Live a Little

by Kim Green

  Taylor pouts. “Lindsay, Madison, Quinn, Savannah, and Lisa’s parents all said they could go!”

  My sixteen-year-old daughter’s standard MO: relentless wheedling.

  “That doesn’t mean going alone to surf camp in Mexico is an appropriate spring-break activity for you, Tay,” I say. Before the (mis)diagnosis, we talked about taking the kids backpacking in the lake-dotted Desolation Wilderness, one of my and Phil’s favorite places. Back in the day. Apparently, like the two of us having sex under the stars, family vacations are a thing of the past, consigned to dusty photo albums tucked into the far reaches of the hall closet.

  “Daddy!” Taylor shrieks.

  Phil rouses himself from his pot roast. “Your mother needs us around right now, honey. Did you think about that before you promised the girls?”

  Our eyes meet over the spray of gerbera daisies, and I feel something tranquilizing and hopeful stroke my thoughts. This hopefulness, it’s. . . new. I have an idea.

  “Tay, you going alone with your friends is out of the question. Lindsay just got her license. I think driving in Mexico’s a bit much. Frankly, I don’t know what Ann and Rich are thinking”—Taylor’s green eyes shimmer with teen angst— “but maybe I could, you know, go with you.” The shimmering angst morphs into equal parts hope and suspicion. “I just don’t think six sixteen-year-olds should be gallivanting around third-world countries by themselves. Did you even think about transportation and hotels? You aren’t even old enough to rent a car.” I’m building a case for Raquel Rose’s unobtrusive style of chaperoning. I am already picturing it: me on the beach, a delicious new Anne Rivers Siddons or Marian Keyes in hand, sarong tucked strategically around all offending parts while my long, naturally tan legs scissor out into the silken sand, Corona standing sentry beside me, fresh lime wedge bobbing in time to the soft kick of waves at my feet.

  Oh yes.

  “Are you sure you’re, you know, feeling well enough to go?” I can see that Tay has (correctly) deduced that my attendance at the Mexico surf-camp extravaganza represents her only chance of going and decided to roll with it.

  “I think so,” I answer, somewhat truthfully.

  “Sweet! I’m going to call Lindsay!” Taylor says, already halfway out of her chair.

  “After dinner,” Phil says. Tay falls back like a lanky deer and resumes picking at her baked potato.

  “Actually, I’m glad we’re all together, because there’s something I have to tell you,” I say. This is it. The time is right. I’m going to tell them. So what if it means the end of Phil defending me against the succubae and the cancer people issue a fatwa on my ass.

  The phone rings.

  “Let it go,” I say.

  Micah jumps up. “Can’t, Mom. It could be Ronnie. My cell’s dead.” My son leans over and grabs the phone, listens for a moment, then hands it to me.

  “It’s Aunt Laurie.”

  “Laur, can I call you back?” I say.

  “Quel?”

  “We’re in the middle of dinner.”

  “Well, I hope you’re eating broccoli. It’s the most powerful anticancer food around.”

  “What’s up?” I say. Of course we’re eating broccoli. I mean, I’m sure it’s in there somewhere. See? There’s a sprig of it right there, sticking out of my potato, under a nice warm blanket of melted cheddar.

  “I made an appointment for you to see Dr. Minh tomorrow afternoon in San Francisco. Minh’s a disciple of Xia’s, very knowledgeable, very respected, an amazing healer. I’ll e-mail you the address, okay?”

  Disciple? What is this, modern medicine or the Moonies?

  “Oh, Laur, really, I don’t think it’s necessary.” Little does my sister know how unnecessary it is. I’ll call her after dinner to explain, after I tell Phil and the kids.

  “Quel, people wait months to see Minh,” Laurie says.

  I rack my brain for a legitimate out. “I have to go to Costco. We need toilet paper.”

  “I don’t think you understand. The only reason I was able to get you in is because I dropped Xia’s name.” Laurie’s normally calm voice turns shrill. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you want to be sick. You’re being so . . . defeatist about it all.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I can’t believe you said that!” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Phil shake his head, get up, and start clearing the table. The kids bring their plates to the sink and dematerialize, beaming back into their social whirl like passengers on the starship Enterprise. Shit.

  “Ma was right,” Laurie says.

  My ever primed competitive-sister demon bares her fangs. “What?”

  “Oh, never mind.”

  “No, you can’t just say that, Laur! What did Ma say?”

  “Forget it. I’m sorry I pressured you. I was just trying to help. You’re a stubborn ass sometimes, you know that?”

  You don’t know the half of it, Mrs. White. “What did Ma say?” I say forcefully.

  “Well, she said she hoped you’d, you know, use this as an opportunity . . . oh, I can’t remember what she said. It was nothing, just one of those stupid things people say. Frankly, I think it was a little insensitive. I’m sorry I mentioned it. You know how Ma gets when she’s upset. She says things she doesn’t mean. We all do.”

  “What. Did. She. Say,” I growl.

  “She said she hopes you don’t quit fighting the cancer like you quit everything else,” Laurie says softly. I have to turn off the sinuous murmur of Bebel Gilberto to hear her.

  Silence thickens between us. I hear Phil rooting around, molelike, in the living room before the TV kicks in.

  “She didn’t mean it, Quel. She’s terrified of losing you. Especially after Dad—Quel? Are you there? You know how Ma is, she’s just venting. You’re not a quitter, you’re just . . . in transition.”

  “Lost in transition.” I try to sound jokey, but my voice is shaking.

  “Hey, Moose. We’ve all been there.” Instead of stinging, the old, despised nickname feels unexpectedly cozy.

  “Thanks, Laur,” I say, meaning it.

  “Will you go, then?”

  Oh God. The homeopath. Sociopath. Whatever.

  Stewing over my mother’s jagged words, then, I know.

  I can’t tell them.

  I have been (mis)diagnosed for a reason. My diagnosis means—and I got this straight from Shiny, so it must be right—$245,325 for breast cancer. It means babysitting services for some poor woman who would otherwise have to drag her kids to chemo with her. It means somebody’s mother or grandmother, who hasn’t had a manicure or a doctor’s appointment or a day off in years, will be more likely to keep that follow-up appointment after that soul-killing mammogram because somebody, somewhere, is getting paid to harangue her about it. It means somebody who should live is going to live.

  It’s not all about “them.” I can be honest with myself. I can! I am being given a chance to reinvent myself, a rare opportunity for change, extended into my life like an olive branch for the soul. I will fight this thing. Even if it isn’t real, I will fight it. I will show Ma, show all of them, that I’m not the quitter, the forever-in-transition mediocre artist/half-assed mother/ feeble wife they think I am. I’ll show Laurie she isn’t the only Schultz sister who can make Ma proud. I’ll show my kids their mom can bring it on with the best of them. I’ll show them how to rise up when life bites you in the butt. I’ll show Phil I am more than the slightly chunkier, infinitely less sparkly, version of the girl he married. I’ll show him I deserve to be cherished. I’ll show Ren he chose the wrong sister.

  I’ll show them all.

  “Send me the directions,” I tell Laurie.

  CHAPTER 6

  This Is Your Colon on Meat

  I feel the minivan shudder as its transmission registers the sharp incline and drops to a lower gear. For one startling moment I see nothing through the windshield but stark blue sky, then the grade levels slightly and neat rows of Victorian cottages appear, s
pliced by blossoming cherry trees.

  Dr. Minh of the eight-month waiting list practices out of his home, a low-lying Buddhist-shrinish collection of buildings hidden behind a high fence crawling with bougainvillea. I find a parking spot and ease the Sienna into it, mindful to turn the wheels toward the curb so the car doesn’t hurtle down the steep San Francisco hill if the brake fails.

  Walking up to the house, my heart beating wildly from a combination of generalized anxiety and deception, I find myself wondering about the other Raquel Rose. Did she change her name, too, or was she actually born with the sparklier Raquel? Were her kids nicer to her now that they knew she had cancer? Did her husband’s boss take her into private bedrooms at company parties and flirt with her under surrealist artwork? How did Meissner break the news to my less fortunate alter ego? Did he have sex with her on the biopsy results, or just tell her to skedaddle on over to radiation for a few UVBs?

  I ring the bell. The intercom crackles to life.

  “This is Raquel Rose. I have a two o’clock with Dr. Minh,” I say, as if I am getting my hair done instead of attempting to deceive a master diagnostician.

  “Come through the red door at the back. Please leave your shoes in the entryway. I’ll be out to get you shortly,” a woman says.

  I follow her instructions and plant myself next to a Zen fountain and a framed diagram of the body’s major systems. The room is peaceful and faintly scented by flowers, almost like a spa. I close my eyes and fantasize that I am about to get naked and kneaded by a hulking Nordic type with huge hands and Arnold-esque English. Hasta la vista, stress-induced belly fat.

  “Mrs. Rose?”

  The young woman in front of me has a light brown snarl of dreadlocks, and tattoos of Asian characters drip out from under her white tank top. Her arms are lean and brown and sexy, like Gina Gershon’s in that lesbian movie that lurks in every straight man’s Netflix queue.

  “You haven’t eaten today, right?” she says, after introducing herself as Karen.

  I shake my head. “After this, I’m heading straight to the taqueria to get a burrito.” I smile, expecting commiseration— I am, after all, a frail cancer patient who has been forced to starve through two meals—but rat-nest-head Karen just takes my personal belongings and guides me to a room that looks like a massage studio, with a sheet-draped table in the center and various bottles of oils and unguents.

  “Dr. Minh will be with you in a few minutes. Please disrobe and put this on.” She hands me a waffle-weave robe.

  My mood lifts slightly; it really is like a spa! I thank her and undress, enjoying the slightly flatter feel of my empty stomach even though it is somersaulting with hunger.

  My cell phone bleeps. Quickly, I rifle through my purse and grab it.

  Susan.

  I flip open the phone. “Can I call you back later? I’m at the doctor,” I whisper to my best friend.

  Sue manages to warble a line of “Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love for You” before I snap the phone shut. A snort of laughter escapes against my will.

  Karen sticks her thatch of knots through the door. “Mrs. Rose, didn’t you see the sign? We don’t allow cell phones here. You have to turn that off. The waves!” She gestures an imaginary halo with her beringed hands, apparently one of those people who believes cell phones induce brain cancer and flaxseeds must be sprinkled on everything from breakfast cereal to toothpaste.

  “Sorry, sorry!” I put it back in the bag.

  After a few minutes, I hear a gentle swish enter the room. I sit up halfway on the table, feeling awkward in my gown, which gapes around my big breasts and splits up to the crotch.

  Dr. Minh shakes my hand. “Hola.”

  To profoundly understate it, Minh is not what I expected. I suppose I imagined a stringy Confucian, robed and wrinkled, wise almond eyes peering at me from under graying brows, Fu Manchu beard offsetting the long ponytail held with a leather thong, slim hands primed to fondle my chakras and flip through ancient volumes of Chinese medicine for the right cure.

  I got the ponytail right.

  Dr. Minh is about my age, clad in designer jeans and a leather vest with nothing under it save an expanse of smooth brown chest. His neck is wrapped in leather amulets and beads, and his tattoos look more S&M than M.D. Excuse me,

  O.M.D. “Your sister told me you’ve just been diagnosed with breast

  cancer,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  He picks up my hand in a loose grip and presses his fingers against my wrist. The man’s eyes, I notice, are a liquid gold, startling in the Chinese face.

  Dr. Minh offers neither encouragement nor condolences. I stare at the V of sparse chest hair six inches from my nose and try to still my thoughts, which are centered on whether he can tell that I do not, in fact, have cancer and am merely overweight and neurotic.

  He lets my hand drop. “I can feel the imbalance.”

  Guess not.

  “Do you eat meat?” he says, easing me to a supine position.

  “Yes, but not very often.” I’ve been waiting for this, the part where the experts—medical, holistic, psychological—start picking apart my life, examining my eating, health, lifestyle, and exercise habits with a magnifying glass, looking for transgressions to pin the cancer on.

  Dr. Minh digs both hands into the ring of flesh around my belly. Before I can squeeze out a protest, he literally scoops both sets of erect fingers deep into my internal organs, as if I am dead and he is conducting an autopsy without the appropriate excavation tools.

  “Stop it!” I cry out involuntarily.

  He lessens the pressure slightly. “Mrs. Rose, you have a severe vata imbalance. I’m just trying to assess the state of your intestines and upper colon. Relax. I know it’s uncomfortable, but most of my patients start enjoying the release after a while.”

  Release? Enjoy? While?

  Cowed beyond speech, I lie back and try not to groan while horrible Dr. Minh tugs and pulls at my flesh and everything vital underneath. I try to maintain an open mind about the wonders of Eastern medicine but cannot imagine what medical benefit this torture is bestowing on me, the victim. Tears slide down my cheeks. All in all, I feel my performance is befitting an inoperable cancer patient who is having her internal organs pummeled and being denied a burrito.

  “Okay, all done. You can sit up now.”

  Shakily, I raise myself. To my embarrassment, the thick roll of flesh around my middle has jumped my underwear like an Olympic hurdler and spilled over, revealing the hated ridges of pale stretch marks and the thick coffee-colored line from navel to pubic bone that has lightened but not disappeared in the fifteen years since I last gave birth. For some reason I find it tolerable to be accused of carnivorous behavior but not to be visibly overweight. I can handle cancer and even Dr. Minh’s idea of restorative massage, but I cannot handle this hippie-biker-doctor person charging me with overeating my way to breast cancer.

  “It’s interesting,” he says, those amber eyes weighing mine. “Your pulses are fine. Your chi’s a little off, but that’s to be expected. I do have some suggestions for you. And a treatment regimen. I think we can do a lot for you. Are you going to be seeing an oncologist?” Minh must be the new kind of Chinese doctor: savvy, reimbursed by the HMOs, and ready to copilot with a cutter.

  “Yes. Meissner over at Stanford,” I say faintly. Thoughts of burritos have flown out the window along with my spleen.

  “Mrs. Rose, why don’t you get dressed, and Karen will show you to my office.” He slips away. I hear him conferring with beastly Karen, who has probably donned a Darth Vader helmet against my toxic incursion into her habitat.

  I jump off the table and quickly throw my clothes on. Karen comes back and leads me to a beautiful room with French doors off the garden. Dr. Minh is pouring himself a cup of tea. His desk is just as big as Meissner’s. On it are two photos: one of him with Xia Chi-Hong outside a pagoda, and another of him with a petite Chinese woman with a punk haircut and a baby in a
papoose.

  “Green tea?” he says.

  “Please.” Predictably, even though the man just finished torturing me in the name of integrative health care, I want to please him.

  We sit down. Karen hands him a few messages. I see her finger, blunt of nail and too dirty for a respectable health-care professional, slide against his neck for a second.

  “Mrs. Rose, have you ever seen a picture of a colon?” he says as a way of segueing into my treatment plan. Frankly, I think it needs improvement.

  “Um, no.”

  Lo and behold, Dr. Minh has one on hand! He whips it out and lays it on the desk. It isn’t a real photo, thank God, just a series of illustrations.

  “This is what a carnivore’s colon looks like.” The organ in question is rotund and engorged, like a boa constrictor that has ingested a rat.

  “And this is a typical herbivore’s gastric system.” The slimmed-down version fits comfortably among its friends, some of which I can identify as gallbladder, stomach, and rectum.

  “Look at this.” Dr. Minh moves his finger over the third drawing. The figure is trim and content-looking, considering that he is sliced in half crosswise. “Have you ever considered giving up food?” he says.

  “Actually, I was a vegetarian for years,” I say, proud of my veggie cred. “All through college, until I got married. It’s hard when you have to cook for a husband and kids, though. Who has time to make two versions of every meal?” I gloss over the fact that except for Sundays, clan Rose is lucky to get one meal.

  Dr. Minh raises his eyebrows at me. They are finely arched and sensitive. I wonder if he has them waxed. I really want to know; I don’t think I can respect him anymore if he does. It’s just so, you know, womanly.

  “I don’t mean giving up meat,” he says, cringing, as if the very word could cause a slice of pastrami to cross his tongue. “Historically, breathivores are almost immune to the heart disease, cancers, diabetes, and other systemic illnesses that plague ingesters.”