Cellular (5 page)
“Butâ”
“It's brave to admit it.”
I bark out a laugh. “Braveâthat's a joke.”
“You cry. You freak out. Then you go on. You take the next breath, and the next. That's brave.”
I look at her. I don't know if she's right. I do know one thing though. I don't feel ashamed anymore.
I gather her to me. I hold her delicate, strong body in my arms. I take the next breath.
I'm in the bathroom. Absentmindedly, I brush my hands through my hair. And it happens. A hank of hair comes out in my hand.
I expected this. You know it's coming. But still, it's a shock. I've got a bald patch on the side of my head. I look like a freak.
The next day another clump falls out. Then another. My head's a checkerboard. Scalp. Hair. Scalp. Hair. Scalp, scalp, hair. King me. Scalp wins.
And guess whatâit's cold without hair. That's another thing about chemo. Your thermostat goes kaput and you alternate between freezing and sweltering. I start wearing a tuque during the cold spells. When I take it off, I find hunks of hair in it.
Harjit must have told my parents that I was down in the dumps, because the next thing I know my whole familyâ Mom and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa, Nana, Maureenâcomes in for a visit. To cheer me up.
Yeah, right.
Nana flinches when she sees my head, which is now completely bald. She doesn't say anything, but I see her wipe her eyes.
Maureen is even more pregnant, a freighter sailing down the hall. My parents introduce her to Harjit, and everybody jokes that it's a good thing she's in the hospital, just in case. Hilarious.
They crowd into my room. I'm on the bed, my parents and Maureen are on chairs on one side, my grandparents on the other. I feel like a freak on display. Ladies and gentlemen, the bald cancer patient. Observe how he pulls his sweatshirt on and off as his temperature fluctuates.
Right now I'm having a hot spell, so my head is bare.
“The bald look suits you, Bren,”
Maureen says. “You could go for a shaved head even after you get your hair back.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You know, you're right, Maureen,”
Grandpa says. “Brendan has a very nicely shaped head.”
“At least you'll get yours back,” my dad says, running a hand over his bald spot. “I don't have any hope of that.”
Everybody gives a forced laugh.
There's a silence.
“Soâ¦how do you feel, honey?”
Grandma says.
How do I answer that? Tell the truth or lie? “Like crap.”
“Oh, Brendan,” my mom says in a distressed tone.
“Well, I do. I'm wiped all the time, I get headaches, and my taste buds are wonky, so food tastes gross.” I hear myself complaining and hate the whine in my voice. But they asked.
“That must mean the chemo is working,” my mom says brightly.
I roll my eyes and snort.
There's another silence.
I wish they'd leave. I know it's terrible of me, I know they came a long way and took a lot of trouble and all that, but I don't want to be with them. I just want to be with Lark. She doesn't look at me with eyes full of worry. She doesn't lie to me. She's the only one who knows what I'm going through. She speaks my language, thinks my thoughts.
“Well, I think you look good, Bren,” Maureen says.
“Doesn't he?” Grandpa says, nodding.
This is such a lie that I almost laugh out loud. I've lost about ten pounds, I have no color and I'm bald. “Bull,”
I say.
“Brendan!” Grandma scolds. She exchanges a look with Grandpa. Such language. Blasphemy.
“No, I mean it,” Maureen says. “You look pretty healthy. I'm sure you're going to pull through this just fine.”
“Oh yeah?” I say loudly. “Just how do you know that? Are you the great expert or something?”
Maureen looks like she's been slapped.
“That was uncalled for, Brendan,” my mom says, taking Maureen's hand. “Especially after your sister flew all this way to see you.”
“And she was just trying to be positive,” my dad puts in. “That's what you've got to do, Bren. Keep a positive attitude.”
“Okay, sure,” I snap. “You try it.”
I start feeling cold and jam the tuque back on my head.
My mom jumps up. “Are you cold, honey? Want to get under the covers?”
“No, I'm fine. Isn't that what you just said?”
“Oh, Bren,” my mom says, sitting back down, “it's no good being so negative. You've got to keep your spirits up. It's so important.”
“Yes!” Nana says excitedly. “I read this book about people getting better from serious illnesses. You know, like being terminal and suddenly being cured?”
“It's the hand of the Lord,” Grandma says.
I roll my eyes.
“I don't know about the Lord,” Nana says, “but the thing they all had in common was a positive attitude. They
believed
they were going to get betterâ and they did. I'm telling you, Brendan, that's the ticket.”
I feel betrayed. Grandma and Grandpa spouting this crap I can accept.
I mean, it drives me crazy, but I expect it from them. But Nana? Wisecracking, sarcastic, foul-mouthed Nana? How can she buy this stuff? And how can she lay it on me?
“That is the stupidest thing I ever heard, and if you guys believe it, you're idiots,” I yell.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel terrible.
“Brendan!” my mom says.
They all stare at me like I'm some kind of monster. Looking hurt, they leave.
Just after the door closes behind my family, I hear a tap.
“Lark!” I grin, happy to see her.
She doesn't grin back.
“What? What's the matter? Are you okay?” I ask, alarmed.
“I heard,” she says, fixing those big eyes on me.
“Heard what?”
“You. And your family.”
I flush. “They drive me crazy.”
She doesn't answer.
“Well, they do,” I say irritably. “I can't stand it.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You don't have to. I can tell you think I'm an asshole.”
She gives a sly smile. “Your words.”
“Who are you to judge?” I snap. “Your parents are cool. They don't⦠hover. You don't have to deal with that crap.”
“I'm not judging,” she says calmly.
“Well, it sure looks like it.”
“Brendan, how you treat people is up to you.”
“Yeah, it is! So why don't you just butt out?”
She leaves.
I spend the next day telling myself I don't care what she thinks. That it's none of her goddamn business. That she can take her self-righteous attitude and shove it.
There's only one problem. She's right. I
was
an asshole. I know my family loves me and are scared and don't know what to say. I know they can't help it. I know Nana was only trying to give me hope.
And there's another problem. I miss Lark. I'm miserable without her.
I hold out one whole day and night. The next morning I knock on her door.
“Brendan!” She looks delighted to see me.
Maybe she's forgotten all about it, I think. Maybe I don't have to apologize.
Thenâdamn. I know I do.
“I just came to sayâ¦,” I begin, not looking at her, “â¦thatâ¦oh, hell, you were rightâ¦and I'm going to try to be nicerâ¦and I'm sorry for being a jerk.”
I take a breath. “There.”
There's a silence. I look up.
“You don't have to apologize to me, Brendan.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Okay. Accepted. But it's not about me. It's about you. About how you want to live, with whatever time you've got. That's all.”
I don't know what she's talking about. I don't care. I cross the room. Take her hands. “Friends?”
She beams. “Friends.”
I heave a sigh.
“So, what should we do?” I say.
“I don't know. Watch a movie?”
“Nah. Ummâ¦play cards?”
She shakes her head. We think. Then Lark brightens. “I know. How's your stomach?”
“Not too bad.”
“Good. Come with me.”
Pushing her iv stand, she leads me to the patient lounge. The fridge is stocked with Jell-O and juice and stuffâfoods that are easy for chemo patients to tolerate.
Lark takes out several different flavors of pudding. “Let's have a taste test,” she says.
“Okay. What do I have to do?”
“Nothing. We just taste different flavors and see what we like.”
“Cool.” I grab a cup of chocolate, rip off the top and start shoveling it in, but Lark says, “No. Slow down. Really taste it.”
So I do. Take a spoonful and hold it in my mouth. Pay attention.
At first all I can taste is the gross, metallic taste I have in my mouth all the time. But then my taste buds start working, and the chocolate starts coming through. It's creamy and dark and rich. A little nutty. A little bitter.
A little sweet.
I don't think I've ever tasted chocolate like this, really tasted it. It's like being stoned, only without the drugs.
I grin at Lark. “It's fantastic.”
She feeds me a taste of vanilla. I close my eyes and taste the utter creaminess of it. The sweet, smooth milkiness of it.
I try butterscotch. It's caramely. Sweet. Almost burned-tasting. I'm trying to find the words. Then it comes to me. “It tastes like Billie Holiday's voice.”
Lark stares at me. Tears come into her eyes. She leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
I don't know what I did to deserve that, but whatever it was, I'm glad I did it.
We go back to Lark's room. She takes out her iPod. “Want to hear my favorite blues song in the whole world?”
I nod. We sit side by side on her bed. She gives me an earbud and puts the other in her own ear. A guitar plays a funky intro. A deep, gravelly voice starts singing,
“I got a little red rooster
too lazy to crow for day⦔
The beat is slow. The voice is like scratchy sandpaper. A guitar string twangs on a bent note.
“Keeps all the hens in the barnyard
upset in every way⦔
I've never really listened to the blues, but all of a sudden I get it. I get the darkness, the minor key. I feel the beat in my blood.
I look at Lark. She smiles. I smile back.
Lark stands up, tucking the iPod in her waistband. She holds out her hands.
I stand. Hands clasped, we sway from side to side, nodding our heads in time.
“If you see my little red rooster,
please drive him home⦔
I slip my arms around her. She nestles against me. I feel the hump of her catheter, her bony chest. I close my eyes. Her hair smells like peppermint. We sway, barely moving.
I give myself over to the music. To the voice. I don't think I've ever listened so hard. Heard so clearly. Felt another person's body so closely. This isn't about sex, about scoring with a girl.
It's about listening. Dancing. Holding. Right here. Right now.
It's all I need.
Red blood cells live for 120 days. The living ones don't get killed by the chemo, but no new ones grow either. So I'm anemic again. I need more blood transfusions.
See what fascinating scientific information you learn when you have leukemia?
I'm lying around one day, feeling zapped, waiting for the transfusion to give me some energy back, when I hear a commotion in the hall. Loud voices. Heavy footsteps. Laughter.
Harjit knocks on the door. “You up for visitors?”
I nod. Next minute, my basketball team piles into my room. The whole squad, plus Coach. They squeeze around the bed, jostling, telling each other to shove over.
“Watch it,” Seth says as Petrowski elbows him aside, “you're pushing me out the window.”
“That's the idea,” Petrowski says, and everybody laughs.
Then they fall silent when they see my bald head. Their eyes flick everywhere but me.
My dad must have told Coach I was bald, because they bring me a baseball cap emblazoned with the school mascot, the eagle, and my name spelled out in felt letters.
I thank them and put on the cap. Everybody says it looks great. Silence falls again.
They tell me how they've beaten every team in the regionals and are off to the finals next weekend.
“That's great,” I say. “Good luck.”
Nobody says anything for a minute.
I see Coach nudge Petrowski. Looking embarrassed, Petrowski steps forward. He takes something from behind his back. It's a wooden plaque.
“Weâ¦uhâ¦since we won the regionalsâ¦weâ¦uhâ¦I mean, they gave us this⦔
“Way to go, Petrowski, you smooth talker,” Seth teases.
There's laughter. Petrowski blushes. He thrusts the plaque into my hands. “It's for you.”
MOUNTAINVIEW SECONDARY
SCHOOLâREGIONAL CHAMPIONS
, it says in fancy letters.
I look up. All their eyes are on me. “Uhâ¦thanks, guys.” They continue to stare at me, as if waiting for me to say more. I can't think of anything else to say. It's not like I don't appreciate it. I do. It's a really nice gesture. It's just that I've just realized that I've hardly thought about basketball, the finals, the competition lately. They all seem far away from me now. I've got bigger things to worry about. Every day is an obstacle to get through. Every day is a victory.
Finally everybody leaves but Kesh. He starts telling me about the game last week against Eastside, our biggest rival. Normally I'd be hanging on every word. I'm only half paying attention.
“â¦and Coach said it was our best defensive game of the year⦔
It takes me a minute to realize he's stopped. “What?”
