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“You think?” A single line of worry formed between Nina’s
brows.

“Did the happy pill wear off already?”

Nina sighed. “No, but…okay, I’ll just say it and get it out of
me. The idea of shopping for a scarf to hide my bald head is depressing.”

Sonnet caught her breath. “Oh, God.
Mom
.”

“I know, it’s vain and it’s the last thing I should worry
about—”

“That’s not true. I don’t blame you one bit and nobody else
would, either.” She tried to picture her mother, bald as a just-hatched bird,
but simply couldn’t get the picture to form in her mind. Nina had wavy dark hair
that perfectly complemented her olive-toned skin. She’d been growing it long the
past few years, which made her look young; she still got carded in bars. Her
hair—any woman’s hair—was part of her identity. Losing it to the chemo was going
to be traumatic.

“Just know it’s part of the process, okay?” Sonnet said.

“You’re right. Thanks for the reminder.”

“And I think you should get this one
and
the earrings. Because with or without hair, you would totally
rock that scarf.”

The worried frown eased a bit. “All right. But you have to buy
something too. If you don’t get that jacket and those boots, you’re not the
daughter I raised.”

* * *

The days fell into a routine of sorts, although with a
group of kids and a hip-hop star who had a mouth like a longshoreman when
provoked, the routine was anything but predictable. Some of the filmed
sequences, when edited, would have more bleeps than dialogue in them. Yet to
Sonnet’s surprise, the production was beginning to feel like more than a job to
her, like more than a way to pass the time while she was in Avalon. Yes, there
was a lot of waiting around, a lot of conferring and planning, but her favorite
moments were exactly what made an unscripted show so weirdly compelling.

The youngsters revealed themselves bit by bit, often without
meaning to. She learned that Darnell dreamed of taking piano lessons, and Anita
had the ability to read a whole chapter book in a couple of hours. Jaden had a
knack for dreaming up crazy inventions involving ropes and pulleys. The twins
sometimes communicated with made-up words and gestures only they could
understand. Each child had gifts and flaws and quirks—sometimes endearing,
sometimes annoying, always compelling.

On a soft, misty morning, they gathered in the dining hall to
talk about the day’s theme and activities. Today’s theme was “facing our
fears.”

“Why we got to face our fears?” asked Andre, never shy about
speaking his mind.

“So people don’t call you a wuss,” Darnell pointed out.

“S’pose I don’t care if somebody call me a wuss?” asked
Andre.

“What’re you afraid of, anyway?” Jezebel asked him. “Be
honest.”

“Nothin,’” the boy said. “Except stuff everybody’s scared of,
like snakes and bad guys.”

“I used to get stage fright real bad,” Jezebel said.

That got the kids’ attention. “You?” asked one of the girls.
“You told us you been performing since you were a kid.”

“I have been. Was in the church choir, and the director wanted
me to sing a solo. And I wanted to, in the worst way. But I was scared. And the
director told me if I ever wanted to lift my voice up for the Lord, I’d have to
start by lifting it up for the people in the church. I told him I didn’t know
about the Lord, but I wanted the whole world to hear me.”

“So did you sing the solo?” Quincy demanded.

“Yeah, I did. I almost peed my pants before the performance,
but I did it. Again and again, until I wasn’t scared anymore.”

“You still sing in church?” he wanted to know.

She shook her head. “I still like gospel music, but my audience
has changed.”

“My momma doesn’t let me listen to your music.”

“My music isn’t for kids, that’s why. You should listen to your
momma,” Jezebel said.

“That what we’re gonna do today?” asked Rhonda, one of the
twins. “Sing for people?”

“Maybe later. Is singing for people something that scares
you?”

“Heck, no,” said Shawna, the other twin. “It scares other
people.”

“Nice.” Jezebel offered her a high five. “Let’s go around and
say something that’s scary.”

“Crocodiles!” “Math tests.” “Clowns.” “Bridges that hang over
deep, deep canyons.” “Goosebumps books.” “Worms.”

“Worms?” Andre snorted at Rhonda’s contribution. “How can
anybody be afraid of worms?”

“They’re slimy and you don’t know which end is which.”

“Then don’t touch them. Don’t look at them. You think they’re
gonna chase you down or something?”

A squabble erupted, and it was allowed to go on for a bit while
the cameras rolled. Jezebel grabbed Andre by the back of the collar and pulled
him out of the fray. “Is this an elimination-type show? Because if it is, I know
some kids who’re gonna get sent home.”

“Nuh-uh. You can’t send nobody home.”

“Quit picking fights, or I’ll change the rules.”

“But come on. Worms?”

“Look, y’all,” Jezebel said, “a fear is a fear. It doesn’t have
to make sense.”

Sonnet grinned, wishing she could laugh aloud. “How about you?”
she whispered to Zach, who was directing the sequence rather than filming today.
“What are you afraid of?”

“Personal questions,” he whispered back.

The kids were debating the comparative horrors of spiders
versus salamanders, but all agreed a trip to the principal’s office trumped them
all.

During a break in the filming, Zach said, “You’re enjoying
this, aren’t you?”

“I’m falling in love with these kids. They remind me of how
much I liked working with children. And how much I miss it.”

“Then why’d you quit?”

“I didn’t quit. I moved on to an agency directorship. It’s a
way to help thousands of children, not just a few.” So she’d told herself. She’d
spent the entire past year rationalizing her career path, each time she got
stuck in a meeting, or encountered some kind of frustrating bureaucratic
situation. Her father had taught her that leadership was the way to change the
world, and she clung to that advice.

Cold logic didn’t keep her from missing what she really liked
to do, though.

She shot Zach a resentful look, but he was already busy with
something else. It was just as well that the conversation had been abandoned. He
tended to ask her hard questions, the kind she didn’t have the answers to.

* * *

A short time later, they were filming at a zip line that
stretched from the top of Meerskill Falls, a cataract that thundered down a
gorge, ending in the lake. Some of the kids were only too happy to leap into the
adventure, screaming with laughter and exhilaration as they rode the cable down
to the water’s edge.

For all his brash talk, Andre refused to budge from the
platform above the falls. Everyone else—including Jezebel herself—had gone, but
Andre had managed to hang back until a crew member noticed him at the bottom of
the ladder to mounting platform, being uncharacteristically quiet. They managed
to cajole him up to the platform, but he refused to take a step farther.

“We need the kid whisperer,” said one of the cameramen.

That was the nickname they’d given Sonnet, because she’d proven
to be remarkably persuasive when it came to getting the kids to cooperate on
set.

Time was wasting, and she didn’t have the luxury of a lengthy
shrink session. Much as she hated to be on camera, she moved in close to Andre,
went down on one knee and looked him in the eye.

“Tell you what,” she said to the shaking boy. “Let’s go
together. You and me. What do you say?”

“What good’s that gonna do? Then we’ll both die.”

“Nobody’s going to die. You saw everybody take a turn and they
loved it. Come on, I’m scared, too, but I still want to do it.”

“You’re not scared. I heard you telling Salt over there that
you couldn’t wait to take a turn.”

“Salt?”

“That’s what we call him.” Andre jerked a thumb in Zach’s
direction. “’Cause the two of you are salt and pepper.”

She felt her cheeks heat up. She didn’t want to be pepper to
Zach’s salt. “Never mind that. Let’s do this thing.”

“Tell me what you’re scared of,” Andre said. “Then maybe I’ll
think about it.”

“I’m…well, there are lots of things that scare me,” she
admitted.

“That’s not an answer. Tell me one thing, just one thing you’re
afraid of.”

“Riding horseback. And I’m sorry to say, that activity is on
the agenda this afternoon.”

“You ain’t acting scared,” Andre said.

“Just because I’m not acting that way doesn’t mean I’m not
scared.”

“You gotta tell me something real.”

“Okay, get into your harness and helmet, and I’ll tell you
something real.” She had no idea what she was going to say, but she was not
going to feed the kid a line of bull. Like all children, Andre had a highly
sensitive bullshit meter, and he was sure to call her on it.

He negotiated a little further, demanding a milk shake as a
reward for bravery.

“You got it,” she promised. “With whipped cream and a cherry on
top.”

Boys were so simple. You could buy their cooperation with so
little. It was only when they turned into grown men that they became
complicated.

While she and Andre geared up with the help of the crew, she
tried to think about what to tell him. The thing about kids was that they could
spot a phony a mile away. Andre was not going to relent until she leveled with
him and confessed a real fear. There were so many to choose from, it was
ridiculous. Yet she’d always been pretty good at dealing with her fears. She was
rational in the extreme, and could usually simply explain them away.

Once they were both in their harnesses, she felt a shot of
exhilaration. The perspective was amazing, the slender cable arcing gracefully
down the gorge, topping the trees that sloped down to the lake. The morning mist
swirled on the water, adding a hint of magic to the scene.

“It’s going to be great, Andre,” she said. “You’re going to
love it.”

“Okay, so now you have to tell me what scares you.”

She bridled at his tone. “Andre, I really don’t appreciate
being quizzed by you.”

“You said you’d tell me. You promised.”

“But—”

“You promised!”

“I’m afraid of lots of things.”

“Then just tell me one. Just one.”

“Fine,” she retorted, the words coming out ahead of her common
sense. “I’m afraid of what my mother’s going to look like when she loses all her
hair to chemo.” The pain in her voice seemed to echo through the empty
woods.

Everyone went still for a moment, although she was certain the
camera kept rolling. Even Andre stopped struggling. Young as he was, he seemed
to understand how deeply personal the matter was, how painful to reveal.
Sonnet’s own pounding heart told her that it wasn’t really her mom’s imminent
baldness that frightened her, per se. Hair would grow back. What she truly
feared was that the chemo wasn’t working.

“Happy now?” she said to Andre, and stepped off the
platform.

Chapter Thirteen

The night before her mother’s mastectomy, Sonnet barely
slept. In the window seat of her room, with its view of the darkened grounds of
the Inn at Willow Lake, she sat in the predawn light and battled a worry so
acute it struck her like nausea. The sheer, wafting curtains smelled of fresh
air and lavender, and the sound of crickets filled the air.

She felt a million miles away from her old life in the city.
The goals she’d once pursued so relentlessly seemed far away, too, mattering so
little now.

She tried to soothe herself with the reminder that so far, the
treatment program was going according to plan. The initial chemo treatments Nina
had undergone would make surgery easier to perform. They’d met with the surgeon
twice, and he was reassuringly confident of a positive outcome. And if that
wasn’t enough, Orlando had made good on his promise to involve his aunt, a
highly regarded oncologist with the Krokower Clinic in the city. Dr. Rivera had
familiarized herself with the case, going over the physical examinations, breast
ultrasound, core biopsy, CT scan and MRI. She had done several phone
consultations with Nina’s team.

Orlando’s aunt had advocated a combination of very new “smart
drugs” that would be filtered by the placental wall, keeping the baby safe.
She’d even taken the time to speak with Sonnet personally, and her confident
professionalism was reassuring to hear. Still, Sonnet worried. People suffered
from cancer. They
died
.

Restless, she paced over to her laptop and checked her email.
There was nothing new since the last time she’d checked. She sighed and leaned
back, cautioning herself not to go trolling the internet for information about
breast cancer. There was too much out there. She’d catch herself reading a blog
by some kindly woman documenting her breast cancer “journey,” only to see the
blog abruptly end, leaving her hanging. Had the woman survived? Or had the
narrative ended because she hadn’t made it?

A chat window popped onto the screen.
What are you doing up?
Orlando typed.

She smiled, surprised to see the message.
Worrying about my mom’s surgery. What are YOU doing
up?

Thinking about you. I knew you’d be worried. Hang in there.

That’s nice. Thanks, Orlando.

Give her my best. And get some sleep. You’re not going to be much
help if you’re exhausted.

OK
, she typed.
I’ll try.

Call me later.

OK. Orlando—

The chat window informed her the user orivera47 was
unavailable. Like a computer-generated image, he’d disappeared into the digital
ether. But the fact that he’d checked in with her made her feel a little less
alone.

She tried to take his advice, getting back into bed and doing
the breathing exercises she’d been working on with her mom. Sleep was far away,
though, held at bay by the persistent worry of all that could go wrong. Her mom,
her beautiful mom, was about to have one of her breasts cut off.

Sonnet shut her eyes and sent out a wordless, fervent little
prayer that all would go well.

* * *

Gathering her things for the trip to the hospital, Nina
felt like a warrior girding for battle. She knew a struggle was imminent, she
knew she would come home wounded and that there would be pain, but she was
ready. Even with an empty stomach and her head buzzing with fear, she made
herself put one foot in front of the other.

Sonnet and Greg were waiting in the car. Nina stood in the
foyer of the house where she’d lived since her marriage to Greg. Last night in
front of the camera Zach had installed on her computer, she had spoken of her
fears and her determination.

Then, on impulse, she had peeled off her shirt and bra, taking
the last pictures of her intact breasts. It was the last time her body would
look this way, unmarked, as nature had made her. Soon, her hair would be gone as
well, and she would look as strange to herself as an alien from another
planet.

She’d broken down then, wept and raged while her husband and
daughter slumbered, and then pulled herself together. Then she had shut off the
camera and saved the file. She would not be giving that sequence to Zach for
editing. She might never look at it again. But she felt compelled to keep it,
the way she’d kept her seventh-grade diary and the love notes she’d sent to
Shane Gilmore when she was fourteen. It was a private part of her, something she
would keep…at least until she didn’t need it anymore.

Now she turned back and looked at the furnishings they’d picked
out together, the lace curtains wafting in the breeze, the frieze of family
pictures in the hallway. She saw all the smiling faces of the people she loved,
so many of them. The sight gave her strength. This was her home, a place of joy
and safety, and she was determined to come back and get better.

Her hand came up and touched her right breast. Not all of her
would be coming back. It was hard to think about how radically different her
body would look, but she reminded herself that the breast was diseased; it had
to be excised to save her life. There was nothing more precious, not a body
part, not vanity, but life, and those she held dear. “We’re going to be okay,”
she said to the little stranger inside her. She refused to think about the
alternative.

Sonnet and Greg were chatty as they drove, but Nina couldn’t
focus on their words. She wore a small smile, listening to their nervous chatter
but not really hearing what they said.

In the first waiting room, they stuck to her like glue. She
paged through a magazine, browsing through recipes for braised chicken and
frosted cupcakes. Every time she glanced up at Greg, he was watching her, his
expression both earnest and helpless. Sonnet, too, wore that face, desperate to
help, but there wasn’t anything they could give her, not a glass of water, a
cookie, a word of encouragement that hadn’t already been said.

“I don’t need anything more,” she told them softly. “You two
have already given me everything I need.”

Greg took her hand. Sonnet said, “Oh, Mom. You’ve been through
everything with me. I wish I could give you even a fraction of what you’ve given
me.”

Nina’s heart swelled. Yes, she was afraid, but the love she
felt from her daughter and husband wrapped around her like a cloak. She felt
worse for them than she did for herself, knowing that soon she’d be unconscious
while they worried and waited.

Time dragged, and then sped up when a nurse came to take her
into the next room. “Patients only,” the nurse said, holding the door for Nina.
She paused and turned back with a smile and a wave. Then the door hissed shut
behind her.

She took a few steps into the next waiting room. Then a flash
of panic shot through her. “I forgot to kiss them goodbye,” she whispered. Oh,
God. What if something went wrong? What if she never saw them again?

“You’ll be with them soon,” the nurse assured her.

Nina caught the unspoken message—don’t add to the drama with a
long, panicked goodbye. She nodded and took a seat in an oversized lounge chair.
There were four other women having either a mastectomy or a lumpectomy that day.
The wait dragged on, there in that windowless room, with only a few tattered
magazines and a droning television for company. After a while, Nina was taken to
change her clothes for a robe and thick compression socks. Her breast and
underarm were marked with a black marker to specify the surgery site and what
had to be done. She regarded the proceedings with a curious detachment, until
the anaesthesiologist came in to talk to each patient. Then the fear rolled back
in like a wave.

One by one, each woman went into surgery, like virgins to
sacrifice, solemn and silently fearful. Then only Nina remained. When her turn
came up, she paused for a moment, frozen by the knowledge that her body was
about to be forever transformed. She was losing her breast willingly, but it was
still a loss to be acknowledged. She smoothed her hand over herself, silently
sending a message of gratitude that she’d nursed her baby daughter with it
twenty-eight years ago.

Now she was impatient to get it done. She paced back and forth,
restless as a caged animal, hunger gnawing inside her, as she hadn’t eaten a
bite since the night before. Finally a nurse escorted her to the pre-op room. By
now she was used to the procedure—the high gurney, the IVs, the monitors. A
chill hummed in the air, and even the thick blanket they gave her failed to keep
the shivers at bay. One of the nurses held her hand and they chatted. Nina knew
she wouldn’t remember anything they talked about.

In the operating room, which was even colder, she was lifted
onto the table. Someone told her she’d be feeling very sleepy.

“Nothing’s happening,” she murmured, feeling a resurgence of
panic. There were things she had left undone. There were things she’d forgotten
to say to people. She hadn’t thanked her parents for loving and supporting her.
She’d forgotten to kiss Greg one last time. She should have reassured Sonnet
more, told her how proud she was of her and how much she loved her. She should
have put that all on the video in her last session with Zach, but she’d
neglected to do that. If something happened and she never woke up, would her
family know how very much she loved them, how very sorry she was that she had to
go?

* * *

Sonnet thought she was prepared for the sight of her
mother shortly after the surgery. Even so, the gray tone of her skin, the tubes
and drips, the streaks of amber disinfectant and the slack exhaustion in Nina’s
eyes shocked her. There was a drain leading down to a clear pouch of blood on
the floor.

Greg seemed wrung out by worry as he bent and gingerly placed a
kiss on Nina’s forehead.

“I don’t exactly look minty fresh, do I?” Nina asked with a
glimmer of a smile.

“Nope,” Sonnet said, “and we don’t care. How do you feel?”

“Other than starving to death, surprisingly good, I guess
thanks to this delicious cocktail of painkillers. I might be less happy when
they wear off.”

“The surgeon already spoke to us,” Greg said, “and he’ll be in
to see you soon. It’s good news.”

Her mom glanced down at her chest, the right side covered by
layers of bandaging. “It’s gone.”

“Yes,” said Greg, “and that’s the good news. I wrote it
down—complete surgical excision and negative axillary nodes.”

Nina seemed to go limp on the pillow. “Wow. Good riddance to
bad rubbish.”

“In other news, you get to eat,” Sonnet said. “We brought you a
milk shake—banana mango. That’s still your favorite, right?”

“I didn’t know she had a favorite milk shake,” Greg said.

“When I was little, we used to get a milk shake every Friday
after Mom got off work. We ordered every flavor on the menu until we figured out
our favorites.”

Nina sipped from the straw. “That’s delicious. I thought I was
going to pass out from hunger before the surgery.”

Sonnet’s phone vibrated with an incoming text message.
“Orlando,” she said. “He wants to know how you’re doing.”

“Better now,” Nina said.

“I owe Orlando a big thank you,” Sonnet said. “It was nice of
him, right? Bringing in his aunt for a consult?”

“Very nice, Sonnet. He’s very…nice.”

“Why do I get the feeling ‘nice’ is a code word for something
you’re not saying?”

“Maybe because there’s something she’s not saying,” Greg
suggested.

Nina sipped her milk shake. “Okay, I’ll just say it. I wish I
sensed more passion in this relationship, Sonnet. The two of you seem so…nice
together. I want so much for you, and know you have to find it on your own. I
want you to love him, if that’s what will make you happy. I want you to be in
love with him, head over heels, and I want that love to make you so happy you
might just burst.”

“Whoa. Those are some drugs you’re on,” said Greg.

“Maybe I am that happy,” Sonnet said. How could she not be?
Orlando really was everything her father had told her—smart, helpful,
professional. She felt guilty for wishing exactly what her mother had
voiced—that he was just a tad more romantic. Or—she might as well be honest with
herself—a lot more romantic. She reminded herself that romance was fleeting;
there were more important things than that. Orlando was the person she should be
with. In the midst of the fear and uncertainty, he was nothing but helpful.

“Are you?” her mother asked.

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I’m resting. If I rest any more, I’ll be a corpse.”

“Don’t be morbid.” Sonnet handed her a water bottle with a
straw. “Hydrate.”

* * *

There was no let-up in Nina’s battle. The chemo
treatments continued, now with the added challenge of recovering from surgery.
This was when the friends and family kicked in. Sonnet had never seen anything
like it.

People came to the house with offerings like pilgrims to
Lourdes. There were casseroles from Greg’s mother Jane and a tagine from his
brother, Philip, who had just taken a class in Moroccan cooking. Jenny Majesky
McKnight, the owner of Sky River Bakery, arrived with her signature Irish Cream
Cake and a new indulgence, Pavlova with fresh fruit. Olivia Bellamy Davis,
manager of Camp Kioga, took time every other day to do a power walk with Nina,
and worked through the recommended range-of-motion exercises to help with the
healing.

But the irony was, with all the outpouring of generosity from
friends and family, Nina got sicker.

In a silent state of terror, Sonnet found herself staying up
late at night browsing the web for information, and nagging the medical team by
phone for ways to make things better.

The biggest issue was that Nina couldn’t stand to eat,
particularly right after chemo. Sonnet tried not to fret, but it was impossible
to watch her mother pick at her food, or stare out the window, her brain fuzzy
from fatigue and the poisonous cocktail of drugs.