Choose Me (42 page)

“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.’”
The words were coming back to me as a matter of course as if they were something I said every day. And then before I could
get to the end, my voice broke and tears were blinding me.

“Stop!” I cried out, straightening up quickly and covering my eyes with the heels of my hands. Incensed and embarrassed, I
pressed down with all my might until I could see the colors of the rainbow in geometric designs behind my lids, trying to
force the tears back from wherever they came. But they seeped around the edges, forcing me to acknowledge their existence.

More than anything I wanted to curse him, but what came out of my mouth was the complete opposite. “God!” I dropped down to
my knees, still shielding my eyes, trying to keep my emotions intact and hidden inside.

At that moment I began to see things clearly for the first time in my life, past the black and white, past the shades of gray.
For almost twenty years I had stayed away, determined to prove that the seventeen years he had been my father had meant nothing
after learning about his other family, determined to believe that it didn’t matter whether I ever forgave him. I had awakened
that morning with no intention of coming to the cemetery. And yet, here I was. The only explanation was one word: God. God
had led me to this place on this day.

As my body shook silently with years of pent-up lamentation, I uttered the words I had pushed deep within me years ago, the
words my father, my true Father, had been waiting to hear: “I forgive you.”

Things were different the second time. It was hard enough recovering from the orchiectomy, but then during my second cycle
of chemotherapy, the unexpected happened. I began to lose my hair, which had survived the first time. The first time, I had
attributed its endurance to my strong, resilient African roots. This time around, one day while greasing my scalp, I noticed
that as I parted my hair, knotted coils began to fall out easily. A couple of days later, a simple touch yielded more strands.
I didn’t care so much at first because I had plenty of hair to spare, but it physically hurt. It was as if every single hair
were attached by a needle into my scalp, and any touch, any contact like laying on the pillow, felt like the needles were
pricking my head. The pain convinced me that my hair was connected to the rest of me like a limb; once it was gone, it would
never come back. If it couldn’t survive, how could I?

By the second weekend, I was able to pull whole locks with a simple tug, leaving sporadic patches on my head like a really
bad haircut. Dr. Desai said it was a good sign, proof that the drugs were killing the cancer. Looking in the mirror was agony.
When I brushed my teeth, I kept the medicine cabinet open. Dr. Desai gently suggested I shave my head. I refused.

Every few days, my mother experimented with different kinds of oils: olive, coconut, and carrot, which she massaged into my
scalp twice a day. Nothing worked. I started wearing a bandana. Luciano brought me a beret, which I wore on top of the bandana,
making me look rather cool, like some throwback revolutionary.

Despite this, there were days when I felt like I was actually getting better, overcoming the side effects, winning the battle.
As my strength returned and my frame of mind improved, I began to take longer walks, e-mail friends and coworkers, and work
on my screenplay. I began incorporating my illness into the screenplay, which kept my mind off the cancer. It was as if by
transferring the illness to the protagonist in my future film, I was purging the poison from me.

There were even moments that stretched into hours that stretched into days when I forgot I had cancer—as long as I didn’t
look in any mirrors. My hair loss was a constant reminder that the cancer was real. And it wasn’t a vanity issue, rather my
hair had been an act of resistance, one of those never-ending battles with my father who felt that anything longer than a
military cut was anti-and counter-everything he stood for. My father had always worn his patriotism like a medal. He hated
people who celebrated the Fourth and Memorial Day with barbecues and picnics without giving a thought to the soldiers who
had fought and died in past wars.

I remembered seeing pictures of myself as a child with an Afro in the seventies and thinking how rebellious and free I looked.
In the eighties when my boys in high school were abusing their hair with the Jeri Curl, I began braiding mine. My father and
I fought over my braids like suburban fathers battled with their punk sons who had green-dyed Mohawks. In his last days, my
father asked me to do something for him. Anything, I answered. He asked me to cut my hair and I did. After the funeral, I
started growing it again. Dreadlocks were not only an expression of my African heritage, but a sign of nonconformity, a last
stand against my father, even if he was no longer here. So, yes, losing my hair was very traumatic.

By the end of the second course of chemo, there was no use putting it off and I decided it was time to shave my head. The
fact that baldness was in, and even considered sexy according to Derek and popular media, did little to cheer me up. Reluctantly,
I let Mama, the ex-beautician, do the honors. She did it in the kitchen, away from any mirrors, and then I washed my head
in the sink. When it was time to look at myself, the steps to the nearest mirror were the longest I ever had to take. My head
felt weightless without the excess mane, detached from my body. I was alright when Mama embraced me from behind, murmuring
gently, “It’s only hair, Love. It’ll grow back so fast.” I even held it together when Jade burst into tears as soon as she
saw me. But when Daelen announced, “Unc-Adam don’t got no hair no more,” I lost it. I went to the bathroom and cried like
a kid who was denied candy, swallowing sobs in huge gulps.

The only solace was that my eyebrows and eyelashes had so far been spared, although Luciano joked that my eyebrows could use
some thinning. The best part was that I had no razor stubble and I wouldn’t have to shave, something I had always found cumbersome.

And then just as I was getting used to my shorn head, Dr. Desai gave me the latest results of my blood tests. My tumor markers
were up and the CT scan showed that while one of the lymph nodes had only slightly diminished in size, the other one had grown
considerably. In addition, a teratoma was discovered, which, although a non-cancerous growth, had the tendency to grow and
push other organs out of the way and lead to additional cancerous growths. Surgery was strongly recommended.

“There’s no way around it, Adam. The chemo’s not shrinking the nodes,” she insisted. “You
need
the RPLND.”

Retroperitoneal lymph node dissection. I had read about the major surgery required to remove the lymph nodes, followed by
a two-week bed rest. The chemo guys referred to it as “ripped” surgery because the doctors literally slashed an eighteen-inch
incision from the sternum to below the belly button, then pushed the major organs aside in order to cut out the lymph nodes
located deep in the abdomen. The first time, my lymph nodes had been cancer-free.

The news literally knocked the air out of me. When I started breathing again, my breaths came fast and hard, labored and I
couldn’t control them. Dr. Desai kept asking me if I was alright as she searched her office for a bag. When she couldn’t find
one, she pushed my head down between my knees until I stopped hyperventilating. Her warm hand felt soothing on the back of
my neck.

“What if I don’t have the surgery?” I stupidly inquired.

“What, are you kidding me?” she asked in disbelief.

Ever since I received the news, I had taken to rubbing my torso trying to imagine what it was going to be like to have a huge
scar, to be without lymph nodes, whose purpose and existence was a mystery until now.

There was no one I could talk to about death, or rather the possibility of my dying. I certainly couldn’t talk to my mother,
who shunned all negative talk and quoted Proverbs 18:21:
“The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit.”
She truly believed in the power of positive thinking and speaking, that if I believed in my heart that I wasn’t going to
die, and spoke the words, then I wouldn’t die. Never mind Jade who cringed at the sight of a needle. And whenever I brought
up the topic with Luciano, he brushed me off, repeating, “You ain’t gonna die, man,” as if him saying so made it so.

I thought about calling Eva, but the last thing she probably wanted to do was talk about death. I could only imagine the pain
she was going through, having both her sons shot, and then losing Tony. I couldn’t even begin to imagine anything happening
to Kia or Daelen. I had wanted to pay my respects but I wasn’t sure how I fit in since I wasn’t family or a friend. In retrospect,
the sympathy card I sent seemed inadequate, but her lack of response in the past few months confirmed that she probably no
longer considered me a part of her life. I tried not to think of her at all: her skin, her lips, her touch, and especially
that last night, the night that determined the beginning of our end. In an ironic twist, now that sex wouldn’t be an issue
for me, at least for a while, I was probably the perfect guy for her.

A few weeks before, Jade told me she had run into Eva while shopping at a local department store. She told Eva I was sick
and suggested that she call me, but I never heard from her. Sometimes I thought about calling her just to hear her voice,
her laugh. I thought about lying to her, tell her I was over her, that I wasn’t mad at her, in the “I ain’t mad at you” sense
of the phrase. Since she never called, I figured she had succeeded in getting me out of her mind. I tried to do the same,
but just as I thought she was gone from my memories, the littlest details would come rushing back. Like the way she asked
for her condiments on the side whenever we went out to eat. Or the way she cocked one eyebrow when she was about to argue
or didn’t believe something. And always, there were hands, her soft, silky hands locked in defense, a reminder of her mother’s
adage that the best way to avoid trouble was to keep her hands together. All these things I thought about when I thought of
Eva.

With the surgery postponed until May, I decided to go back to work part-time. Half-days were about all I could muster, as
long as I didn’t have to do too many home visits or deal with too much stress.

As I tried to catch up on paperwork and phone calls, numerous coworkers dropped by to welcome me back, which took up most
of the morning. The first week I was back, Derek was on vacation. When he strolled past my open door the following week, he
let out a joyous shout.

“Hey, man, how’s it going?” he greeted me happily and loudly. Grinning, he came in and pumped my hand. “Why didn’t you tell
me you were coming in, you nut?”

Derek had taken over many of my cases while I was out and had kept in touch via e-mails. His support had been a godsend.

“I wanted to surprise you,” I said, getting up as he swallowed me in his running back embrace, patting my back several times.

“I see you decided to emulate your mentor,” he joked, stroking his bald head.

I laughed, touching my Kangol. “At least mine’ll grow back.” Still uncomfortable with my naked head, I kept a cap or hat on
at all times. No matter what hat I wore, however, it was impossible to ignore the drastic change.

He sat down and we talked, discussing my treatment and the pending surgery, before he brought me up-to-date on my caseload.

“How are
you?
” I asked him seriously, after we were done with business.

After contemplating my question, he answered, “I’m doing … better, what can I say? I miss her, you know. But it’s all part
of life, right?” He got up and cracked his football-player neck from side to side. “Feel like doing lunch?”

Food still held no appeal for me. “Not today. Maybe Friday?”

“Friday’s cool. Good to see you back, man.” He left only to pop his head back a few seconds later. “Oh, forgot to tell you.
Ronnie Aguire? He’s in lock-up.”

I leaned back in my chair in frustration. “Aw, man, when did that happen?”

“Yesterday. He got mad at his boss and threw one of those fryer baskets at him. You know the ones they use to fry French fries?
Luckily, he hadn’t put it in the grease yet. The man wasn’t hurt but he’s pressing charges—if the boy doesn’t apologize.”

I shook my head disappointedly. Ronnie had been doing so well. According to Derek’s earlier e-mails, he had started attending
classes, working at Wendy’s, and making all of his probation visits. “Floremont or Merriville?” I asked, naming the local
and downstate juvenile detention centers.

“Floremont. I tried to talk to him when I visited last night, but he tuned me out,” Derek said, resolutely. “Maybe he’ll listen
to you. All the man wants is an apology.”

Floremont, literally translated, meant “flower mountain.” The juvenile lock-up, however, was no rose, but it was a mountain
of a building, a gloomy behemoth looming on Roosevelt Boulevard, a street that time had seemingly passed by. In an effort
to renovate the institution and keep costs down, the city had recently sandblasted it, but now the edifice looked worse, ghostlike.

Ronnie casually strolled into the visitor’s room, the permanent sneer on his face as he tried not to look surprised at my
appearance, but I had changed too much so that he couldn’t play it off.

“What happened to yo’ hair, man?” He dropped onto the chair opposite me. “Man, you skinnier than me.”

“Chemo.”

“Wha-a-a? I didn’t know you had cancer. They just said you were sick,” he drawled.

“What’s going on?” I asked, getting down to business. “You were doing so well.”

“Yo, the man insulted me in front of everybody. Called me a lazy bum. I ain’t lazy. I been bustin’ my back working O-T, he
know that.”

“You can’t go around throwing stuff at people when you get angry. All he wants is an apology.”