Reconstructing natalie, p.16
Reconstructing Natalie, page 16
I picked up the remote and channel-surfed, quickly bypassing all the football and boxing. I’ve never gotten into football—all that running and hitting and tackling. So aggressive. But at least it’s better than boxing. Not as much noticeable blood and sweat.
There was nothing on TV I cared to watch, so I clicked off the set and picked up my worn copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe instead, happy to lose myself in the land of Narnia. I’d read that story over and over since childhood, and it never failed to carry me away.
Trouble is, it got me a little too carried away—because reading about Turkish Delight gave me a sudden craving.
An intense craving. For something sweet. But not Turkish Delight. Chocolate.
And not just any chocolate, but my favorite: brownies. Rich, triple-chocolate brownies and a nice cold glass of milk.
Taking this as a positive sign in the war on puke—my stomach didn’t clench once at the sweet thought—I bounded off the couch and began rummaging through the cupboard for some brownie mix.
Good—there was one box left.
I poured the taupe powder into a bowl; added an egg, some vegetable oil, and water; and lifted my hand mixer.
Correction. Tried to lift the mixer. That little sucker was heavy. It took both hands just to stick the beaters in the bowl. Whew.
I rested for a moment before turning it on. Then I stared transfixed as that familiar, beloved concoction of thick chocolate lava studded with tiny lumps formed beneath the whirring beaters. Removing one hand from the mixer to sneak the obligatory lick from the side of the bowl, I sucked on my chocolate-coated finger.
Rapture. And major tactical error.
The still-rotating mixer was now a two-ton anchor in my weak left hand. An anchor that needed to be dropped. Immediately.
Falling from my useless hand, the beaters-gone-wild splattered batter everywhere, and the heavy, still-whirring mixer dropped into the glass bowl, cracking the bottom and causing the fudgy mass to erupt like a volcano.
It all happened so fast I had no time to react. Afraid the monster beater might slice off one of my fingers if I tried to reach in the bowl and shut it off, I yanked the cord from the wall. Staring at the chocolate mess that had once been my clean kitchen, I slid down, sniffling, to the sticky vinyl floor.
Then the sniffling gave way to sobs. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs.
I couldn’t do this. It was just too hard.
God, I don’t know how much more I can take. Why don’t You just take me home now and put me out of my misery?
Spent and hot from crying, I wiped my nose across my sleeve, leaving a snail-trail of snot behind. I leaned over and laid my head on the cool vinyl.
And closed my eyes.
And then I was floating over what looked like my high school football field. Ugh. The stands on both sides were packed, and as I floated down closer, I recognized Jillian in her high school cheerleading outfit in front of the crowd. Then I spotted Merritt— also in a cheerleading outfit.
Now I knew I was dreaming. Merritt wouldn’t be caught dead at a football game or in a cheerleading outfit. But she was—only her uniform was tie-dyed and her hair was in purple pigtails. Constance and Johnna from group were there, too, holding pompoms, but Constance wore a silk hand-painted vest, and Johnna’s outfit looked a lot like hospital scrubs. There were a few more cheerleaders off to the far end, but I couldn’t quite make them out. Then they came into focus, and I recognized my parents— Dad in his polo shirt and plaid golf shorts, Mom in a twinset with pearls, nylons, and pumps. And Andy. And Josh. And someone else who looked suspiciously like my junior high science teacher, Mrs. Vogt.
“What are you doing here?” I started to ask. But the fans were growing impatient. They all started stomping their feet and throwing triple-chocolate brownies onto the field. The crowd grew wild as a mascot appeared on the field dressed in a lion’s outfit. But it wasn’t a mascot exactly, but the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz, all primped and coiffed like in the movie when he visited the Emerald City, with his long mane in ringlets and a bow. The lion did a double backflip, and as he tumbled past, I recognized a familiar face. Jack.
“Somebody stop him,” I was yelling. “He’s not allowed!” But Mrs. Vogt had raised a megaphone up to her mouth, and the rest of the cheerleaders formed a human pyramid behind her. She yelled to the crowd, her voice distorted from the megaphone. “Give me a C!”
“C!” They roared back, pounding their feet.
“Give me an A!”
“A!”
“Give me an N!”
“N!”
“Give me a C!”
“C!”
“Give me an E!”
Even in the dream, I saw where they were going with this, and I was yelling right along with the crowd.
“E!”
“Give me an R!”
“R!”
“What’s that spell?”
“Cancer!”
“What’s it mean?”
“Fight it!”
“Are we gonna win?”
“Yeah!”
Merritt, the top of the pyramid, somersaulted off, purple pigtails flying. And the crowd surged to its feet as the two teams ran onto the field.
But these weren’t your normal high school football teams. One side was a giant, beefy mass of Incredible Hulk clones, snarling and crushing everything in their way. The other team was a cluster of pale hairless women in hospital gowns, clutching IV poles, glugging down Ensures, and, I was startled to realize, led by yours truly! We lurched jerkily down the field as the Hulk clones advanced steadily in our direction.
All at once the Hulks morphed into a writhing mass of red octopi, their tentacles snaking toward us.
Hurry. Move. They’re gaining on us. Run. Faster. Faster.
One of the women tripped on her IV pole and was instantly engulfed by a mass of red sucking arms. Then another one went under. I fell, too, and everything went blurry. When the scene came back into focus, the football field had transformed somehow into a boxing ring. And now it was just me with one of the massive Hulks inside the ring with a sea of swirling octopi beneath our fancy footwork.
I backed into a corner, arms crossed protectively across my hospital-gowned chest, the ropes of the ring cutting into the flesh on my exposed back. The tentacles wrapped around my legs, pulling me down as the Hulk towered over me and began battering me with powerful fists. Just as I was about to go down for the count, there was a powerful roar. The Cowardly Lion mascot had pounced on the Hulk’s back.
Only now it wasn’t the Cowardly Lion anymore. It was Aslan, the lion from Narnia. The lion and the Hulk fell away from me, locked in violent combat, and I slumped against the ropes, exhausted, relieved not to be fighting but anxious about the outcome.
Because I had caught a glimpse of the lion’s bloodied face.
And I still wasn’t sure who would win.
“Aslan?”
I woke up drenched in sweat, still on the vinyl floor, to see Andy hovering over me, his brow puckered with concern.
“Are we talking C. S. Lewis?” He gave a low whistle. “Where have you been?” He helped me to a sitting position and placed my damp head on his shoulder. Then he looked around. “Looks like there was a chocolate explosion in here. Maybe two?”
I gave a weary nod. “I’m so tired of all this. I just want it to be over.”
“It will be. Soon.” He knuckled my bald head in a gentle, affectionate noogie. “You need to just take it moment by moment, one day at a time.”
I twisted my head to look up at him. “Since when did you start going to AA?”
“I didn’t, but the principles work in all situations.”
“And you’d know that exactly how?” I wrenched away from him, my voice rising. “Have you ever had cancer?”
“No.” His eyes clouded. “Look, Nattie, I know this is awful and crappy and scary.” He took a deep breath. “But the cancer isn’t just hard on you. It’s really hard on all the people who love you too.”
“Oh yeah?” I sneered. “I’m sure it’s really hard when they’re barfing their guts out. I’ll be only too happy to trade places with any one of them. Anytime.”
Andy’s eyes widened, and I lowered my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such a brat.” I lifted my head back up and batted my eyelashes at him. “The chemo made me do it.”
Then I remembered I didn’t have any eyelashes.
But Andy wasn’t looking at my eyes anyway. Instead, he’d lasered in on the side of my head.
“What?” I asked irritably.
He grinned and reached over to remove a clump of brownie batter, which he popped into his mouth.
“Yum, I don’t think I’ve ever had chocolate pate before.” He rhymed it with late. “Goose liver, yes. But not chocolate.”
I crossed my eyes at him. “That’s pâté, goofball.”
I skipped group again that week.
After my brownie debacle, I told myself (though I knew better) that it was more important to spend time with my family and longtime friends like Andy and Josh and Merritt and Jillian.
So one night that week I invited Josh and Andy over to play Candyland and checkers. Andy brought brownies and presented them to me with a grin. Unfortunately, my stomach lurched when I saw them.
Sigh. One step forward, three steps back.
The next night, Mom and Dad brought a bland dinner and some old movie musicals. We watched them together with our feet up, and I felt almost like a little kid again. Almost.
Another night that week, Merritt, Jilly, and I just vegged out with our movies and Friends DVDs. I wished I could handle pizza, but we made do with chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Actually, they had the grilled cheese. I was feeling queasy again, so I settled for a piece of dry toast that I dunked in the soup for flavor.
Rashida called that night, and Merritt looked at me funny when I let the machine pick up.
“That’s your friend from group, isn’t it? Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“I’ll call her later,” I said.
But I didn’t.
Rashida called a couple of more times after that, as did Johnna, Constance, and Jane. But somehow I didn’t get around to returning their calls.
Saturday morning, there was a light knock on my door. I opened it expecting to see Andy, but instead Jane was standing on my doorstep, leaning heavily on a cane and looking pale but determined. I hadn’t seen her since . . . since before . . .
“Hi, Natalie,” she said softly. “May I come in?”
“Uh, sure . . .” My voice trailed off.
“What a darling little cottage,” Jane said. “I love the way it’s decorated. So cheery. And tidy! Did you do all this?”
I looked around, feeling the familiar surge of satisfaction at my handiwork. “Yeah. I’m big on neat after growing up in my mom’s messy home. Housekeeping wasn’t her thing.” I waved Jane over to the club chair. “You want some tea or water or something?”
“Water would be great.” She sank gratefully into the chair. “Thanks.”
I took my time in the kitchen, dreading the encounter that awaited me in the living room. I put two waters on a tray along with another item that I hoped would delay the chastising I deserved.
Jane giggled when she saw the jar of puréed baby peaches. “I see you’ve come over to the mommy side with Rashida and me.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
“Speaking of joining . . .” Her eyes bored into mine. “I get the distinct feeling that you’re avoiding me. Actually, all of us at group, but especially me.”
“Of course I’m not.” I picked a fleck of lint off my flannel pants. “I’ve just been . . . really busy with my family and stuff.”
Jane took a sip of her water and gave me a look that was both gentle and no-nonsense. “Natalie, Pat’s death was a terrible shock to all of us.”
“It’s so unfair! She beat this awful disease, and then she dies from a fall.”
“You’re right. It’s not fair at all,” she said sadly. “But aren’t we a little bit beyond fair these days? I mean, is it fair that you, a young single woman, had to have both breasts removed? Or that Faye’s husband left her? Or that Pat actually beat cancer and was doing great and then died so suddenly and unexpectedly? Sure it’s unfair. It’s awful. Death is awful.”
I shook my head miserably, wondering where she was going with this.
“Look, I know that life is fragile and fleeting. Tell the truth, I’ve been thinking about that a lot these—”
“Jane—”
“But the thing is, Natalie, hiding doesn’t make it any less awful. The only thing that helps with stuff like this is the truth. And this is the truth.” She quoted softly, “‘We know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.’” She looked off into the distance. “Pat knew that, and so do I.” She added softly, “And so do you.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat there and drank my water. Finally, I said, “The thing is . . . I’m just not ready to go there yet.” That sounded lame even to me.
“Which is why you’ve been staying away.” She sighed. “Seeing the others—especially me—makes it all real, and that’s scary. So it’s just easier to stay away.”
Stay away. When Jane said that, I thought of Jack. And Lynn from the office next to mine. And even Jillian—and how they’d all responded to my cancer.
The difference was that Jillian had come around. And I . . .
“Natalie, sweetie, it’s all right,” Jane was saying. “It really is.”
And only then did I realize that tears were streaming down my cheeks.
chapter nineteen
This bra is buggin’ me. It gets so heavy.” Rashida reached under her blouse and in one discreet, fluid motion unhooked the cumbersome bra, yanked it from beneath her shirt, and dropped it on the couch.
I giggled. “I know they say we’re a sisterhood of breast cancer survivors, but that proves we really are sisters.” I nodded toward her couch bra. “At home I do the exact same thing.”
Slowly, her prosthesis slipped from the bra and fell to the floor with a gentle plop.
“Well, maybe not the exact same thing.” My eyes widened. “Hey! I didn’t know they came in different colors.”
Rashida scooped up the mocha breast form and shoved it back inside the bra. “Oh yeah. But you got to ask. When I went to get fitted for my prosthesis, Miss Thang tried to give me this standard pink issue.” She rolled her eyes, pointing at her face. “Does this beautiful chocolate skin look like it rolls with pink anythang? I don’t think so. I asked if they had any other colors.” Her earrings jangled. “Girl, she looked at me and said, ‘Yes, but no one’s going to see it.’ Can you even believe that?” Rashida jutted out her chin. “I told her, ‘Well I am.’”
She glanced at me from beneath her scarf. “Unlike some of my sistahs—and here I’m talking about the kind that don’t end in-er—I never wanted to be nothin’ other than who I am—a strong chocolate sistah with much attitude. You feel me?”
“Preach it, sister! I mean, sistah.” I grinned over at her from my perch on the sturdy stepstool. “Now hand me that little hammer, please, so I can finish hanging this picture.” I clambered down and stepped back to look at my handiwork. “What do you think?”
“Girl, you got the touch.”
After talking with Jane, I’d gone over to Rashida’s to apologize for my absence and to help her get settled into her new home. With the muscular assistance of DeWayne and DeShawn, we’d rearranged the couches and other furniture to make the living room warmer and cozier.
Hands on her hips, Rashida surveyed the room, a pleased smile stealing over her gorgeous features. “I should hire you.”
“To do what?”
“Decorate my house.”
“Nah.” I fluffed a throw pillow on the couch. “This is fun, not work.”
“So who says work can’t be fun?”
“Right.”
“Sounds like you’ve been in the wrong job.” She sent me a knowing look. “To love what you do and feel that it matters— how could anything be more fun?”
“Pretty profound.”
“I know. Too bad I didn’t say it.” Rashida gave me a playful smile. “Katharine Graham, publisher of the Washington Post, did.”
I raised my eyebrow indentations.
She shrugged. “I love quotes. I collect them.” She walked over to the fireplace, lost in thought, then gave me a speculative look. “So what kind of quote could you give me to decorate my whole house?”
“What?”
She nodded at the painting above the mantel. “Every morning I sit in here with my coffee and my Bible having my quiet time, and when I look up at that picture, it reminds me that Mama is looking down on me.” She wiped at her eyes. “You did that. Like I said, you got the gift. So what would you charge to decorate the rest of my house?”
“Nothing. I love doing stuff like this.” I adjusted a throw on the armrest of her easy chair. “I’d love to help you with the rest of your house, but there’s no way I’d charge you for it.”
“A workman is worth his wages.” Rashida wagged her finger at me.
“I’m not a workman.” I gave her an impish smile. “Or a workwoman. I just do this for fun.”
“But you’re good at it. And didn’t you say you were thinking of making a career change? Wouldn’t it be fun if you could make money doing something you love?” She picked up a copy of O Magazine from her coffee table and waved it under my nose. “Like Nate, that designer Oprah always has on her show.”
“Ooh, I love Nate. He’s too cute. I’ll never forget when Oprah had the ugliest-room-in-America contest, and he transformed this hideous monstrosity into a thing of beauty.” I sighed. “He does that all the time. And magnificently. The boy’s a genius.” I gave her a wry look. “But he’s also a professional. I’m not.”
