by Margo Rabb
Dr. Jackson had an answer: “Wear a seatbelt and drive cautiously.”
That night, while my father was in his initial stress evaluation consultation, I unpacked my things in our room. Then I picked up the phone and dialed information.
“What city?” the operator asked.
“New York.”
“What listing?”
“A residence—Gigi Backus.”
“There’s a Gigi Backus on Degraw Street in Brooklyn.”
“I’ll try that.” I could picture her house with plastic-covered couches and embroidered wall hangings and a hairy white cat.
I wrote down the number. What did I want to say? That I was sorry about her son? That I was sorry I hadn’t said bye to him? That I just wanted to make sure she was okay? Maybe I’d tell her that I’d liked him.
I was still deciding what to say when the answering machine clicked on.
“This is Gigi! Not here right now ’cause I’m out on the town! Please leave a message—don’t just hang up! I hate it when people just hang up.” Beep.
I hung up.
I glanced at my bare legs: no spots. It was crazy to worry so much; I knew that. But the loss of control galled me. You simply got picked to die. It seemed no different than in Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” which we’d read in English class—a public stoning.
Worry was something to do, an occupation at least. A part of me actually felt it might help. If only I had worried before, maybe we could’ve prevented some things. Maybe now we’d be on the lookout for staph infections, aneurysms, eighteen-wheelers.
Maybe worry could save your life. And if it didn’t—if you didn’t catch the disease early enough, or avoid the oncoming truck—if you could prepare for the worst, maybe it might make it a little easier. Maybe worrying, thinking about these diseases, would make you feel more ready. You’d expect it. You wouldn’t feel so sideswiped, so surprised. You’d have control—even if only a tiny, tiny bit.
We quickly fell into the routine of Green Springs: whole-grain breakfasts; the morning Family Meeting, during which we discussed the obstacles we faced in lifestyle change; exercise classes (my father swam, I did step aerobics); then afternoon and evening health lectures.
My father was a gung-ho student, taking pages of notes in all classes on everything from gingko biloba to the benefits of craniosacral massage. He used to hate that kind of stuff. When my mother’s friends had called with tips from alternative-medicine books and New-Age newsletters, suggesting everything from watching sitcoms to sprinkling cornmeal in our yard to make my mother better, he’d scoffed. He’d called it their woo-woo advice. (Woo-woo said with a wave of the hand, a fruity expression.)
Now my father leaned over to me during the Alternative Supplements Workshop and said, “Maybe Mommy should’ve tried the shark cartilage.”
At meals we were encouraged to sit with our Families, though my father and I quickly discovered we preferred to eat by ourselves, without the others’ incessant complaining. They all kvetched about the lack of butter and alcohol, the strange foods and fibrousness. Discussions frequently centered on everyone’s “daily eliminations”—as in “Due to increased fiber intake, your eliminations may be substantially larger than you’re used to,” which was what Dr. Milken announced in a lecture our second day. “My elimination was way, way larger than I’m used to!” Tommy said at dinner that night.
My father and I preferred not to discuss the quality and quantity of our eliminations. Plus, I liked the food. I was in Health Now menu heaven. I liked the tofu, tempeh, seitan, texturized vegetable protein, and ground flaxseeds, and best of all, every meal was included in the price, so I could have whatever I wanted off the menu without guilt. The spa made money off this, my father maintained, since most everyone there was dieting. But not me. Blessed with a good metabolism, I ordered two appetizers, two entrees, and two desserts at each meal, plus I made endless salad bar voyages. My father grinned. “Thank God we’re getting our money’s worth.”
I was on my second dessert—a chocolate chip oatmeal flax cookie—on our third night when my father said, “Uh-oh. Golden Girls alert.” Alva and Cindy were walking toward our table, clucking their tongues.
“I just love watching you eat! Where does it go? Oh, I used to eat like that when I was fifteen, just like you, and not gain a pound,” Cindy said.
Alva shook her head. “At fifteen you were bigger than a sixty-nine Caddy.”
Cindy ignored her. “Just don’t get too used to that appetite or you’ll have a hineybumper the size of Alaska in ten years!”
“You bet your bippy I won’t,” I said. I’d collected these words, hineybumper and bippy, from Alva and Cindy, and I was determined to use them whenever I could.
Cindy laughed and they left the dining room. I glanced around the tables. I’d begun to actually like being around all the old people. There was something comforting about their makeup and pastel leggings, flower-printed tote bags and big hair. They gave me an odd sort of hope. You could live a long time, you could endure; not everyone had to die young.
I woke up early on our fourth morning and took a bath. In the tub, I noticed a mole at the edge of my armpit had turned black. It was bigger, too. Was I imagining it? My blood pounded. I got out of the bath, put on a towel, and studied the mole in the mirror. I was definitely not imagining it. It looked reddish black and bulbous and different from every other mole. I hadn’t brought my mole notes, but I was certain it had changed. My stomach sank as I fished out the measuring tape from the complimentary sewing kit and measured it—seven millimeters.
Holy fucking shit.
Asymmetry, borders, color, diameter—those were the melanoma ABCD’s. This was asymmetrical, its color was freakish, and it was fucking huge.
Shit. Shit.
My father was already at breakfast; I sat down and showed it to him. “Don’t worry yet,” he said. “Let’s talk to Dr. Fishbaum.” My father didn’t seem too nervous—just quietly concerned. He was probably used to disease now, after his two heart attacks and our mother. It was old hat.
“I’ve been really tired lately too,” I said, breathing deeply. “Fatigued.”
“Eat some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Try some oatmeal.” He pushed his bowl toward me, and I took a few bites. It tasted like soggy cardboard. Then I convinced him to leave breakfast early and look for Dr. Fishbaum.
We found her in her office, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper.
“Excuse me,” my father said. “We’re sorry to interrupt. My daughter found a strange mole, and we’d like to see a dermatologist, if that’s possible.” He sounded so calm; I was almost in tears.
She gave me an empathetic glance. She knew the details of my mother’s melanoma and quick death from our Family Meetings, and she’d proved to be a much more understanding member of the counseling field than Gina Petrollo. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
I tried not to think about it. It’s nothing, I told myself. Then: This is it. It’s over. Would it be twelve days, like my mother? Or years, like the cancer guy? I’d known this would happen. That’s what life was—you’d be going along fine, and poof! It was all gone. There was absolutely nothing that could ensure that you’d be okay, that you’d be lucky. That’s what it all boiled down to: luck, or lack thereof.
I’m not ready to die, I thought. I can’t do it. But who was I to expect to be spared? I wasn’t safe or protected, and that tiny, tiny bit of control didn’t exist—it was just another scrap of delusion. I spaced out during Family Meeting, at the Cooking with Seitan demonstration my hands were shaking, and in aerobics class I kept stopping and messing up all the moves. I’d grow hot, sweaty, and shivery, start to panic about dying, then convince myself I’d be okay. Then I’d panic again.
At lunchtime Dr. Fishbaum came over to our table and said I had an appointment with Dr. Morris at 3 p.m. at the Green Springs Health Annex, and later that afternoon my
father drove me to Dr. Morris’s office. “You should get back,” I said. “You’re missing the soybean lecture.”
“No, I’ll wait.”
I hugged him. I braced myself as the nurse led me into the examining room and I put on the huge blue paper gown. A few minutes later Dr. Morris appeared and introduced himself. “Nice to meet you, Miss Pearlman.”
I nodded and tried to breathe.
He read the questionnaire I’d filled out. “You have a growth that’s causing you concern?”
I nodded again, and showed him the mole under my arm. “What is it?” I rasped.
Dr. Morris took one glance at it and smiled. “It’s benign.”
I squinted at him. “Are you sure?”
He inspected it again. “Have you had it for a long time?”
“Yeah, but it’s changed. It never looked like that before.”
“Did you shave under your arms recently?”
“I—I guess so. Maybe.”
“You most likely nicked the mole with the razor and didn’t realize it. Don’t worry—I’m positive it’s benign.” He put a cream on it and placed a Band-Aid over the spot.
I felt limp and almost relieved, but I didn’t entirely believe him. “What about my fatigue?”
“Have you been sleeping well?”
It had been hard to fall asleep at night with my father snoring. “It’s just—I worry that I have it undetected, like my mother. One of her doctors said it could’ve been growing undetected for twenty years. And I’ve read about people getting melanoma really young. A girl who was sixteen died from it—and a guy who was nineteen.”
“It happens,” he said.
“It happens”? Is that it?
“You’re fair-skinned and have a high number of atypical nevi, but just because your mother died of melanoma doesn’t mean you will.”
“What can I do to prevent it? Beyond staying out of the sun?”
He shrugged. “Eat broccoli?” His frown unfurled like an umbrella. “There are some things beyond our control, unfortunately. You’re doing a good job keeping away from the sun,” he said, surveying my so-pale-it-was-almost-see-through skin. “The link between melanoma and sunlight isn’t even definitively proven, but it’s a good idea to keep doing what you’re doing, to prevent squamous and basal cell carcinomas as well.”
Great. More cancers to worry about. He closed my folder, and I thanked him and returned to the waiting room. “It’s fine,” I told my father. “I—um—I cut it shaving, I guess.”
He grinned and hugged me, then paid the bill without even a peep about the expense. Dr. Morris popped back out to hand me a catalog of sun-protective clothing. The clothes resembled astronaut suits.
My father said, “Do they make that in a miniskirt?”
I was thankful that everything was all right, but as we drove back to the spa I cringed, feeling humiliated. I’d become a hypochondriac. A big ball of fear and worry and stupidness. I used to read my sister’s National Geographic magazines and dream of doing exciting things like climbing mountains and traveling to Madagascar and Australia and petting koalas—and now my dream was just not to die young. What kind of a dream was that? How would that look on my college applications? An essay about hoping not to kick the bucket from cancer or meningitis or flesh-eating bacteria, about the benefits of omega-3’s and polyphenols?
Back in our room, alone, before dinner, I tried Gigi’s number once more.
“Hello?”
I wasn’t expecting her to pick up. “Um, hi . . . this is . . . I’m not sure if you remember me . . . this is Mia Pearlman. My dad—Simon Pearlman—”
“Oh! Of course I remember you! How are you? Oh, no. Oh, God. Did your—your dad—?”
“No—no, he’s great, he’s totally fine. I’m just calling because—I was thinking of Sasha and—” I paused. How could I say it? I hated the phrase I’m sorry. So sorry about your son. It was such a stupid expression. Why had no one ever come up with a better one? Such as: What a fucking load of crap you’ve been dealt. Really. Then I remembered.
“Bashert,” I said. “About Sasha.”
“Huh?”
“It’s this Yiddish word for fate. My mom used to say it.”
“I know! How did you hear? Did Dr. Kornovoy tell you? Did you run into him? I couldn’t believe it myself. It’s crazy. I know. Your father must think I’m off my rocker for letting him go. But Dr. Kornovoy gave his permission. I even paid for the Eurail pass. I know, I’m crazy to do it. I tried to convince him not to. But you only get one life, right? That’s what they say, right? I’m making an album from his postcards, and I’m going to add the pictures when he gets back. Paris, Venice, I got so far. Amsterdam. He’s in Amsterdam right now. I wish I was there with him, but he’s nineteen, he can’t have his mom by his side all the time, you know, right? Anyway, so you ran into Dr. Kornovoy at NYU?”
“I—” I didn’t know what to say. I paused, speechless. “Yeah.”
“I’m so happy you called. I wondered how your dad was doing. Not that long ago I said to Sasha, ‘Remember that nice Simon and his daughters?’ Sasha liked your dad so much. You spend time in that hospital, so intense, right? And then just disappear and not know what’s doing. Anyway, give me your number, we’ll keep in touch. Please give my love to your dad. It was so nice of you to call.”
“I will.” I gave her our number and address.
Three days later, when my father and I were back home, I looked up bashert in one of my parents’ Yiddish dictionaries. It meant “predestined” and “fate,” but it had another meaning as well: “the person with whom you were meant to be.” A soul mate, as in “I have found my bashert,” the dictionary said. And it seemed right that the same word could be used in instances of both love and death.
HOW TO FIND LOVE
She is a friend of my mind. . . . The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order.
—Toni Morrison
Beloved
How do you fall in love?
This was what I awoke wondering the morning I turned sixteen. It was early September, during one of New York’s record heat waves; even my bedroom windows seemed to sweat. When I opened my eyes all I could think was that it wouldn’t be so bad to wake up sweating if you awoke beside somebody else.
But there wasn’t anyone else. In our quiet, empty house, my single bed was filled only with pancake-flat, fur-mangled stuffed animals. Lately my father had been trying to get me to throw them out; he’d finally given up the night before, when I stood before my bears, rabbits, gorillas, and kangaroos and, with all the passion of Scarlett O’Hara, vowed in a fierce, husky voice, “Never.”
But now all I could think was that I was a sixteen-year-old girl still sleeping with gorillas. Not like Sixteen Candles, or any of those kinds of movies; there were no boyfriends or hopes of boyfriends waiting outside my door. I felt my skin grow hot as I thought of my recent crushes: Jay Kasper, Richard Bridgewald, and the healthy person formerly known as the cancer guy. Sometimes I wanted to edit my life, run it all on a film monitor and instruct, “Cut this, cut that,” and it would all piece together so much more smoothly.
Sweet sixteen.
Birthdays had been a big deal when I was little: parties with tons of kids pinning the tail on the donkey, batting piñatas, gorging on Betty Crocker SuperMoist cake with fudge frosting. My mother always bought the gifts—a three-tiered set of Ultima II makeup last year, silver-plated hair clips the year before.
This year I knew what my father had gotten me, because he’d left it in a bag in the hall closet—Teen Lady shampoo, body wash, and scented powder from the supermarket. He must’ve asked the store clerk what to get for a girl, and been told this. I’d begun to wish there was some guidebook I could give him, How to Raise a Daughter or something; he still seemed near cardiac arrest when I asked for money for tampons, had yet to show a glimmer of comprehension of the magic word shopping, and thought reupholstering the couch made for a f
un Saturday night. In fact, the couch was now his whole existence; he’d decided to retire on my mother’s life insurance money, and put the shop up for sale. He now spent each day on the couch reading the complete New York Times. He was like a clipping service without the paying clients.
Every afternoon when I came home from school he’d narrate his day: “This morning I had myself a bagel with the no-fat cream cheese, lunch a Wendy’s grilled chicken. In Topeka they had a scandal with the honey mustard sauce, people got sick—I read it on page six of the Living section, I saved the article for you,” and I’d gaze longingly at the television, as if I could jump into a family on the set. At Green Springs he’d bought a Yoga for Relaxation videotape, and before bed each night he’d lie on the living room rug, palms upward, as New Age music floated through the room.
Aside from the Wendy’s cashiers, I was often the only person he talked to during the day. “Why don’t you bring your friends over? I’ll bake a chicken,” he’d ask me on the weekends. Or “Invite Sarah, we’ll play Scrabble,” “Mimi can help us fix the bird feeder,” or “I bet Rebecca would like this Sherlock Holmes movie too.” It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen Sarah, Mimi, or Rebecca since fifth grade, or that if I asked them over now, they’d surely run off—our house had become Spooky House, one of those run-down, weedy, crumbling places that’s the nightmare of every kid on the block. We never uprooted dead plants or picked up the litter from the yard, and inside, funeral casseroles still filled the freezer, my mother’s clothes hung in the closets, and bags of supplies from her office sat unpacked in the basement. We hadn’t even thrown out her magazines or her used-up shampoos, as if we feared even the dust would shift.
I’d also made a scrapbook of her, pasting in photos, birthday cards, letters, the obituary. I’d started a ritual of leafing through it before I went to bed at night.
It was still an hour before I had to leave for school, but I got dressed and left the house. I lingered at the newsstand by the subway, and there I saw it, gleaming at me from the cover of Cosmopolitan: “How to Find Love.” I devoured it during my subway ride to school.