“Oh!” Comprehension dawns on me. “The infirmary!”
“Yes!” He nods, relieved at our mutual understanding. “Could you help?”
Again, I think of my mother. “Yes,” I say quietly. “Yes, I can.”
Chapter 11
Before
“What are you up to?” Mom leans over and peers at the textbook open in front of me. She’s wearing a soft, fluffy white bathrobe and a tiny cotton hat in mint green with a little matching flower. The flower, she explained once, reminds her that she’s still a woman, even with all her lovely hair hidden in a large plastic freezer bag in her closet. She doesn’t know I know it’s there, but I do. Every time I help her get dressed, it’s there, staring at me, a tangible symbol of what’s been lost these past months.
“SAT prep,” I explain. I put down my highlighter and yawn. “I can’t even begin to explain how boring it is.”
“Didn’t you just take the SAT, back in the spring?” Mom frowns and tightens the string of her robe. It’s huge and billowing on her, like everything nowadays.
“I think I can get a higher score.” I pick the highlighter up again and twirl it between my thumb and forefinger. “A lot of people do this now.”
“But you did so well.” She wanders over to the fridge and opens it up, peers inside. I stiffen; she so rarely eats these days. She’s had radiation for a month and her appetite is even worse than it was during chemo.
“Can I make you something?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “I’m happy to do it. Eggs? Pasta? French toast? There are some fresh muffins in the breadbox over there—I made them this morning. Lemon poppy seed.”
She makes a face. “You’re acting like the parent of an anorexic teenager.”
“Well, you barely eat.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You need to eat if you’re going to get better.”
“It’s not my fault.” The skin around her eyes sags with fatigue; she pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s hard to eat when food tastes disgusting.”
Chemotherapy has altered my mother’s sense of taste. The doctors say it will return to normal, eventually, but right now everything still tastes revolting to her.
“Imagine a bag of strawberries,” she said, when I asked her to explain. “Now, imagine you leave them in a dank, dark cupboard for two weeks. Then imagine taking them, blending them with sour milk and shaving cream, and then adding it to all your food, like some kind of marinade or dipping sauce.”
“Wow,” I said. “You should have been a horror writer.”
“It’s just so vile,” she’d said, shuddering. “Imagine eating chicken and it tastes like spoiled produce and bad milk.”
Now, in the kitchen, she goes over to the muffins and stares at them.
“All natural ingredients,” I say. “I used freshly squeezed lemon juice.”
“I’m scared to eat one,” she admits.
“Just try it,” I coax her. “Just a couple of bites.”
Reluctantly, she selects a muffin and carefully places it on a plate, as if it might be radioactive. She returns to the table and sits down across from me.
“So you really think you need to take the test again?”
We’re back to the SAT now, probably to distract me from the fact that she is fastidiously picking apart the muffin, but not actually eating it.
“I want my score to be as high as possible,” I say. “I don’t want to have to worry about backup schools.”
“But do you have time? Even with all your AP courses, and the play, and…” Her voice trails off. The unspoken words—me, or my cancer—hang between us.
I pretend not to notice, and shrug. “I’m managing okay,” I say, honestly. “My grades are up.”
“Dad says you’ve been going to bed later and later.”
“Dad’s one to talk.”
Traitor, I think, fuming. All the nights I’ve been up late studying, rehearsing, or aimlessly trolling the Internet, he’s been right in the next room, eating himself into a food coma and binge-watching The Walking Dead on Netflix. And did I tell on him? No, I did not. I thought there was, like a code, or something for situations like this. Compadres in cancer.
“He’s just worried about you. We both are. Are you getting enough sleep?” She takes a small morsel of muffin and places it gently on her tongue. I wait for the ensuing gagging response, but there is none. Looking surprised, she chews and swallows the piece and reaches for another, larger one.
“These actually taste okay.” She gets up. “I could use a Diet Coke.”
Throughout her cancer-related food travails, Mom has maintained that the only thing that tastes “normal” is Diet Coke. This makes me anxious, as what, exactly, is in it? Is it a food product at all, or just a can of chemicals? I’m not sure I want to know.
“I’ll take a Perrier, if we have it,” I say. She tosses a small green plastic bottle, which, of course, I miss. It falls to the ground, rolling back and forth and fizzing with angry-looking frothy bubbles.
“Sorry,” she says, and I can see she’s trying not to laugh.
I give her a mock glare. “You married Dad knowing he was a spaz. Didn’t you worry about passing inferior genes on to your offspring?”
Instantly, our banter dies, and the cheerful mood evaporates with the speed of rubbing alcohol.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. My voice is pleading, full of remorse. If only I could take those words back, suck them in.
“It’s okay,” she says softly, staring at her Diet Coke. She fastidiously eats another piece of muffin and takes a deep breath. “You don’t have to walk on eggshells with me, Cat. I’m your mother.”
“I know that,” I say quickly. “I just—that was stupid, that’s all. I wasn’t thinking.”
“But that’s life,” she points out with a shrug. “Forget it. What are you going to do, censor yourself in front of me? I don’t want that. Anyway, I need to get used to stuff like that. I can’t get my back up every time someone, I don’t know, makes a cancer joke or something.”
“A cancer joke?” I stare at her, aghast. “If someone makes a cancer joke, you totally have the right to get your back up. What kind of person would do that?”
“Maybe that was a bad choice of words, but you know what I mean.”
I take a sip of my soda. “Is there really such a thing as a cancer joke?”
She daintily finishes the muffin. I stare at her empty plate, and feel a twinge of hope.
“I have no idea.” She starts to laugh, a true belly laugh, and I join in.
...
“What do you think of this?” Mom holds up a red-and-white striped top.
“For you, or me?” I eye the shirt warily.
“If you have to ask, then never mind.” She hangs the shirt back up and continues rummaging through the sale rack.
We’re out shopping together for the first time in months. It’s almost weird to see my mother dressed, with makeup on, browsing around the racks of clothes. With her wig in place, she looks exactly like she did before. It’s a bit unnerving; it’s almost too easy to forget, when I catch a glimpse of her, the months of misery and suffering.
“This one is nice.” I hold up a slinky black top with a bow. “It would look great on you.”
“You think?” She takes it tentatively, holds it up against her. Her smile wavers. “I feel so ugly.”
“You look great,” I say, honestly. “You look exactly the way you always did.”
“Only because of this dead animal on my head.” She touches the wig gingerly and makes a face. “I hate it. I feel like everyone can tell.” It comes out as a whisper.
“They can’t.” My voice is firm. “No way. It looks exactly like your hair.”
“My old hair,” she corrects me, softly.
I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say. Standa
rd procedure, these days.
“So this top?” She takes it over to the mirror and stares, frowning. “Not too young?”
“It would look great on you,” I say again. I mean it, too.
She shrugs and drapes it over her arm. “Okay,” she says. “If you say so.”
“Do you want to try it on?”
“No, at home. It’s too much work.” She looks tired, and, as if on cue, yawns.
“Is this too much? Being out?” I study her, anxious. “We can go.”
“No! No.” She shakes her head furiously. “It’s so nice to be out like this with you. Like before.”
It is nice. We wander through the store, stopping to try on shoes and sunglasses before we leave. I pass on footwear, but choose a funky pair of red plastic shades. Mom gets some cool new leather riding boots with buckles up the back and some retro-looking aviator glasses.
“Ice cream?” My voice is tentative, but hopeful. We always used to get frozen yogurt after a shopping trip. I wait for her to gag and make some kind of declaration comparing frozen yogurt to rotting bananas and moldy gym socks, but she just smiles.
“That sounds great.” She reaches over and squeezes and my hand.
We enter Yo-Greats, and drop our parcels and jackets at our old table in the back right-hand corner, under the painting of a giant, gleaming strawberry. I peer over to see if Xander, the cute guy who used to work the cash, is still there, but he’s been replaced by a sour-faced girl with a mouthful of braces.
“Have you been here before?” she asks, sounding bored.
“Yes,” we say in tandem.
“It’s self-serve, and you’re charged by weight,” she goes on, as if she hasn’t heard us. “Toppings are over there on the left. Please use the spoons and tongs provided.”
Mom and I exchange a glance and try not to laugh. I take two paper cups and hand her one. We each fill up with a swirl of chocolate and vanilla, then load on toppings: caramel sauce, sprinkles, and peanuts for her; crushed peanut brittle and whipped cream for me.
We dig in. It’s as good as I remember—better, even. The whipped cream is thick and cool, and dissolves slowly in my mouth. Mom eats her yogurt cautiously, handling her spoon as if it’s an explosive device that might, at any time, go off.
“How does it taste?” I ask, nervous.
She’s chewing slowly. “Not bad, actually,” she says, looking surprised. “Good enough to eat, anyway.”
For a few minutes, we sit in a pleasant silence, enjoying our afternoon treat. A ray of late-October sunlight streams in through the window, illuminating the tiny dust particles in the air. Mom eats another spoonful and looks over at me.
“So,” she says slyly. “Any boys in your life?”
“Boys?” I stare at her in disbelief. “Um, no. I haven’t exactly had a lot of spare time. And not because of you,” I add hastily. “It’s just with the SATs, and all the AP classes—”
She cuts me off. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She stirs her frozen yogurt, frowning. “I’m worried about you. You’re working too hard. You don’t get enough sleep—”
It’s my turn to interrupt. “I’m not tired,” I point out, and it’s true. I feel fine. “If I weren’t getting enough sleep, I would feel tired.”
“I’m worried about you,” she says again. “You should be going out, enjoying yourself. Dating boys. Going to parties.”
I groan. “No one dates anymore, Mom,” I swirl my spoon around, so that the candy, cream, and yogurt form a dense, sticky mess. “It’s not like that. And I do go to parties.” A fleeting memory of Rory comes to mind, and I flinch a little. That was the last party I went to; I’ve been making excuses ever since.
“I know when you’re lying, Caitlin Marks.” Mom folds her arms across her chest. “You haven’t been to a party in ages.”
I stab my dessert with my spoon, scowling fiercely. “You know, a lot of parents would be thrilled with a daughter who avoids parties and works hard.” I scoop out some yogurt, let it drip from my spoon. “Would you be happier if I was smoking pot every weekend or whatever?”
“You know, there is a happy medium between pothead and social hermit,” she points out. “I just don’t want you to miss out on the fun stuff. It’s important, too.”
“It’s fine.” I lick my spoon. “I’ll go out more. Let’s drop it, okay?” I can hear the edge in my own voice.
“Okay,” says Mom hastily. “I don’t want to argue with you.”
“I know. So let’s forget it. Let’s just enjoy our ice cream.” I stare at the melting glop before me, trying to regain my appetite for the frozen treat. I take another spoonful, but it tastes off now, spoiled. Sadness is like cancer that way, an unwelcome guest that takes the body or the mind hostage, stripping the joy from even that most basic and human of sensory experiences—eating. I push away my dish.
Chapter 12
After
Melody is back in Barracks B. When the new crop of recruits arrived yesterday, she was booted back in with us. Her former bunkmates seem more than satisfied with the new arrangement. Even Sari, smiley guitarist of infinite patience, seems relieved to have her gone.
She’s drinking a Diet Coke on her bed when we arrive back from the village, filthy and sweaty from a long and grueling day’s work. Even Taylor is covered in streaks of mud: when the Internet went down, he had to crawl around in the dirt examining the cables. We’re exhausted, hungry, and cranky. Hangry, Tess used to call it: a cross between hungry and angry.
“No,” moans Taylor when he sees her. “You’re still here. Didn’t Jesus tell you? He would choose Barracks C.”
Melody glares at him but says nothing, her gaze focused on her can of soda.
Margo throws her a disgusted look. “Do you just sit here all day?” She peels off her clothes and faces Melody stark naked, her hands on her hips. She has chicken blood stains on her arms and legs, making her look like a character in one of those low-budget teen slasher films that come out around Halloween every year. Melody shudders, and looks away, and I wonder what offends her more, the blood or the nudity. She changes in the bathrooms each day, even though Taylor makes a point of leaving the barracks before us to give her privacy.
“I’m outta here,” says Taylor. He may be gay, but I don’t think he’s entirely comfortable with Margo’s willingness to strip with abandon.
“Seriously,” says Margo, grabbing her shower caddy and towel. “If you’re going to just sit here all day, you might as well go back to Alabama, or whatever. It’s infuriating to the rest of us who are busting our butts to see you crying in your pillow.” She gives Melody a final dirty look before heading off to the showers.
I sit down on my bed and nod awkwardly at Melody. “You okay?” I ask hesitantly.
She stares at me, then nods slightly. I wait to see if she’s going to say anything else, but when she remains silent I shrug and pull out a novel. The well-intentioned Sari thought it was a good idea to give me a copy of The Fault in Our Stars when she heard my mom had died.
“It’s about cancer,” she had said meaningfully, pressing the book into my hands.
The book of course is about kids with cancer, which is hardly uplifting to begin with, and worse, the medical references keep giving me flashbacks. Margo has threatened twice to take it away from me when she found me with book in hand, tears and mascara streaming down my face.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” she’d demanded. “It’s masochistic. Also, you look really ugly when you cry.”
“Thanks,” I’d sniffed. “But I have to finish it.”
I have never abandoned a book. Not even in ninth grade when I unwittingly committed to reading Les Miserables for a book report, and the rest of my group went for the Cliff Notes. Besides, if I stop, how will I find out what happens to Hazel and Augustus? I curl up on my side, book co
mfortably tucked under my elbow.
“I’m sorry,” says Melody suddenly.
Surprised, I turn around. “Sorry?”
“About the shovel.” She sits up. “I didn’t…I wasn’t…” she grapples for words.
“It’s okay,” I say cautiously.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I need to explain.”
I wait. It’s the longest I’ve ever heard her speak without either preaching or offending or irritating someone. I watch a fly buzz lazily around one of Taylor’s granola-bar wrappers, looking for leftovers.
“Something…bad happened to me,” Melody says finally. “To me and my sister. When we were younger. I have flashbacks.”
“Right,” I say. I’m not sure how to respond. She isn’t looking at me; she’s looking at her hands. Her fingers weave in and out of each other as she struggles to speak. I watch them wiggle in familiar motions: This is the church, this is the steeple…my mother used to play that with me in kindergarten.
“I wasn’t…I didn’t know where I was,” she concludes quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” I say automatically. She’s still avoiding eye contact, so I stop trying. I look around instead at her living space. Taylor and Margo have decorated theirs with pictures of friends and family from back home, but mine and Melody’s are stark, devoid of any kind of personal effects. I have a photo of me and my parents in a pretty pink frame that I brought with me, but I can’t bring myself to put it out. Every time I pull it out of my backpack, I feel an ache for my mother so powerful it leaves me breathless.
She looks over at the copy of The Fault in Our Stars. “I’m sorry about your mom,” she says. “My mom died too, but I was only five. I don’t really remember her.”
“That’s awful,” I say sincerely. My memories of my mother are precious.
“We—my sister, Jessie, and me—went to live with my aunt and uncle. My uncle…” her voice trails off, and I wait while she struggles to speak again.
“My uncle was the one who hurt me.” Now she looks me in the eyes, and I feel my stomach turn. I know what she’s about to tell me.
Undiscovered Country Page 11