Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven? (7 page)

Michael

L
ily is not a pretty picture when she is throwing up. I suppose no one is, but she is especially hideous, and I know she won’t mind me saying so.

I held a pot under her head and pulled back her hair because she couldn’t make it into the bathroom. Vomit came out her nose. So much for the antiemetics.

“I can’t do this,” she moaned. “I cannot do another six months of this. It’s fucking hell.”

“I can tell you holding this pot isn’t thrilling me either, Sugarcakes.”

“Fuck you.”

In truth, I wanted her mad at me. Angry people don’t give up. Depressed people, pessimistic people, the people who always see the damn glass as half-empty—they give up. Angry people fight. They do not go quietly into this good night.

“After all we’ve been through,” I said. “We come to this. Me holding your barf bag.”

I heard her laugh, though her face was bent away from me and I couldn’t see her smile. Laughing was good. Laughing people get well. I’d read Norman Cousins’s book. Laughter really was a kind of medicine. So we had laughter and anger—I was covering both the bases.

“So,” I said casually, “did I tell you that I invited Joe over for wine and cheese?”

She turned her head from the pot and glared at me. “Wine and cheese? Wine and fucking cheese?”

I nodded.

“Wine and fucking cheese?”

“It’s called a chemo party. They’re all the rage.”

“What in that demented queer brain of yours would make you think I want Joe here smoking his smelly cigars while I am puking my guts up?”

“He promised to not smoke. And…to be honest, I didn’t think it was going to be this bad.”

She looked up at me, her face splotchy and red and her nose running, and she flipped me the bird. “What would you fucking know about chemo?”

“Only what I see in the movies. And I mean movies like
Love Story
and
Beaches.
I wasn’t talking about
The Exorcist
.”

“You’re an ass. A total ass.”

“But I’m an ass who’ll sit next to you while you vomit.
That
kind of ass is few and far between, my little pea-soup spewing devil child. Come on…we’ll get you down on the couch.”

She groaned, but she was at a lull in her vomit session, and she did climb out of bed, put on her robe and shuffle down to the couch. My plan was working. Not that it was much of a plan. I had just been reading all this holistic healing crap. Two things jumped out at me. People who have something to fight for live longer, and people who pray and are prayed for live longer, too. I knew if I told her any of this, she would say I was full of shit, so I kept it to myself but said the rosary for her every morning. And decided angry was a less passive emotion.

The doorbell rang, and I went to the foyer.

“Mikey!” Joe clapped me on the back when I opened the door. He has this heterosexual male tendency to give other men nicknames. So Michael becomes Mikey or Mikey Boy, and Noah goes by Champ. He called Lily’s last boyfriend Bob-oh.

I ushered Joe into the living room.

“Jesus H. Christ, you look like crap!” he said to Lily, who was sitting down in a large leather lounge chair that had once been Spawn’s favorite.

“One more word about my appearance, and I swear you won’t leave here with your testicles.”

“You still have your hair.”

“For about ten days. Then it all goes bye-bye.”

“Won’t have to shave your legs.”

“Gee, thanks, Joe. I’m sure that’s a big plus to chemo. As it is I only shave when I think I might be having sex. And somehow, the whole I-have-cancer thing isn’t exactly first-date material.”

“Eh,” Joe said, waving his hand. “You were never first-date material. Ever. Too opinionated. You scare men.”

She put the pot down on the floor. “I
scare
men! I
scare
men?”

“You heard me. Frighten off every guy in the tristate area.”

I went to get him a beer. My plan was working perfectly. You can’t think about giving up when you’re pissed. I came back with the beer, and she was midrant. I walked in on, “And I’ll tell you another thing, you asshole…”

Then the doorbell rang. She turned her wrath on me. “Who else did you invite, dickhead?”

“Ellie.”

“Ellie?”

“What, is there an echo?”

I went and opened the door and ushered her in. Whereas Lily scared off guys, Ellie was a magnet for lots and lots of first dates. Usually weirdos—like the guy who stole all her spoons after she took him home for the night. Not forks. Not knives. Spoons. We were stirring our coffee with pencils in her apartment for a year.

She hugged me when she came in and whispered in my ear, “I promise not to cry.”

I hugged her back and led her into the living room.

“Lily…you look great!” Ellie said and went over to the couch and leaned down and hugged her.

“God, you’re an awful liar.”

“All right. So this isn’t your best look. But remember your eighties hair? Remember leg warmers? Remember…God, the entire eighties decade was a disaster. I consider the blotchy thing a phase, like all of that. Your eyes are the window to your soul and yours are still the same beautiful blue.”

“God, all right. Hear this,” Lily laughed. “In addition to the No Crying rule, I am instituting the No Maudlin Sentiment rule. I mean, window to the soul. Come off it.”

I went to the kitchen and returned with wine, cheese and another beer for Joe.

“So when are you coming back into the office?” Joe asked. “Not that you’re in any danger of losing your column.”

“First of all, I have never seen why, in the age of e-mail, I ever have to show up at the office.”

“Face time. Everybody needs some face time.”

“I could do without seeing your face,” she snapped.

I leaned back in my chair, very self-satisfied. This was my most brilliant plan yet. The more she fought, the better off she would be.

Ellie ran a hand through her hair. She was pushing forty-five but still looked like a teen refugee from the circus with her flaming hair and “boho” clothing. “So…you want to hear about my latest boyfriend?”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Do we have to?”

“Yes. Now this guy is it. Name’s Ken. First of all, he’s the first guy in like a year that I’ve met who doesn’t live with his mother.”

“Well, sounds like a winner then,” Joe said. “You should marry him.”

“Thinking about it,” Ellie replied. She never got how sarcastic Joe was. “But…well…you know how I have this thing about rats?”

Lily nodded. In fact, Ellie had a raging, screaming full-blown phobia of rodents. Whenever they even appeared on television, like on
Survivor,
she had to be sedated. Or at least she had to change the channel.

“He has a pet rat.”

Joe shook his head. “I knew that was coming.”

“So, you know, he’s very attached to Albert. And so we’re trying to figure this all out. I mean, I’d move in with him. He has a better apartment than me. But…it’s too gross to contemplate. I even tried hypnosis to get over my fear, but I just can’t go within fifty feet of that rat.”

“Well, the last guy I dated,” Lily said, “took out a calculator to figure out how to split the bill at the restaurant.”

“Which guy was that?” Joe asked.

“The doctor.”

“A friggin’ doctor and he’s splitting the bill?” Ellie shrieked. “And I thought I had it bad.”

“I know. I’d be better off dating Michael for all the action I’m getting. And now…You think while bald I’ll meet anyone?”

“Sure. You should try a Twelve-Step program. I met a ton of men in A.A.,” Ellie said.

Joe looked at her as she had her wineglass raised. “But you’re not an alcoholic.”

“I know. But men fresh into the program? They make great dates. They’re getting all spiritual.”

“Nothing like starting off in an honest relationship,” Lily cracked.

We laughed and talked about old times. Ellie and I polished off a bottle of wine, and Joe had another beer. Lily looked tired.

“Hate to kick you out, guys, but my days of partying until dawn are over. At least tonight they are.”

Joe rose and went over to kiss the top of her head. “Hang in there, kiddo.”

Ellie stood and wrapped her fuzzy red scarf around her neck. “Best chemo party I’ve ever been to. I’ll see if Ken has a brother.”

“No, that’s okay.”

I walked Joe and Ellie to the door. “Thanks, guys,” I whispered.

Joe gave me a wink, and Ellie hugged me.

Walking back into the living room, I ducked to avoid a throw pillow Lily hurled from the couch.

“What?”

“Michael, did it ever occur to you that I might want a little privacy as I puke my guts up and stumble around in old nightgowns?”

“No. You were the woman who entered the wet T-shirt contest the time you wrote a story on spring break. You were the woman who told the doctors to hold a mirror up to…you know where so we could both see Noah being born. You used to breastfeed in a way to
invite
conflict, as if you were just
waiting
for someone to give you shit about an exposed nipple. Privacy? I don’t think so.”

“I draw the line at puke.”

“Personally, I think their visit did you a world of good. You have color in your cheeks now.”

She glared at me. “Next time you have a hangover…I’m sticking anchovies on your pillow.”

I was thrilled. Anger, I was sure, would keep her fighting.

I went to check on Noah after I settled Lily in with a movie. He was still awake and staring at the ceiling.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

“I don’t get this chemo thing.”

“What about it?”

“Mom gets sick because the chemicals make her sick.”

“Sort of. The chemicals that make her better also make her sick.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I know.”

“Cancer makes no sense. Why did God make it? It kills people.”

Damn, kids really come up with the Big Questions.

“Sure, sometimes. But you know when the Yanks are down at the bottom of the ninth?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do I tell you?”

“It ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”

“And what does that mean?”

“You told me, ‘Anything can happen.’”

“Right. So we never give up.”

“Right, Uncle Michael. Never.”

“Okay then. So…” I took a big breath. “You know how your Mom has cancer?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Well, no matter how sick she is, we can’t give up. Being sick actually means the drugs are doing what they’re supposed to.”

“Okay.” I saw his eyes go dead. Maybe I hadn’t noticed before how he steeled himself for bad news each time she went to her doctor’s appointments lately.

His eyes welled up, and he turned his little face away from me.

“It’s okay to cry, Noah. We can be scared. We can. But we have to keep praying that she gets well. And soon!” I tousled his hair, hoping to lure him out of whatever grim path he was skipping down.

“Tell me the truth. Is Mom going to die?”

“We all die someday, Noah.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

“Is she going to die
soon?
”

“I could walk out of my apartment and get hit by a bus tomorrow, Noah. We don’t know when we’re going to die. Only God knows. It’s like the great Lottery in the Sky. When it’s your number, it’s your number.”

“You always say that, too.” Noah turned back to look me in the eyes, and a tear balanced in the outer corner of his eye and finally trickled down his freckled cheeks.

“Uncle Michael?” he whispered.

“Yes, Sweetie.”

“No matter what, will you be my uncle forever?”

“No matter what.”

“Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a thousand needles in your eye?”

“Wow. A thousand needles. You know how I hate pain.” I mock-shuddered. “I’m really wimpy that way.”

He giggled.

“I love you, Noah.”

“I love you, too, Uncle Michael.”

I turned out the light and went downstairs to clean up after the chemo party.

I read. I worked on my book—my editor was pushing me to finish it before March first. When I went back to check on Noah, I saw he had kicked off all the covers, and I once again pulled them up under his chin and kissed him on the forehead. The rosary beads I’d given him were in his hand. Lily told me he slept with them under his pillow.

Noah had saved me from myself seven years ago on a snowy night. I swore a thousand needles in my eye that whatever happened he would not be alone.

Sisters
by Lily Waters

I used to go to parties, in my vain and glorious twenties, and look around the room and see each woman as competition. Each woman was shorter or thinner, fatter or had bad hair—compared to me. Or they were taller and more glamorous. Maybe they dressed cheaply or wore their makeup wrong. Their eyeliner wasn’t drawn on quite right. Or they threw themselves at men and made fools of themselves. Whatever their faults, I spotted them. Whatever mine were, I obsessed over them. I was the center of my own universe. I saw all of us women in some sort of competition for men. If I walked into a room dressed sexy and felt all eyes upon me, I won. If I walked in overdressed or underdressed, or with my perm frizzed out, I lost. Maybe I am too young. I missed the bra-burning women’s rights era. Other women weren’t my sisters. They were the enemy.

Now I go to parties and feel the irony. The perm is gone. So is my hair. I’m bald. Even my eyebrows are gone. So there’s no comparing me to them anymore. If the other women in the room
have
hair, they’re beating me. But, still, now I look around, now that I have breast cancer, and I silently count to eight. I look around the room, thinking one, two, three, four…seven, eight…is she the one? A statistic of one in eight women getting breast cancer? Is she my sister? Is she going to find out that she has a lump one day and the lump is cancer and watch her world turn upside down because of this disease?

Even more ironic is that I share my life, as my readers know, with my best friend, who is a gorgeous man—but gay. Besides the fact that his culinary skills save my children from starvation, he is whom I choose to walk through this journey with. All that competition to end up sitting on the bench.

I have also chosen to walk through this journey with my readers, and so this is one of the more difficult columns I have ever had to write. For you see, the roulette wheel has spun, and number eight has come up for me. I have breast cancer.

My readers have been there for me through bad dates, and even a stalker, through bad hair days, and a husband caught cheating. And this time I expect it to be no different. But this time I am more aware that I may not survive, and that even if I do, some of my sisters will not. I do not want these sisters. I want to, in some strange way, go back in time to frizzy perms and flirtations across the room, not this. Not one in eight contracting breast cancer. Not time running out.

For every reader who wants to send me a getwell card and flowers and scarves and books, I ask that instead you donate one dollar to research. One dollar to make sure this sisterhood is ended…and I can go back to hating my competition.