Undiscovered Country

by Jennifer Gold

“There isn’t a right or wrong choice,” Dr. Allport says gently, as if reading my mind. “You can also play it by ear. If the symptoms start to get worse, you can always opt for the radiation.”

  “Maybe that’s the best thing,” I say. With a considerable effort, I wrench myself out of my Abili-fog and reach over to squeeze Mom’s arm. “Maybe we should just wait and see.”

  Mom looks up. She’s tearing up again, the kind of tears that make your eyes large and luminous. She looks so beautiful in a delicate, vulnerable, sort of way, like a character in a Dickens novel suffering from consumption. As if being eaten from the inside could make you beautiful. I shudder at the thought.

  “I’m sorry, Cat,” she whispers. “You shouldn’t have to be the one in charge.”

  “I’m not in charge,” I say automatically. I don’t want to be in charge. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “My wonderful little girl.” She reaches over and smoothes my hair out of my eyes. “You’ve been so brave.”

  I don’t want to be brave, either, I want to say. I want to rage and scream and cry and smash everything in this office, starting with the large ceramic pink ribbon hanging on the wall. Pink ribbons make me sick. As if the struggle and suffering of millions of women can somehow be represented by the favorite color of five-year-old girls everywhere. It’s infantile and it’s silly and I hate the ribbons and all the other pink cancer crap. Breast cancer sucks, and pink spatulas and other assorted kitchen tools and appliances demean the experience of having your breasts lopped off and your hair fall out. But I don’t say anything. I try to conjure the rage, just to see if I can, but nothing happens. I don’t like it. Where is the girl who smashed the hockey stick?

  Dr. Allport’s eyes follow mine to the ceramic ribbon, and she gives me a knowing look. “A patient made that for me,” she says. “In some kind of pottery class, I believe.”

  I imagine a thin, frail woman, her bald head bent in concentration as her IV bag thumps against a pottery wheel, and shudder. Relieved at this normal emotional response, I take a deep breath.

  “We’ll think about the radiation,” I say to Dr. Allport. “We don’t want the chemo or the clinical trials.”

  “But—” Dad looks panicked, but Mom stands to face him, taking both his hands in hers. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I love you, but I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

  He chokes on a sob and collapses against her. She cradles his head and whispers in his ear. I can’t hear what she’s saying, and I don’t want to.

  “I’ll go make a follow-up appointment and pull the car up front,” I say, looking away from them. I don’t want to be brave, I think again. Calmly, I get out my phone and go out to face the receptionist.

  Later, I overturn the bottle of Abilify into the toilet. I want to feel my rage, I know now. I want to grieve and scream and cry. It’s my right. With a certain satisfaction, I pull the lever and watch the tiny blue pills as they are forcibly pulled down the drain.

  ...

  “The dissection kits are at the front. Please take only one per pair to ensure we have enough.” Mrs. Carlisle motions wearily towards the chalkboard, where thirteen little black-leather cases are neatly stacked on a rolling cart. “And make sure you wear your lab coats.”

  I button my lab coat and roll up the sleeves, while Tess eyes the fetal pig in front of us with an expression of blatant disgust. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she says weakly.

  “It’s fine. I’ll handle the actual dissection. You just make the notes.” I nod toward Mrs. Carlisle. “Go get us a kit.”

  “Yes, boss.” Tess snaps a salute and makes a final face at the pig before turning away towards the front of the room, where the rowdier boys are cracking loud and obnoxious jokes about bacon. Mrs. Carlisle tells them off, going on about respect for the porcine specimens, but her comments fall upon deaf ears.

  I examine our own pig, trying not to think of how it came to be lying here in a shallow pan before me. A quote from English class—we’ve just finished Macbeth—comes to mind. Something about being untimely ripped from a mother’s womb. I stare at its tiny piglet face, its eyes closed, never to open, and feel a wave of sadness.

  “Why does it look like that?” Tess is back. She drops the dissection kit on the lab bench with an unceremonious thud and pokes at the pig with the back of her pen.

  “Like what? A pig?”

  “Like it’s plastic. Or rubber.” She pokes it again. “It feels kind of rubbery, too.”

  “It’s probably from the formaldehyde,” I say. “Or maybe because it’s a fetus. I don’t know.”

  “I feel kind of bad for it.” Tess points at the head with the pen. “Look at the little ears.”

  Tess is right: there is something sad about the tiny, pointed ears. I have a sudden, bizarre urge to pat it on the head, like a kitten.

  “Stop,” I say instead. “It’s bad enough without having feelings for the pig.”

  “Sorry,” she says. “I just…I won’t talk.”

  I reach for the scalpel, my hands shaking slightly. Coming off the Abilify hasn’t been easy—especially since I’m doing it without medical supervision, ignoring the warning on the bottle. Taking a deep breath, I follow Mrs. Carlisle’s instructions and make a small incision at the head and continue down the spine. The skin cuts easily; it’s like slicing into a pie. I peel back the flaps of skin and peer inside. The air reeks of formaldehyde, and I try not to gag.

  “Okay,” I say, businesslike. “Do you see the vertebrae?”

  “I guess,” Tess answers, swallowing hard.

  Mrs. Carlisle walks by and peers over my shoulder. “Nice incision, Caitlin,” she says approvingly. “You’re a natural.”

  Natural what? I wonder. Dead pig desecrater? Butcher?

  “Future surgeon, perhaps,” she goes on. She leans in. “Do the cranial region next, before you turn the pig to examine its ventral side.”

  “Okay,” I say, carefully pulling the skin back from the pig’s head. “Tess, I need you to hold this back.”

  “Oh, God.” Tess takes an instrument from the kit and places it where I’m gesturing to keep the skin away. Her fingers tremble, and she looks distinctly like she might pass out at any moment.

  “Just don’t look,” I say, impatient.

  I press harder, to delve into the cranial area. I insert the scalpel to lift out the brain and place it cautiously in the pan. We stare at the squiggly ball of mush. Tess’s eyes are still open; she’s repelled and drawn to look at the same time. “Brains,” she whispers, shuddering.

  I inhale and cut into the brain. We’ve been instructed to slice into it, so that we can examine the various regions: the corpus callosum, cerebellum, cerebrum. I poke around, trying to decipher which is which.

  Across the room, Brian McAlister holds up his pig brain in triumph. “Look at this, Stephenson!” he shouts. “I bet it’s twice the size of yours!”

  Brad Stephenson gives him the finger. “And its schlong is twice the size of yours, McAsshole.”

  “That’s enough!” Mrs. Carlisle raps a desk with a ruler. “Respect! Next person who shouts out goes directly to Mr. Stanley’s office.”

  The class quiets down, and I turn back to the task of labeling the brain. It’s a challenge: the brain is so much softer, so much more delicate, than I would have guessed. Given its important role, I always imagined it would be tough and hardy, but it isn’t at all. It reminds me of Jell-O.

  I make another cut and then pry gently at what I think is the cerebrum. Suddenly I wonder where Mom’s tumor is, and I struggle to ignore the thought. Instead, I grab the clipboard with the instructions and diagrams and try to compare those with what is in front of me.

  It’s no use. I imagine an octopus-like creature—a childish but still somehow terrifying image of Ursula the Sea Witch from The Little Mermaid comes to mind—with tentacles
snaking through my mother’s brain.

  “Are you okay, Cat?” Tess peers at me, anxious.

  “Fine,” I say quickly, but I am not fine. My hands are shaking again. I make another incision and my hand slips, chopping the brain clear in half at the completely wrong angle.

  “Damn!” I drop the scalpel with a clatter. I’ve ruined our specimen. “I screwed it up!”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Tess gestures around her. “People are messing up all over the place. We just have to do the best we can.”

  “No!” I retort. I stare at the ruined brain before me, full of despair. “It has to be perfect!”

  “It really doesn’t.” Tess looks worried now. “Are you sure you’re all right, Cat? Maybe—”

  “I ruined it!” My voice is louder now, shrill. “I wrecked the brain!”

  Tess’s lower lip trembles. “I’m going to get Mrs. Carlisle.”

  I stand motionless, my eyes fixed on the unraveling mass of gray matter before me. There’s no going back; it’s ruined. Spoiled. Destroyed. There’s no putting a brain back together once it’s come apart. Slowly, I lift my scalpel and, with a noise that is half-scream, half-moan, I bring it down hard on the remnants of the pig brain. Again and again, I stab at it, enjoying the sensation of the knife as it cuts like butter through the cerebrum and cerebellum and whatever else. My entire body is shaking now, and I can feel the tears stream down my face, hot and sticky.

  Tess is crying beside me, her hands on my shoulders. “Cat!” she says, stifling a sob. “Please, Cat. Stop.”

  I am vaguely aware of the rest of the class watching me, silent and open-mouthed, as Mrs. Carlisle rushes over and gently coaxes the scalpel out of my hand. She puts an arm around me and ushers me out of the room. In the office, calls are made for someone to come and get me, but there is no one to come. Mom is no longer allowed to drive, and Dad is teaching today. Finally, Mr. Stanley, the principal, comes out and softly speaks my name.

  “Am I suspended?” I ask in a small voice.

  “No, Cat.” His eyes are full of pity. “I’m here to drive you home.”

  ...

  “So you attacked the brain.” Dr. Shapiro touches his beard. “How did that make you feel?”

  “Honestly?” I sit back on the fake-leather couch with force and cross my arms. “I don’t even really remember it.”

  “Is that so?” He leans forward. “Can you explain that a bit more?”

  “Um…no.” I stare at him. “I just went sort of crazy.”

  “Like with the hockey stick?”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  Dr. Shapiro looks at me intently. It’s unnerving, so I shift my gaze to the wall, where his medical degree hangs next to a copy of Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night.

  I nod at the painting. “Like van Gogh.”

  “What do you mean by that, Cat?” He rubs his beard again. This time, I picture birds mistaking it for a nest and laying their eggs deep inside. Maybe I just prefer thinking about Dr. Shapiro’s beard rather than all the things that bring me here.

  “Didn’t he go all crazy and cut off his ear?”

  The doctor frowns. “I wish you would stop using the word crazy.”

  I shrug, indifferent. “Whatever you call it, it’s still crazy.”

  “Crazy is a pejorative term,” he says primly.

  “Whatever you call it, that will end up being the bad word eventually,” I say, scowling now. “Hysterical and insane were the proper words once upon a time. One day people will say the same thing about ‘mental illness.’”

  “Interesting point.” He nods appreciatively. “But let’s get back to the dissection incident.”

  “I’d rather not.” I lean forward, cupping my chin with my hands. “It was pretty humiliating. People are avoiding me at school now like I have Ebola.”

  “I imagine that’s very difficult for you.” He scribbles something on his clipboard. “High school can be a pretty unforgiving place.”

  “Well, it would be a lot worse if I actually cared,” I admit. “Fortunately, popularity is way down on my list of concerns right now.”

  Dr. Shapiro slides his glasses back up his sweaty nose. “How is your friend Tess?”

  “She’s been amazing,” I say truthfully. “She’s always there for me.”

  He nods. “Social support is very important. You may want to consider talking with a group, with others like yourself. They can be very helpful.”

  “What, a support group for kids whose parents are dying of cancer? No, thank you.” I shudder at the thought. My own grief was almost too much to bear. I couldn’t take on anyone else’s right now.

  “You’d be surprised at how much better you might feel if you spoke to someone your own age who’s experiencing the same thing.”

  “No.” I shake my head adamantly, my ponytail flying back and forth. “I can’t handle their stories. I don’t want to hear them. Not now.”

  He sighs and writes down something else. I wonder if he’s describing me as uncooperative.

  He does the glasses thing again and turns back a page in my file. “How’s the Abilify going so far?”

  Down the toilet, with gusto, I answer silently. It didn’t help. Not only did I not feel better, I felt nauseous and slow and had already put on two pounds. Watching the pills make their way down the drain was one of the first enjoyable moments I’d had in weeks.

  “Fine,” I say. “It makes me nauseous and slow and fat.”

  “Fat?” He frowns and begins flipping through my file. I don’t have to be clairvoyant to know he’s searching for evidence I have an eating disorder.

  “I’m not anorexic,” I say, exasperated. “I just don’t want to put on weight for no reason. If I’m going to pack it on, I want it to be because I ate, like, sixty Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.”

  “But it’s not ‘no reason.’” Shapiro is still frowning. “You’re taking medication, to help you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I don’t say anything else. If I complain too much, he might realize what I’ve done with the pills.

  He consults his notes again. “How is the irritable bowel syndrome?”

  I shift in my seat, slightly uncomfortable at discussing poo with this aging hippie. “The same.”

  “So you’re still experiencing the diarrhea.”

  “Yeah. But it’s fine. It’s under control.”

  “There’s a new drug—”

  “Forget it,” I snap. “I’m fine with my Imodium. I don’t want any more new drugs. It’s enough.”

  “I’m only trying to help,” he says calmly. He makes another note, and I’m sure he’s writing that I have an anger-management problem and am difficult to control. I hope my file is confidential.

  He continues talking. “How is the sleep?”

  “What sleep,” I mutter. Which isn’t exactly fair; I do sleep, only I can’t manage it without the meds, which I’m not sure really counts. It doesn’t feel the same as normal sleep, but it’s better than the alternative of lying awake all night, wondering what it will be like to bury my mother under a heap of dirt.

  “The pills don’t help?” He looks surprised.

  “They do. It’s just that I can’t sleep without them.” I look over and notice for the first time a picture on his desk of a young girl, about my age. It must be his daughter. She looks surprisingly normal. Pretty, even. She looks happy.

  He follows my gaze. “That’s my daughter, Stephanie,” he says. “Her mom died when she was six. Brain aneurysm. That’s how I got into this field.”

  I feel myself go hot with shame, as if I’ve stuck my head in a hot oven. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  “Thank you.” He nods, and pulls out his prescription pad. “So, more of the sleeping medication, then?”

  I nod silently, taking the slip of paper a
nd pocketing it.

  “I’ll see you in two weeks,” he says.

  I turn to leave, but he stops me. He’s on his feet, rummaging around his messy desk.

  “Here’s some information on those support groups,” he says, pressing a pamphlet into my hands. “Just in case you change your mind.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Outside, I intend to toss it into the nearest trashcan, but when I reach one, I don’t. I hold it over, ready to drop it in, but at the last second I change my mind. I shove the pamphlet into my bag.

  Chapter 18

  After

  “Maybe Taylor’s just jealous,” Margo says thoughtfully. We’re swimming together, in the river. It’s a murky brown, a bit like chocolate milk, and while we were initially terrified of the river and its collection of things unseen, we like to rinse off midday when we can. We bring soap from the village. It’s homemade from some sort of local palm oil, and smells strongly of violets.

  She passes me a small sliver after rubbing some in her own hair. “He’s clearly in love with Eduardo, and unfortunately Eduardo doesn’t swing that way.” She pauses to dunk her sudsy hair in the water, careful not to expose her eyes. Margo has come a long way, but she’s still wary of parasites in the water. “They burrow into your eyes,” she’s informed us grimly on many occasions. “Eat them from the inside out.”

  I lather up as best I can with the soap; it’s not exactly Ivory or Dial. I skip my hair. Margo’s hair is naturally shiny, but washing my hair with soap leaves it dry and dull and flyaway.

  “Not,” adds Margo, grabbing a torn piece of cloth as a makeshift towel, “that I don’t think Rafael is kind of crazy. Sofia says he’s got great intentions, but he’s talking to the wrong people.”

  I think of Rafael’s conviction that you can’t have change without some sort of major upheaval, even if that means violence. But then I think of the doctors who enthusiastically pumped my mother’s veins full of poison. I know all about good intentions, and the road to hell. Sometimes, it can be hard to know what is the right path to take.

  “They’re middle-class kids here, mostly,” Margo goes on. “Most of them don’t have the stomach for violence and the rest of it.”