Maybe it’s a blessing that treatment chased my sex drive away. It would be awful to be horny and trapped in a body that looks like Uncle Fester on a hunger strike. No one would be interested in screwing a guy like that.
You mean like you, genius.
There’s a knock at the door. Elise is on the other side, rocking back and forth on her feet.
“I’m making milkshakes. Do you want peach or raspberry?”
“Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”
She looks me up and down from bald head to bare toes. I’m swimming in a bathrobe that used to fit. She looks at me like she knows exactly what’s on my mind and opens her arms with a sad expression.
“Don’t do that,” she says with a pout in her voice. Her short arms can wrap all the way around my middle with extra left over.
“What?”
“You’re not ugly,” she scolds me.
“Who said I was?”
“You were beating yourself up. I know you were.” She taps me between the eyes like a dog. “Is this about Soc?”
“Did you steal my Tea for the Tillerman CD?”
“Maybe, possibly, probably, sort of.”
“Don’t get cocky with my things just because you make a good milkshake.”
Elise smiles and lets go of my waist. “I’ll make raspberry.” She skips away down the hall toward the kitchen, and I go for a shower. By the time I turn the water off she’s returned my CD and pressed play. The first thing I hear is a guitar riff and the end of the chorus of “Don’t Be Shy.” My sister has good timing.
*
I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like I’m not alone. This happens once or twice a week. When Mom can’t sleep she comes in here and watches me. I pretend I don’t know because then we don’t have to talk about it. It sucks knowing that I’m a high on her list of reasons why she can’t sleep. My illness took her time and her money and broke her heart many times over, and even though it’s over now, it still robs her of sleep. I just lie there and breathe deeply, letting her think that I’m asleep until I actually am. When I wake up in the morning, she’s back in her own bed, cuddled next to Dad while he sleeps off the fatigue of a night shift at the hospital.
Saturday
I feel the need to mention that the only thing my dad knows how to cook is pancakes. Honestly. I don’t mean pancakes are the only thing he cooks well, I mean pancakes are the only thing he cooks, full stop. I’ve seen him screw up boiled hotdogs. When we were kids and Mom had to go out in the evenings, we always had pancakes for dinner, unless Mom took pity on us and put leftovers aside. Dad can safely work a microwave—most days. It should also be noted that this is the same man who has a license to perform complex internal surgeries. He’s a trauma surgeon, Mom’s a freelance architect, and our house in Smiths Falls is their idea of blissful escape from the city.
Saturday mornings are Dad’s day to make breakfast. By the time I get downstairs, Eric is already on his seventh pancake. He pauses to chew every two bites. Dad’s gotten fancy today and decided to add blueberries.
“You up for a pancake?” he asks me. I shake my head and grab the yogurt out of the fridge.
After breakfast I lie on the couch in the den and wait for the nausea-inducing sugar crash. My days are just one never-ending cycle of feeling awful and waiting to feel awful, courtesy of transplant drugs and some serious painkillers. Elise has the TV on. It’s set to the morning news, but she’s not paying attention; she’s browsing for a movie to watch.
“If you put Harry Potter on again I will kill you.”
“Did I ask for your input?” Elise sewed herself a set of Hogwarts robes last year ‘for Halloween’ and says it ‘helps her concentrate’ to fiddle about with a toy wand. I’d be willing to overlook those eccentricities without teasing her if she didn’t play the movies at least twice a week, reciting every line in sync with the actors.
Eventually Elise selects a movie and fast-forwards through the previews. When she presses play a familiar, comically eerie theme song is playing. She chose Addams Family Values.
“Come here so I can strangle you.”
“You reminded me of it the other day,” she says, and flops down on the loveseat. “I haven’t seen this in forever.”
“Elise.”
“Shush.”
“I’ll sit through the Harry Potter movies with you if you just turn this crap off.”
“You used to like this movie.”
“Turn it off.”
She hums along with the theme song and snaps her fingers. “You don’t really look like Uncle Fester,” she observes. “Your head isn’t round enough.”
I get off the couch and leave the living room. It would be a much more impressive exit if I had the energy to do more than shuffle my feet across the rug.
“Jemmy?”
“I’m shredding your Snape poster.”
“You wouldn’t.” She feels secure in the family’s love for her as the baby and only daughter and maker of milkshakes. She doesn’t think I’d seriously screw with her. “You should talk to your project partner,” she says. “Be assertive, or whatever.”
That’s the last time I confide in her about school and feelings and crap.
I go into Mom’s office and plug in the shredder. I grab a bunch of scrap paper out of the recycle box and start to feed it through the blades. Elise shrieks at the sound and comes tearing out of the living room in full-blown meltdown mode.
Only Eric thinks my joke is funny.
*
I spend the rest of the morning in my room. Mom has banished Elise and I to opposite ends of the house. She’s probably clutching her stupid poster, rocking back and forth wearing wizard robes for comfort. I share DNA with that.
What she did was not cool, though. Addams Family Values is one thing, but then she had to go and call me Jemmy. I hate that name, and I hate that she had a point. Kirk’s snotty remarks wouldn’t bother me so much if I just told her off. I’ve let a girl I can’t stand get under my skin. I ought to drive over to her place right now and chew her out, just so she can stew in guilt all weekend.
So do it, tough guy.
Nah, I’m all right.
Buk buk buk b-kok!
I hate you.
I am you.
I put on real clothes and borrow the keys to Eric’s car. The phonebook helpfully provides Willa’s address. The Kirks live in the neighborhood around the hardware store.
I think through what I’ll say to her while I drive. It’s rare that anyone says something nasty about my disease right to my face. Mostly they just ostracize me and talk behind my back. I guess it’s either guilt or fear that keeps them from teasing me outright—Chris please-punch-me-in-the-face Elwood is the notable exception.
When I turn onto Willa’s street, I start to think that this might be a bad idea. When I find the house I’m tempted to drive right by, but instead I pull into the driveway and turn off the car. It’s a quiet neighborhood. The drapes on the front window are shut. I could probably leave right now and she would never know I was here.
You are such a chickenshit.
I get out of the car and make my way to the front door to ring the bell. No one answers. I know she’s home. That hunk of rusted metal she drives is parked out front. I ring the bell a few more times without an answer. Maybe she’s around back.
I look over the gate at the side of the house and find her in the backyard.
“Hey, Kirk.”
She looks over her shoulder at me. “Harper. What are you doing here?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“The latch is on the right side.” I reach over the gate and let myself in. Willa is in a middle of filling a plastic bird feeder, but she stops when I approach and looks at me expectantly. This isn’t going to work. She’s being too welcoming. If she were grouchy about me showing up unannounced on a Saturday, it would be easy to tell her off.
“What do you want to talk about?” Willa prompts me when the sile
nce stretches too long. I shrug. She closes the bag of birdseed and makes a vaguely welcoming hand gesture.
“Come inside. It’s too cold out here for chit-chat.”
We enter through the back door. The Kirk house is just a small Cape Cod, and it doesn’t look very lived in. The walls are unpainted and bare. None of the furniture matches. The only personal item I can see is a fridge magnet.
We hang our coats on the back of kitchen chairs and Willa leads the way through to a sparse living room.
“Still moving in?” I venture.
“My brother’s had the house for about three years.” Now it feels even weirder that the place is so bare. Maybe he’s one of those serial killers that keep no personal possessions.
“What about your parents?”
“They still live in St. John’s.” She gathers some homework and a book off the couch to make room for sitting. The book has an image of a sad-faced kid on the cover.
“What are you reading?”
“Have a seat.” She pats the cushion beside her. I sit and she opens her book. “Let me know when you’re ready to tell me why you’re really here.”
I almost get up and leave. This is downright embarrassing. But then I’d have to face her on Monday, and I didn’t drive all the way over here to give up and retreat like a loser. No more letting her under my skin.
I look at the cover of her book. It’s a Charles Dickens novel. “Is that for English?”
“Nope.”
“You read Dickens for fun, you dork?”
“You didn’t come over here to talk about my leisure reading.”
“For all you know.”
“Are you trying to be friendly, Harper?” she says with amusement.
“Of course not, it’s you.” Willa chuckles at that and flips the page. I just sit there and mentally kick myself. There is no good way to segue into what I came here to say to her. So, remember the other day when you compared me to Fester Addams? Yeah? Well, piss off and die. I could just come right out any say it, but then I’d look like a jerk. I came here to make her feel like one, not be one myself. I slouch down lower on the couch.
“Is this really what you do on weekends?”
“Yes. And before you try any other small talk: yes, I really did move here from Newfoundland; no, you may not borrow my car, homework, or money; black is my favorite color and the Stones feed it to the Beatles. Okay?”
Her little rant makes me snort in a most undignified way. “You like the Stones?”
“If you’re a Beatles fan, get the hell out of my house.” I chuckle while she deadpans. Willa goes back to reading her book and leaves me hanging. I’m never going to get a chance to chew her out if she keeps making me laugh.
Willa starts tapping her toe and humming the tune of “Stealing My Heart.” Hell, if this chick wasn’t so annoying she might actually be cool. I shut my eyes and tap along with her. I wonder if she likes Santana…
*
I’m awake before I realize I was ever asleep. The sun is beyond the front window now, and Willa is sitting in the easy chair across from the couch. I don’t remember lying down, but I’m on my side and covered with an afghan.
That was nice of her.
Shut up. If she were nice you wouldn’t be here.
I sit up and push back the blanket. My mouth is dry. “What time is it?”
Willa closes her book. “Time to start dinner.” She stands up and tosses Dickens aside. “Come to the kitchen. You can stall some more in there.” She walks toward the door without waiting to see if I’ll follow. I can’t leave yet, so I fold the blanket and follow her.
The Kirk kitchen is small and bare, just like the rest of the house. I take a seat in one of the dining chairs and watch Willa take ingredients for baked chicken out of the fridge. We sit in silence while she breads chicken and a headache builds at my temples.
“We don’t have any Jell-O,” she says as she slides the pan into the oven. “What else do you eat?”
“You don’t have to feed me.” I can’t accept her hospitality when I fully intend to chew her out. That’s just bad manners.
“Harper,” she says with a tone that tells me her patience is limited, “what can you eat?”
“Got any yogurt?”
“No.” She opens the fridge and studies the contents. “What about tomato soup?” Too much acid.
“No, thanks.”
“Scrambled eggs?” Don’t even mention eggs.
“No. Thanks.” Willa shuts the fridge
“Are you going to make me keep guessing?”
“I told you that you didn’t have to feed me.”
Willa fiddles with the fridge magnet. “Do you have stomach cancer?”
“I don’t have cancer.”
“What stage?”
“Did you hear me? I said I don’t have cancer.”
Willa opens the fridge and takes out carrots, peas, a jar of honey, and a carton of milk. She turns her back on me and starts peeling carrots over the sink. It bodes well for me that she’s irritated. This might be the opening I’ve been waiting for. I’m just about to say something when the phone rings. Willa answers and talks with the handset tucked under her chin, still peeling carrots. I can’t tell who it is from her half of the conversation. Willa answers the caller’s questions with yeses and no’s, with a quick ‘see you’ before hanging up.
“Here.” Willa fills a cup with tap water and hands it to me. “You’re dehydrated.” The backs of her fingers brush my cheek after she sets the cup down on the table, and I flinch away. She thinks it’s okay to touch me, does she?
“Drink.”
The water does make me feel better. I drain my cup and rest with my head and arms on the table until the pain recedes to a dull ache. When I lift my head there are two pots of boiling water on the stove. I smell vegetables.
“Do you need more water?”
“No, I’m fine.” Willa refills my cup anyway. I drink it—not that she was right, or anything.
“So listen.”
“So talk.”
“I am, if you’ll just listen and not interrupt.”
“Hey, do your parents know you’re here?”
“Quit trying to change the subject.” She begins to set up a blender. The chicken needs basting. Willa knows her way around a kitchen, I’ll give her that. Now would be a great time for some smartass remark about knowing her place as a woman.
“So Mrs. Hudson called me aside the other day,” Willa says with affected casualness. “She wanted to talk to me.”
“What about?” This bodes ill for me.
“She wanted to let me know that she’s thinking of grading us separately on our term project because you’re ‘not as active a participant.’”
“Whatever.” It’s only fair, even if it sucks.
“I told her not to.”
“Why not?”
Willa sets a strainer in the sink for the vegetables. “I’m a team player,” she answers sarcastically. She’s not going tell me the real reason.
She pities you, you idiot.
“So listen.”
“Listening.” The vegetable water splashes in the sink.
“About why I came over…” She dumps the carrots and peas into the blender.
“Yeah?”
“It’s about something you said in class.”
“What’s that?” Willa puts a big dollop of honey and a splash of milk into the blender jug with a dash of some spice I can’t identify.
“Look, it was totally not cool when you—” Willa starts the blender and cuts off the rest of my sentence. She looks over at me with Bambi-eyes and switches it off.
“What?”
“When you—” She does it again.
“Did you say something?”
“Stop being a twat, Kirk.”
“Spit it out, Harper.”
“I—” She fires up the blender again.
“I swear to God, Kirk…” She just smirks and turns the damn blender
back on. She lets it run for more than five seconds this time and takes out a soup bowl. I wonder how hard she’d struggle if I tried to strangle her…
Willa pours her orange concoction out into the bowl and sets it in front of me with a tall glass of milk and a spoon.
“I’m not hungry.” But it does smell good. The steam feels nice on my face.
“Try it.”
The soup won’t look any better coming back up. “I’d rather not.”
“You’re half a foot taller than me and we weigh about the same.”
“You don’t have cancer.”
“Apparently you don’t either.”
Damn it, I should have just said she had a fat ass or something. But she doesn’t. She has a nice ass, actually.
“Try one bite.”
So I do. I coat my spoon with a fine layer of soup and lick it, waiting for the bitterness. Good Lord, it’s good. Nothing tastes good anymore. I take a full bite. It’s still good. I forgot what hot food tastes like after all this yogurt and Jell-O.
“It can’t be throat cancer,” Willa muses aloud. “Your voice is still smooth. Not lung cancer, either—you don’t cough.”
I’m too busy enjoying my soup to tell her to shut up and stop guessing.
“You’re in the right age bracket for testicular cancer.”
“My balls are none of your business, Kirk.”
There’s the click of a key in the front door and a moment later her brother steps in. He calls out his sister’s name and she replies that she’s in the kitchen.
“The chicken will be ready in five.”
He comes into the kitchen and I stand up to say hello. I recognize his EMT uniform, and hope that he doesn’t recognize me. He looks from me to his sister with a totally readable expression: What is Cancer Boy doing in my kitchen?
“We got company for dinner?”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I hold out my hand and he shakes it like I’m made of glass.
“Frank Kirk.” He, like most other people, is uncomfortable looking at me for more than three seconds, and quickly turns away to get himself a drink. I sit back down and return to my soup.
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