write each month.
Not today, she cautioned herself. Today she was not going to worry. As she let herself in, she looked around the house and for some reason saw it with new eyes. Nothing had changed, yet she felt like a stranger here. The silence was marred only by the rhythmic ticking of the hall clock: 4:00 p.m. She had plenty of time to get dinner on the table.
She had learned to keep things simple this past year. When she bothered to fix dinner at all—which was rare— she tended to avoid complicated dishes.
“What did I used to do with myself?” she asked aloud.
Then she grabbed the flowers she’d bought, found a few vases and bowls and grabbed her stem snippers and went to work. She’d almost forgotten how soothing and satisfying it was to arrange flowers, something she’d learned from her grandmother.
In her support group, everyone stressed how important it was to keep doing the things you enjoyed throughout treatment. For Miranda, the problem was that she had a hard time enjoying anything when she was curled into a ball of nausea from chemo, or jumping out of her skin from the discomfort of radiation burns. Some days, it was all she could do to make it from one side of a single moment to the other.
It’s over, she reminded herself. You’re done. “Mom?”
Miranda nearly dropped the bowl she was carrying. “Andrew. I didn’t hear you come in.”
Her eleven-year-old son slung his backpack onto the bench at the back door. “I tried to be quiet.”
“You’re good at it. A regular superspy.”
He sat down and unlaced his soccer cleats. She watched him, experiencing a moment of both helpless love and keen regret. Not so very long ago, he used to come slamming into the house, announcing loudly, “I’m home. And I’m starved.” One of the drugs she’d been given caused headaches and made her hypersensitive to loud noises, and she had to ask him to tiptoe and whisper. It seemed as if the entire family had been tiptoeing and whispering for a year.
“How are you, buddy?” she asked him, using a step stool to take down a salad bowl. Another limitation—post surgery, she couldn’t lift her arm higher than her shoulder. That was months ago, but there was still discomfort. She’d learned to use a stool, ask for help or skip the chore altogether.
“Okay.” He set aside his grass-caked cleats and sent her a quick smile as he stood up.
Her heart constricted with love. How tall he’d grown in the past year. How handsome. When she studied his face, she could still see her little boy there. His skin was baby soft, with a dusting of freckles saddling his nose. There was just a hint of roundness in his cheeks but that would be gone soon, as he continued to grow, his face to elongate with maturity.
Come back, she wanted to say to that little boy. I’m not ready to let you go. She hated that she’d missed out on so much while she was sick. She hated missing soccer games and school meetings, just going to the park or weekend rounds of miniature golf or paintball drills.
She wiped her hands on a tea towel and went around the counter, pulling him into a hug. He felt stiff and hesitant in her arms, this boy who used to hurl himself at her in an abandoned tangle of affection. They had taken his mother away one day, and the woman who returned was a bald, puffy-faced stranger with drains sprouting from her chest. She was tender and sore and fragile as an old woman, reeking of Radiacare gel, and for a very long time, that was the end of bear hugs. She kissed the top of his head. He smelled…golden. Like Indian-summer sunshine, fresh-cut grass and the curiously innocent scent of boyish sweat. “You’ll be taller than me soon,” she remarked, letting him go. “Next week, probably.”
“Uh-huh.” He went to the sink for a glass of water.
She saw him looking around the kitchen, everywhere except at her. This was another habit that had developed, and not just in Andrew. Both of her children had stopped looking at her. She didn’t blame them. It was alarming to see their mother so ill. She had not been one of those movie-of-the-week cancer patients who grew more delicate and beautiful as the disease progressed. She’d simply turned blotchy and swollen, with circles under her eyes. When her hair fell out, it revealed that her scalp was weirdly ridged rather than smooth. Andrew was barely ten years old at the time of for diagnosis. Seeing her so radically altered had frightened him, and he had learned to avert his eyes.
“We’re having dinner together tonight,” she said. “All four of us.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I have good news.”
That perked him up. He was apparently so used to bad news that this came as a surprise. His sister, Valerie, had quit asking altogether. “Today, Dr. Turabian told me I’m done. No more treatments.”
“Hey, that’s good, Mom. You’re cured.”
She smiled at him. The word cured was a dicey term. Her doctors and treatment team tended to say “cancer free” or to cite counts and markers and measures in the lab reports. She wasn’t going to split hairs with Andrew, though.
“So guess what I did today,” she said. “What?”
“I went parasailing over Elliott Bay.”
Finally he looked at her. Really looked. And his expression seemed to ask if she’d lost her mind. “Nuh-uh.”
“Nuh-huh. It was awesome. You should have seen me. It was like being the tail of a kite.” She took out the digital print and showed him.
“Jeez, that’s you?” he said, studying the little dangling figure in the photo. “Crazy.”
He didn’t seem thrilled. Impressed, but not thrilled. Miranda was reminded that her son preferred things to be predictable. Traditional. It didn’t matter that this was the twenty-first century. Despite all the social advances in the world, boys wanted their moms to be conventional and conservative. They wanted them in the kitchen baking cookies, wearing high heels and a ruffled apron. Where on earth did they get these ideas? she wondered. Andrew had never had a fifties-style stay-at-home mom. She didn’t even own an apron. On what planet did women like that exist? She tousled his hair. “Don’t worry, I’m not losing it. After my appointment, I decided to celebrate, and I felt like doing something different.” “Okay.”
He headed for the study, and she could hear the sound of the computer booting up. Andrew’s new obsession was a very sophisticated simulation game called Adventure Island. His devotion to the game had developed over the past year. Miranda didn’t comprehend all the details, but as far as she could tell, the game allowed him to create his own world on the computer and populate it with people of his own imagination.
Miranda clearly saw the motivation behind the act. Andrew had fabricated a world in which he was in total control. His virtual world was an idyllic place where every boy had a pet, where dads came home from work early to play catch in the backyard and where moms didn’t sleep all day or puke or cry or get rushed to the emergency room, spiking a fever. In Andrew’s perfect world, the moms strapped on colorful aprons over their Barbie-doll figures, sang songs, helped with homework and baked cookies.
Dream on, kiddo, she thought as she turned on the radio to her favorite oldies station. “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” was playing and she joined in, singing loudly and tossing the salad while swaying to the beat. In the past, Andrew might have joined her. He liked oldies, too, and could carry a tune.
Unfortunately, it wa
s too late to draw Andrew away from his virtual utopia, and Miranda felt a squeeze of regret, even as she warbled along with the radio. Prior to discovering the game, her son had spent a lot more time with her, with his friends and especially with his best friend in the world, Gretel, the family dog.
The big, affectionate Bernese mountain dog had been born the same year as Andrew, and they’d been raised together. On Andrew’s first day of kindergarten, Gretel had slunk under his bed and refused to move until he got home. When they were together, they played endlessly—chase and fetch and, Gretel’s favorite, rescue. Andrew would pretend to be lost and injured, and she would drag and nudge him to safety. It was one of life’s most perfect friendships—a little boy and his loyal dog.
In a twist of stunning cruelty, Gretel had died a few months ago. Of cancer.
Miranda and Jacob had tried to tell Andrew that it was just a painful coincidence, that at age ten, Gretel was old for a Berner, and that having cancer didn’t mean you had to die. Andrew said he understood, but sometimes Miranda thought he only agreed with her and Jacob just to get them to stop talking about it. She had said they could get a new puppy, but that had only made Andrew furious.
“Why would I want to get another dog, just so it’ll die on me?”
“Think of all the love Gretel brought into your life,” Miranda had said.
“All I can think about is how much I miss her.”
Miranda hadn’t pressed the issue. Truth be told, she believed getting a puppy would consume more time and energy than she could afford. She told herself she’d bring it up with Andrew again once she was feeling better. Soon, she thought. Soon, they needed to have a family meeting about the issue. Before her diagnosis, what did they used to do? It was so hard to remember. It seemed as though that life had belonged to a different woman, a woman who had rushed in a hyped-up blur from family to work, from one over-planned, overscheduled day to the next.
Never again, Miranda thought, seasoning the salmon and popping it in the oven on a cedar roasting plank. She had lost a lot to cancer, but she’d gained at least one thing. Wisdom enough to realize that, sick or healthy, a woman needed to slow down and pay attention to the things that matter most—her family and friends. Her passions and her dreams. Provided she hadn’t forgotten what those were.
An hour later, dinner was ready, but her family was not. The phone rang, and it was Jacob. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I got stuck in a sales meeting with West Sound Grocery’s company V.P. He kept upping his order, so I couldn’t very well duck out of the meeting.” Jacob could not keep the smile from his voice as he added, “I made about four times the usual commission thanks to this guy. Turns out he’s a fly fisherman, too.”
She couldn’t remember the last time Jacob had gone fishing. “Well…congrats. Try to get home before dinner gets too cold.” What else was she going to say?
She hung up feeling torn. On the one hand, he was coming home late, and she had a right to be irritated with him. On the other, he was late because he was providing for his family while Miranda dealt with being sick.
The sound of the back door slamming caught her attention. “Hello, you,” she said to her daughter. “I hope you’re hungry.” Valerie, who was fifteen, sullen and gorgeous, shrugged out of her black denim jacket. Gotta go to work,” she said curtly. “I promised I’d go in early tonight.” Miranda’s heart sank. “How early?”
“Like, in half an hour.”
“Valerie. Give your family a little time.”
Her daughter’s eyes, which were a lovely blue and almost totally obscured by a deep crust of coal-black makeup, flicked around the room. “I don’t see any family.”
“Sit down,” Miranda said resolutely. “I’ll get Andrew.”
She found her son frozen like a statue, his rapt face bathed in the blue-gray glow of the computer screen. He appeared not to move at all except for his hand on the mouse, busily manipulating images on the screen.
“Supper, buddy,” she said. No response.
“Your sister’s home, supper is on the table and it’s time to eat,” she said.
“’Kay.” He offered a distracted grunt. “Give me a minute.” “Sorry, no can do. Put that all on standby or whatever you have to do, and go wash your hands.”
“But if I stop now I’ll lose this whole—”
“Andrew. If you don’t stop now, I’ll lose something and it won’t be data.”
He heaved a long-suffering sigh, saved his work and headed off to wash his hands.
Miranda manufactured a cheerful mood as she sat down to the dinner table. “Check it out,” she said. “A home cooked meal. When was the last time we had that?”
“Thanks,” Valerie said, digging in. She glanced at the clock above the stove.
“I know this past year has been rough on you guys,”
Miranda said. “I’m hoping we’re about to hit a smooth patch, Val. The doctor gave me my walking papers today. No more treatments.”
Valerie’s chewing slowed. Then she swallowed and took a gulp from her water glass. “So that’s good, right?”
“It’s very good. I’ll be taking something to prevent a recurrence of the cancer, and I have to get rechecked every three months, and then every six, and so on. Other than that, I’m a free woman.”
“Well. I’m glad.” Valerie resumed eating.
Miranda watched her thoughtfully. Valerie’s reaction to her mother getting breast cancer had been complicated, a combination of abject horror, betrayal, rage and resentment. And finally, ambivalence. She was old enough to comprehend the stark reality of her mother’s mortality, and smart enough to realize how much that put herself at risk for the same disease.
While Andrew had retreated into his virtual world, Valerie had struck out in search of a life apart from her family. Each child was looking for some kind of separation, and Miranda didn’t blame them, although it hurt. Valerie found escape and diversion at the Ruby Shoebox, a vintage art-house movie theater in the funky Capitol Hill district of Seattle. It was her first real job. She’d started as an usher and then advanced to cashier. Working there every Friday and Saturday night made her supremely happy.
As nearly as Miranda could tell, Valerie had found a whole new set of friends there, too—older kids who smoked cigarettes and wore berets and Doc Martens. In a matter of months, Miranda had watched her sunny, funny daughter transform into a virtual stranger. She’d turned her back on her two best friends, Megan and Lyssa, and completely ignored Pete, the boy next door, whom she’d had a crush on since sixth grade. The old Valerie was inside her somewhere, but Miranda had no idea how to bring her back. She wished she knew how to remind Valerie of the things they used to love to do together, traditions that had once been cherished but were now somehow lost in the shuffle.
For far too long, Miranda had been at a loss, too weakened by the disease to do anything about her kids. Oh, she was angry about that. She resented the disease because it had turned her into a lazy mother.
“I have something else to say,” she announced, and her tone captured their attention. “We need to come together as a family. Now that my treatments are over, that’s what I want to work on.”
“Yeah, tell that to Dad,” Valerie said.
“I intend to.” Miranda turned her attention to the delicate white salmon, the fresh salad. Finally, finally, food was going to taste good to her again rather than carry that weird metallic tinge caused by her medication. “I was looking at the school calendar,” she said, lightening her tone. “Homecoming is just a few weeks away.”
Homecoming and all it entailed was a big deal for Valerie’s school, and for the Sweeneys in particular. The game was only one component of an entire weekend of celebration, bringing in high-school alumni from all over, wearing their well-preserved letterman jackets and waving pennants proclaiming them state champions more times than any other school in Washington State. Valerie and Andrew had grown up nurtured on stories of how Jacob and Miranda had met at the
high school’s Homecoming dance back in 1986, when they were both seniors. And the rest, as the story went, was history.
“So I hear.” Valerie stabbed at a potato with her fork. “I don’t plan on going, so don’t get all excited about it.”
“What do you mean, you’re not going? Everyone goes to Homecoming.”
“Not me.” She met Miranda’s eyes, held her gaze an extra beat.
That was all it took to remind Miranda of last year’s Homecoming disaster. As a high-school freshman, it had been Valerie’s first time. She’d been soaring with excitement, having been asked by the perfect boy—Pete. She’d picked out the perfect dress and shoes, and was looking forward to the perfect evening. Then she learned Miranda’s mastectomy was scheduled for the day of the dance.
Miranda had urged her to go, but Valerie had refused. “How could I?” she asked, and had spent Homecoming weekend at the hospital, sitting with her father throughout the surgery and during the terrible wait afterward. While her friends were all out celebrating, Valerie was watching her mother being transformed from her mom into some sickly stranger. Things had not gone smoothly. There were complications. And for Valerie, there was a horrible association in her mind between Homecoming and illness and worry. All in all, it had probably been one of the worst weekends of Valerie’s life. Here she was a year later, a different person, a dark rebel who rarely smiled, who was secretive and watchful, who held herself aloof from things most girls her age enjoyed—school and sports, hanging out with her friends and looking forward to things like Homecoming season.
“I hope you’ll reconsider,” Miranda said. “I promise you there won’t be any crisis this year.”
“Just not into it,” Valerie said. “No big deal.”
And of course, it was a huge deal, and Miranda knew it, and so did Valerie. Somewhere trapped inside the cynical stranger was a girl who wanted to be on the decorating committee, who wanted Pete to ask her to the dance. She would deny all this, but Miranda knew it was true. Sometimes she wanted to grab this pale-skinned, black-haired stranger, shake her and demand, What have you done with my daughter?