“It helps with the nausea,” she replies defiantly. She clutches at the bottle, holding it just out of my reach, as if I might try to take it from her. “The doctor said it’s okay. I have cancer.” She laughs, an unhinged sort of laugh, and places a pill on her tongue.
“Do you want some water?” I reach for the tap, ready to turn it on.
“No.” She looks ill, as if I’ve suggested she lick the inside of the toilet bowl. “It tastes disgusting.”
“Water, too?” I feel another stab of worry. The last couple of days, she’s barely eaten a thing. Everything tastes horrible, she says.
“It tastes like someone took a pair of socks, wore them out in the rain, then put them in a garbage bag with a rotten banana and tied it up and forgot it in a cupboard for a week and then took it out again.” She gags as she swallows the pill dry.
“That’s…specific,” I say lamely. “Is there anything you think you could eat? Or drink? Soda? Milk? Orange juice?”
My mom covers her ears, her face tight with nausea. Sweat beads the hollow above her upper lip. “Please,” she says. “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Unsure what to do, I stuff my hands in my pockets, feeling wretched.
“It’s okay.” Her expression softens. “Why don’t you come sit with me, and we’ll watch ‘Make It Over.’”
“Sure,” I say automatically. The last two weeks, I’ve spent every moment I’m not at school on my parents’ bed, tucked against my mother, watching home-renovation shows. We’d never watched them before; I didn’t even realize my mother was so into home decor. Now, we were both practically bona fide interior designers and contractors. My mom had even begun keeping notes; she planned to renovate the bathroom when this was all over. She said that, otherwise, she’d probably keep throwing up every time she had to pee, from learned association.
I help her back into bed and climb in next to her, trying not to stare at her head. I’d never admit it to her, but it scares me, and I hate that. I want to be a bigger person than that, to be able to look past it, to not let it bother me, but I can’t. I look at it and I want to scream and cry and rail against fate and the forces that brought things to this point, where my mom, the one who everyone always complimented for being so pretty and youthful, sits shriveled against a pillow like a bald old man.
Hastily, before the tears rise again, I grab the remote and flip to the Home and Garden channel. I can see my mother visibly relax next to me, her body going boneless, and feel grateful to the network drones who thought it was a good idea to run home reno shows twenty-four-seven, something I’d previously thought was bizarre.
Downstairs, I can hear my dad. He’s barely left his study in weeks. He sits there in the dark, with his bags of potato chips and red licorice. His computer is on, but I don’t think he’s doing much. He’s noticeably heavier around the middle, but I don’t say anything about this. It occurs to me he’s not right, that he shouldn’t be this way, but I don’t have anything left for him. I push away the memory that suddenly pops into my head. I’m six, the last of my friends to learn to ride a bike. Dad comes home with a new helmet, a purple one that glows in the dark.
“Why did you buy that?” I demanded. “I can’t ride. I’ll never be able to ride.”
“You couldn’t ride before because you didn’t have this.” He plunked the helmet on my head. “This is a magic helmet. You’ll see.”
“Magic?” I touched the strap, eyeing him doubtfully.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.”
We spent the entire next day practicing, with Dad running behind me, hand on the back of the seat. His smile never once wavered, nor did his enthusiasm. By the end of the day, I was riding on my own.
“It was magic,” I said, running my hand worshipfully over the purple plastic.
Dad pulled me close to him and ruffled my hair. “It wasn’t magic, Cat,” he whispered. “It was you.”
Now, my stomach turns with guilt. Should I go down there? See if he’s okay? Make him something proper to eat?
Beside me, my mother takes my hand. Her fingers are cold, despite the layers of blankets. He can take care of himself, I tell myself firmly. You can’t take care of everyone.
I turn my attention to the TV, where a couple is knocking out all the walls of their main floor. They’re actively involved in the process, smashing at drywall and plaster with oversized hammers. I imagine myself hacking at our living-room wall, bashing it until it falls down. Even in my head, it feels satisfying. I nestle into my mom and pull the blankets over us both.
...
“I’m glad you came out tonight.” Tess puts her hand on my arm. “It’s important you take a break once in a while.”
“I go to school.” I zip my coat higher and fumble through my pockets for my gloves. As if on cue, little snowflakes begin to drift to the ground like tiny frozen paratroopers.
“Cat, going to school is not a break. Going to school is the opposite of a break.” Tess shakes her head, and peers at me, worried. “It’s like you’re starved for fun, Cat.”
Fun. The word makes my insides twist like spaghetti curling around a fork. Why should I be having fun while my mother lies in bed, unable to eat? It seems wrong on every possible level. Still, Mom insisted I go to Marianne’s party tonight.
“You have to go,” she’d declared. She was picking cautiously at a croissant, which she had thought she might be able to eat. “I’m feeling not too bad today. It’s a good day.”
“No way,” I’d replied automatically. I hadn’t gone out on a Saturday night since The Diagnosis. “I’m staying right here. Maybe we’ll watch a movie? Bridget Jones? Love Actually?”
“Cat, you’re going to end up with no friends. I don’t want that. You don’t want that. Please. Go.”
She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with sadness and guilt. They seemed so huge these days, from the weight loss; it made her look vulnerable and kitten-like. She reached to adjust her tiny cotton hat—chemo caps, the nurse had called them, to prevent heat loss through the skull—and clasped her hands together.
“It doesn’t help me to have you ruin your social life and become a recluse,” she’d said firmly. “Now go get dressed. And put some makeup on, for heaven’s sake. You look almost as bad as I do.”
Tess was thrilled when I texted her.
YAY! U r going out!
Yeah. Come by 730?
Def. C U soon!!
I took my mom’s advice and dabbed at my lashes, then smudged on some sooty eyeliner. For the first time in months, I looked fully awake. Tess notices the change immediately.
“You look better already,” she declares, sizing me up at the end of my driveway. “More alive.”
“It’s just mascara,” I say, gesturing toward my face.
“Really?” She frowns, squinting at me in the snow to get a better look. “I don’t believe you.”
“Okay, you’re right. Also eyeliner.”
“Funny.” She sticks her tongue out at me.
“It’s true. I had to stop wearing eye makeup when my mom was diagnosed.”
“How come? Is it carcinogenic?”
“Probably,” I say, making a face. These days, it feels like everything causes cancer. Like my body is crawling with all kinds of unseen malignancies ready to strip away my health and my hair at any moment. “But I stopped wearing it because it makes a mess. You know, when you cry.” My voice wobbles.
“Oh God.” Tess abruptly goes ashen. “I’m sorry, Cat. I didn’t think of that.”
“Not your fault.” I shrug.
“Still, that’s…awful.”
“Forget it,” I say quickly, afraid she might start crying herself. Even if I’m literally incapable of fun, I don’t want to ruin Tess’s night. Marianne Ambrose’s annual Christmas party is the Social Event of the Year in our town, for what t
hat’s worth. Andy Kemper’s Fourth of July picnic is a close runner-up, but seeing as that won’t be for months, I want Tess to enjoy herself.
By the time we reach Marianne’s, my feet feel like two Popsicles. I’m still dreading the party, but at least the warmth of her house is welcome.
“Tess! Cat!” Marianne waves from the stairs and winds her way through a sea of classmates towards us. As usual, she looks perfect: impeccably coiffed hair a shade of red that could never be copied and bottled, huge green eyes done in vintage cat’s-eye makeup, and a dress that definitely wasn’t purchased at the local mall. “So glad you guys could come.”
She reaches us and puts a hand on my shoulder, balancing a red plastic cup of something that looks suspiciously like beer in the other. “Cat,” she says somberly, trying on her best Cancer Face. It needs work, but I’m not inclined to give her pointers. “It’s so good to see you here.”
“Thanks, Marianne.” I smile wanly, bending to unlace my boots.
“How’s your mom?” She uses the hushed tone I’ve come to call the Cancer Voice. It may or may not be used in conjunction with the Cancer Face. Items sold separately.
“As good as can be expected, I guess,” I reply cautiously. I’ve learned that people don’t actually want an honest answer to this question. It makes people uncomfortable to hear that someone is seriously sick, spending most of their time with their head hung over a toilet. People don’t want the truth; they want a glossed-over, Hollywood version of it. Pretty, rom-com cancer, if you will.
Marianne nods sympathetically and leads us down the hall. The house is beautiful—it’s an ancient Victorian, but recently renovated, with a gleaming, brand-new kitchen that looks like something from one of my mom’s shows. Even the oven looks fancy, less like a cooking appliance and more like a shining, stainless-steel spaceship. “There’s snacks and drinks in here,” she says. Then she lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Kevin’s older sister got us some beer. It’s under the table there, in the Coke carton.”
“Great,” I say automatically. She squeezes my shoulder again and goes back to the foyer to greet more guests.
“Beer?” Tess bends down and pulls out two. I hesitate, then take one. Why not, I think to myself, shrugging. Life is short.
I pop open the tab and pour some into a plastic cup. The first sip makes me shudder. It’s even more disgusting than I remember, bitter and yeasty in my mouth.
Tess drinks some of hers and grimaces. “This is deeply gross,” she says, putting it down on the counter. “I’m getting a Diet Coke. Want one?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.” I swallow another mouthful of beer and try not to gag. I wonder how long it takes to get used to it, much less enjoy it.
“If you’re sure.” Tess shrugs and heads over to the refrigerator.
I grab a sprinkle-covered shortbread from the table, leaning back against it as I take a bite. I haven’t had any yet this season. My mom usually bakes up batches and batches of shortbreads and gingerbread men around the holidays, but this year, obviously, there have been no cookies.
“Hey.” A guy I recognize from school—a senior—reaches around me to grab a shortbread. “It’s Kate, right?”
“Cat,” I correct him. “Cat Marks.”
“Rory.” He winks at me, and swallows a cookie nearly whole before reaching for a handful of Doritos. “I’ve seen you around.”
I don’t know what to say, so I gulp down some beer. It doesn’t help the situation any.
“You a hockey fan?” He reaches under the table for a beer of his own and swigs about half the can in one go, his throat muscles rippling like a snake’s.
“Um…I guess?” I don’t know how to answer. I’ve actually never seen a game in my life. “I’m on the team,” he clarifies. “Left wing. You should come some time.”
“Uh, sure.” I swallow the last of the beer and instantly regret it as a wave of dizziness overtakes me. I haven’t eaten anything today but a yogurt, and that was nearly ten hours ago. My head feels unpleasantly detached from my body, as if it’s bobbing among apples in a barrel full of water. I think of my mom’s faceless wig-holder and my stomach clenches.
“Let me get you another one,” says Rory, motioning toward my empty cup.
“No, no, that’s okay,” I say hastily. I look around for Tess, but she’s fallen into a conversation with some of her drama friends, and I don’t want to bother her.
“Want to go sit down somewhere?” Rory smiles at me. He cracks open another beer with a hiss, and I wonder how many he’s had.
“Okay.” I glance quickly at him as he snatches another handful of chips. He’s pretty cute—I know a lot of girls would be thrilled at the attention. His blond hair curls loosely, falling just below his ears, and he’s got one of those thousand-watt smiles that lulls you into believing you’re happy, too, just from watching his mouth go so wide. Not sure what else to do, I follow Rory into a small den. There’s another couple—seniors—in there. I recognize one of them from my fourth-period calculus class. They’re bent over the coffee table doing something intricate with their hands.
“Buddy,” says one—Graham, I think his name is. He nods at me. “Kate, right?”
“Cat,” Rory corrects quickly. He motions for me to sit down.
“Want one?” The other one, whose name I don’t know, offers me something in his outstretched hand. I bend forward, taking a closer look at it. It’s a joint. So that’s what they’re doing. I peer at the table, almost intrigued, as Graham carefully rolls little white papers and lights the ends.
“No, thanks,” I say quickly. I’m feeling sick and lurching from the beer; the last thing I need is to throw pot into the mix.
Rory takes one and inhales deeply, lips thinning as he holds the smoke in his lungs. Graham punches him in the arm. “Dude, you can’t smoke that in here. Marianne said no smoking. Her parents’ll smell it.”
“Are her parents home?” Rory looks surprised.
“Tomorrow,” Graham clarifies. He rises, scooping up his little pile of contraband. “You coming outside?”
“No, thanks.” Rory passes the joint back to Graham. “I’ll catch up with you guys after.”
Once they’re gone, Rory and I sit in strained silence for a few minutes. It’s uncomfortable, and I actually find myself wishing I still had my beer, so that I had something to do.
“So.” He scoots closer to me on the loveseat. “Tell me about yourself.”
Oh God. I stare at him blankly. My head is spinning, and “myself” suddenly feels like a test I haven’t studied for. “Not much to tell,” I manage feebly. My stomach churns, and I close my eyes, suddenly nauseous. I should never have drunk that beer so quickly.
“So modest.” He winks at me again. I’m vaguely impressed by his control of fine motor functions after both beer and weed. “I know you’re taking a whole bunch of AP classes. Big college plans?”
“I guess.” I blink, struggling to focus. “Maybe somewhere out west. California.”
“Cool,” he says approvingly. “I’ve always wanted to go to LA.”
Another awkward silence descends on us. I suppose I should ask him about his hockey or something, but I can’t even remember what position he said he played, and it would look rude to ask him again so soon.
“You have really pretty hair,” murmurs Rory, inching even closer. He puts an arm around me, and leans in.
I close my eyes and let him kiss me. Hooking up with older guys at parties isn’t really something I do, but between the beer and the cancer, I’m feeling a little reckless.
He slides both arms around me, pinning me down on the couch. “You’re so hot,” he mumbles, kissing my neck. I wince, trying to breathe under his bulk. It feels like he’s crushing my lungs, and I gasp for air. Unfortunately, he takes this as a sign of encouragement and presses himself tighter against me.
Now he’s pawing at my bra, unsuccessfully trying to unfasten it. “No,” I say, pushing his hands away. “No!”
“Oh, come on,” he gasps. “Don’t be like that.” He gropes at me again. I picture his hands touching my breasts and my mind instantly goes to my mother, breast scarred and hair stolen. “NO!” I shout, thrashing. “Get off me!”
“Jesus Christ,” he says, leaping off me and backing away, back of his hand swiping over his mouth. “You didn’t have to fucking kick me! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I said no!” I’m shrieking now, my arms wrapped protectively around myself, shrinking from him. “I told you to stop!”
“I was going to!” People are peering around the door now, drawn by the commotion. “You didn’t have to kick me in the goddamned balls!”
My head is pounding. “Just get away from me,” I force out, my voice shaking. “Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t worry.” He scowls, and makes a little whirling motion by his head, like I’m insane. “I don’t want to come anywhere near you.”
“Cat?” Tess has appeared by my side, her arm wound around me protectively. She glares at Rory and gently leads me out of the room.
“I don’t feel well,” I mumble, leaning my head against her shoulder. I feel dirty and somehow pathetic, and some small part of me—the old Cat, who cared about social norms—is mortified that I caused a scene. “I want to go home.”
“Shhhh,” she says, rubbing my back. “Don’t worry about that asshole, Cat. We’ll get you home right now.”
Someone brings us our things. A crowd has gathered to watch, and I can hear the words “cancer” and “mom” being whispered around the house.
We get outside and I stumble down the front steps, almost tripping on a broken cobblestone. Tess steadies me, and firmly takes my arm.
Undiscovered Country Page 7