Undiscovered Country

by Jennifer Gold

  “I can’t manage this whole thing!” she protests when she sees it. “Look at all that whipped cream!”

  “Eat it,” I say. “Who cares?”

  I’ve ordered myself a smaller one, but tell the barista not to spare the whipped cream on mine, either. Worrying about calories became less of an issue for me watching Mom unable to eat during chemo. The day may come when I can’t eat, and I don’t want to waste my life skipping out on all the little treats that bring me a taste of happiness day-to-day.

  We sip our drinks slowly, people-watching in the huge mall food court. Our town has a mall, of course, but the whole place is about the size of the Neiman Marcus in this one. When I was a kid, I used to love coming here. I’d save my allowance or birthday money to buy myself a new book or pair of earrings, carrying it in my little purse, feeling impossibly excited and grown up. My favorite part was handing the cashier the money myself, just like an adult. I smile at the memory and use my straw as a spoon to scoop up some of the remaining whipped cream.

  “Doesn’t that girl go to your school?” Mom nods and points discreetly a few yards away, where Kayla Moffat is walking with her mother and younger sister. Kayla and I aren’t friends; she’s the Pep Squad type, and I’m the sort who sneaks out or fakes sick during pep rallies. Her mother and I make eye contact and she nudges Kayla, whispering. I groan inwardly. I don’t want to talk to her.

  “Cat!” Kayla rushes forward, a smile plastered across her face. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” I reply. I stare down at my frappuccino, stirring it unnecessarily.

  Mrs. Moffat and Mom exchange phony pleasantries, while Kayla and I stare at each other, awkward. Every so often, Kayla’s eyes flicker in my mother’s direction. Her eyes are full of pity.

  “Bye, Caitlin,” Mrs. Moffat says after a moment, pulling Kayla along with her. “Nice to see you both.” My mom waves politely, but I don’t look up. Instead, I poke angrily at my cup.

  “You didn’t have to be so rude,” Mom says mildly. “Do you not get along with Kayla?”

  I shrug. “I don’t really give a crap about her either way.”

  “Cat.” She looks at me, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

  I push my drink away. “I hate the way they look at us!”

  Mom’s expression softens. “They’re just trying to be nice,” she says quietly. “People don’t know what to say.”

  “I wish they’d just leave us alone!” It comes out louder than I expected. A group of middle-schoolers next to us move their chairs farther away. “I don’t want their pity.”

  “Forget it,” says Mom. She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Let’s not ruin this. I’m having such a good time.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, angry at myself for upsetting her. “Of course.”

  I pick a safe topic—shoes—while she finishes her drink. She brightens immediately, chattering cheerfully about how killer I’ll look in a pair of high heels. I flinch at her choice of adjective, wondering how she does it. How can she shut the big C out of the picture with such swiftness and ease. I envy her.

  Our last stop is Cara’s, a pricey boutique that sells bridal and evening wear. I don’t want to go in—the dress on the mannequin looks like it might have cost the same as our car—but Mom pulls me in, drawn to the silk dress in the softest of pinks.

  “Oh, Cat.” She fingers the hem, breathless. “Look at this.”

  I find the tag and cough. “Mom,” I say, showing it to her. “We can’t afford that.”

  “It’s just money,” she says sharply. She reaches up and retrieves a dress in my size, holds it against me still on the hanger. “It’s perfect,” she says. She thrusts it at me. “Try it on.”

  Obediently, I grab the hanger and enter the change room, expertly stripping down. I’ve done it so many times today, I can now shed my jeans in a record thirty seconds. Carefully, I slip into the dress, open the door. Mom’s face transforms when she sees me.

  “Oh, Cat,” she says again. “This is it. It’s perfect.”

  I stare at myself in the mirror while she zips me up. The bodice is strapless and clingy, with inverted pleats at the waist. The bottom is full and swishes gently when I move. I look beautiful, but it’s more than that. It’s a special dress, and I look special in it, not just like a teenager headed to prom.

  “Please tell me you like it.” She looks at me, pleading. “You have to like it.”

  I can’t stop staring. “I love it,” I manage. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful,” she says. She grips my hands, her eyes full of tears. She’s looking beyond me, and I turn around to see the display of veils.

  “I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I just—”

  “Don’t,” I say quietly.

  We stand there, gazing at my reflection, at the lovely pink gown. I start to cry, and then she does too, and then neither of us can stop. A saleslady comes over, but then thinks better of it and backs away.

  “Careful,” Mom says. She snorts with a mixture of laughter and tears. “Snot is notoriously hard to get out of silk.”

  We take the dress. The saleslady packs it up for us warily, clearly uncomfortable at our tandem outburst. My mom pays and hands me the bag, eyes shining with happiness and tears.

  “For you, Cat,” she says. “Thank you for today.”

  I take the bag, hugging her tightly. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so happy and so sad at the same time.

  ...

  Tess watches as I slam my locker shut. It’s perpetually messy, overflowing with books and papers and unwashed gym clothes, so it usually needs a good bang to get it properly closed. She leans against Morgan Masterson’s locker, and regards me critically.

  “So you let your mom spend a fortune on a dress and you have no intention of going to the prom.” She frowns, her arms crossed against her chest.

  “She won’t know,” I say feebly. “I’ll get dressed and stuff as if I’m going, and then I’ll, like, go hang out at Starbucks or something.”

  “Or you could, you know, just go to prom.” Tess shakes her head and lowers her voice. “Have you talked to Dr. Shapiro about this?”

  “No.” I’m annoyed now. “What does he have to do with any of it?”

  “Caitlin.” Tess uses my full name, which is a sign she means serious business. “You’re planning to lie to your sick mother about going to the prom, then hide in a coffee shop for five hours in a party dress with your hair done.”

  “I could change.” I don’t look at her.

  “Not the point, and you know it.” She sighs. “Why don’t you just come to the damn prom? You can come with me and Jake.”

  Jake Rothman is Tess’s prom date and on-again, off-again boyfriend. Right now, they are off, but have agreed to attend prom together for practical reasons. He’s a decent enough guy, but has a tendency to neglect Tess in favor of his fantasy football league, which is both rude and kind of sad and depressing, all at the same time.

  “I don’t want to be a third wheel,” I say, even though my reluctance has nothing to do with her and Jake.

  Tess shakes her head vehemently. “As if,” she says, making a face. “I am never letting that idiot touch me again. We’re going as friends.”

  I don’t say anything. I guarantee that, by the end of prom night, Tess and Jake will be hooking up at some lame after-prom party.

  “I mean it this time,” she says, as if reading my mind. “Just friends.”

  “Uh-huh.” I glance at my phone. “I’m going to be late for English. See you later?”

  “Okay. But think about it. You should come with us.”

  ...

  I settle into my desk in English class, wedging my backpack under my seat. I nod hello at the teacher and at Kevin Chang, who sits next to me and who also always does the readings. It’s an AP class, but
there are only a handful of us who seem to actually read the books and the plays. Everyone else is happy to rely on Cliff Notes and Wikipedia.

  Mrs. Arnold claps her hands to get our attention, and leans at her podium with a battered copy of Hamlet, which we’ve been studying for weeks. I love Shakespeare, and Hamlet is by the far my favorite of his plays. My dad being an English professor, I’ve been a Shakespeare devotee since before I could even read.

  “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, one of the themes of Hamlet is madness.” Mrs. Arnold flips open her book and begins to read: “O, that this too too solid flesh would melt / Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! / Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d / His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! / O God! God! / How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, / Seem to me all the uses of this world!”

  Someone in the back snickers, and Mrs. Arnold taps on the podium. “Mr. Seligman,” she snaps. “Care to explain why you find that particular passage so humorous?”

  I turn around. Matt Seligman, football quarterback and unabashed dumb-jock caricature, shrugs his shoulders. “It just sounds, you know, really crazy.”

  “How so?” Mrs. Arnold presses, waiting.

  “Well it sounds like he wants to kill himself or something.” Matt shrugs again. “That’s pretty crazy, right? Only crazy people kill themselves.”

  The teacher nods, looking thoughtful. “Does anyone want to comment on that?”

  No one puts up a hand, so I do.

  “Miss Marks?” Mrs. Arnold points at me.

  “He’s upset,” I say sharply. “His father just died, and his mother isn’t much help. He’s in mourning, and he can’t help but wonder what it’s all for, why he should bother going on. Why is that crazy?”

  “Interesting, Caitlin.” Mrs. Arnold nods encouragingly. “Continue.”

  “Well, everyone always wants to know: was Hamlet crazy, or was he faking it.” I frown, trying to find the right words. “But what’s so crazy about what you just read to us? He just sounds depressed. He’s experienced tragedy. He feels alone. Is it really madness to think about death when your father’s just died?”

  “Depression is kind of crazy, though, isn’t it?” It’s Matt Seligman again. “I mean, those commercials for Prozac or whatever. They say it’s a disease, right?”

  Mrs. Arnold starts to say something, but I cut her off. “So if someone is unhappy about something really crappy in their life, that’s a disease now? What isn’t a disease, then?” I’m on a roll now. “When did grief and sadness and anger become medical conditions?”

  Everyone is staring at me. There are people whispering—I can see Kelly Ellerton murmuring something to Tad Schaffer. Obviously they’re talking about my mom, and about me, and the hockey stick and the pig and whatever else. But I don’t care.

  “I mean, it’s like Catcher in the Rye all over again.” I can’t make myself stop talking. “Holden’s brother dies of leukemia, and he’s depressed and angry and full of angst, all which seem pretty normal to me, and then there’s all this is-he-or-isn’t-he about being “crazy,” whatever that means.” I make little quotation marks with my fingers when I say crazy. I’m starting to hate the word, which makes me feel like Dr. Shapiro.

  Mrs. Arnold looks a bit wary—I’m sure there’s a picture of me with a big “warning” sign in the staffroom—but also excited. She rarely gets us engaged in any real discussion. “That’s an excellent comparison, Caitlin,” she says. “Hamlet and Holden have a lot in common. Both experience great personal tragedies, and both react to it in such a way that we, the readers, are left to wonder about their sanity.”

  Kevin Chang speaks up. “I agree with Cat,” he says, looking at me. “We’ve hit a point where we medicalize, like, everything. Like the commercials Matt mentioned. Sure, some people have severe depression, but I’d bet a lot of the people who take those drugs don’t fall into that category. I mean, when did feeling shitty start needing a prescription? Shouldn’t you feel bad if someone in your family dies?”

  I expect Mrs. Arnold to chew Kevin out over “shitty,” but she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she looks thoughtful. “I think the question is, when does it cross over from normal grief into something else? Something more, something—pathological?”

  “But that’s the point!” Roiling with frustration, I practically leap out of my seat. “What is normal grief? Who gets to decide how bad someone should feel when their little brother died? Or their dad?”

  Next to me, Kevin nods fervently. Even Kelly has stopped whispering and is looking at me with interest.

  “It’s true.” Tad Schaffer speaks up. “I mean, how can anyone look at another person and say, I know how you feel? Because how do they really know? They can’t.”

  We debate the point for the rest of the class. While some feel like Matt—that to even think of killing yourself means you’re crazy—most seem to agree with me about the personal nature of grief and the subjectivity of human experience. For many, it’s the first time they’ve participated in class all semester. I can tell Mrs. Arnold is both surprised and thrilled.

  The bell rings, and I bend to pack up my things, almost knocking heads with Kevin.

  “Thanks for your support,” I say. “That wasn’t easy, at first.”

  “You don’t have to thank me.” He shrugs. “You’re right.” He pauses, and I can tell he wants to say something else. His cheeks flush, and I wonder if it’s about my mom.

  “Cat,” he begins. He fumbles with the belt loops on his jeans. “Do you want to go to the prom with me? Just as friends,” he adds quickly. His face is so red now it clashes with his orange shirt.

  I blink at him. “Prom? Really?”

  “Yeah. I mean, if you’re already going with someone—or you don’t want to—”

  “Sure,” I say, surprising myself. “Sure, I’d love to go with you.”

  “Oh, great!” He looks immensely relieved. “I have a calculus quiz now, but I’ll text you later, okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Kevin.” I smile as he dashes out of the room, fumbling in his bag for his scientific calculator.

  I can’t believe I just accepted a date for prom. I shove my notebook inside my bag and pull the strings shut. Now I’m going to have to actually go.

  The funny thing is, it doesn’t feel as absurd an idea as it did an hour ago. I picture my mother’s face when I tell her I have a date, and I grin inwardly, knowing I’ve done the right thing.

  Chapter 20

  After

  It is night, and I am with Rafael. He traces the outline of my spine with his fingers and whispers things to me in Spanish that I only half-understand. I luxuriate in the pleasure of the moment, in feeling and not thinking. Too soon, it will be morning again and we will be forced to face our demons.

  Suddenly, Rafael changes his tone, the anguish apparent in his voice as he begins to speak of his father.

  “He was a wonderful man, Catalina,” he says. He buries his head in my shoulder, and I can feel his tears, hot and wet against my skin. “You would have loved him.”

  “Shhh,” I say softly. “I understand.”

  “I know you do,” he says, fierce now. He clutches at me. “How will I bear it?”

  I blink as he looms over me. Even in the darkness, I can see the shadow of pain in his eyes.

  “I’m not the person to ask,” I say quietly. “My doctor thinks I have a mental illness.” I roll over onto my side. I wonder what Rafael and Dr. Shapiro would make of each other.

  “Mental illness.” Rafael snorts. “Because you are sad? Of course you are sad. I want to tear the world in two.”

  I picture an anguished Rafael clutching a map, ripping it to shreds. I recognize the anger and reach out to take his hand.

  “Being with you has helped me,” I say. “It’s made me feel alive again.” And it’s true. When I’m with Rafael, I can forget. The l
ove and intimacy have dulled the pain, masked it. Helped give me a reason to get up in the morning and greet the day with hope.

  “I don’t want Papa to have died in vain,” Rafael says, clenching his fists. I don’t know if he’s even heard me.

  “He died for his country,” I say half-heartedly. I know how Rafael will respond.

  “This isn’t his country,” he says bitterly. “Not anymore. And it’s not mine, either.”

  I sigh and prop myself up on my elbows. I want to help Rafael, but grief and idealism have become muddled within him. He can’t think of his father without thinking of Calantes, and vice versa. In his mind, they have become intertwined.

  “We need to do more,” he says. It’s become his mantra. “It’s time to raise the stakes.”

  “But the drugs, Rafael,” I say. “You can’t. You can’t align yourself with drug traffickers.”

  “Why is that any worse than anything else?” he asks, slamming his fist into the worn mattress. It sags at his touch, and fails to rebound entirely. “Why is it worse than oil? Your government has no problems carrying out wars over oil.”

  I stiffen. “I’ve never voted,” I say. “What the government does is hardly my fault. And I don’t necessarily agree.”

  His face softens. “Of course not. I’m sorry, Cat. I’m just frustrated. Drugs are not ideal, certainly, but there is demand. Why not capitalize on that demand? Take the money, use it for good? To help Calantes?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say. “It doesn’t feel right. Dirty money.”

  His face darkens. “It must be nice to have the privilege of turning away money,” he says coldly.

  I don’t answer. I know how it is to be so tormented by loss that you say and do things you may not mean.

  “Think of the violence, then,” I suggest calmly. I gather my hair and braid it, desperate to get it off my neck. Even at night, the heat is oppressive, and the strands I grasp at are damp with sweat. “What happened to a peaceful solution?”

  “There can be no peaceful solution,” he says firmly. “Do I want to work with the narcos? Is it my first choice? No. But how can we have peace when they execute our families? They have chosen violence.”