Words That Start With B (11 page)

“Clarissa? It’s for you.”

I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly Denise is at the door holding the phone. I blink and sit up quickly. My stomach hurts and I remember what I’m doing here, home, asleep in the middle of the afternoon, although now it’s pretty dark outside. The alarm clock says it’s ten past six. I can’t believe I’ve slept that long. The cramps are pretty terrible, although the ache in my stomach might also have something to do with the two granola bars and bag of chips I ate earlier. I rub the sleep from my eyes and shake my head to wake up a little.

“Hello?” I say, yawning into the phone.

“Hi, Clarissa, it’s Mattie.”

I’m wide awake now. I was expecting to hear Benji’s voice.

“Oh. Mattie. Hi.”

“How are you feeling?”

Mattie’s voice is so loud I’m sure Denise can hear it from the doorway, where she’s standing, frowning at me, like she’s trying to figure out what to do with a sick child. I turn away from her, toward the window.

“Okay,” I mumble. “My head hurts a little.”

“Are the cramps bad?” she asks, practically yelling into
the phone. Mattie never could take a hint. I’m afraid to look at Denise, in case she heard.

“They’re okay. Like I said, it’s my
head
that hurts. Everything’s just so
loud.
”

Mattie is skeptical. “I’ve never heard of that symptom before,” she says.

“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“I mean, you’re not the one with the — well, you know. But you will know, someday. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Mattie. “Mood swings are very common during the menstrual period.”

“Oh, right.” I clench my teeth to keep anything else from flying out of my mouth.

“Do you have any questions about the homework?” Mattie asks brightly.

“What homework?” I ask.

“Benji said he was going to bring over your homework,” Mattie says. She’s getting that bossy tone in her voice, the one she gets when someone hasn’t lived up to the Mattie Cohen standard. It makes me want to defend him.

“I was asleep all afternoon, so maybe he did come by and I didn’t hear the bell,” I say.

“Oh. Well, if you have any questions or if he doesn’t bring it over by eight, call me and I’ll go over it with you.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I say. I try to sound enthusiastic, even though there is no way I will call her to do homework over the phone.

“Oh, don’t thank me, it’s the least I can do,” says Mattie. She sounds very pleased with herself. “Now you should get back to bed! Are you using the hot water bottle?”

Cripes, that Mattie is bossy.

“Yes,” I lie. “It’s great!”

I can practically hear her beaming through the telephone.

“I told you! See you tomorrow, Clarissa.”

“Bye, Mattie.”

When I hang up and roll over, Denise is still in the doorway. Except now she’s holding the open box of extra-long Kotex with wings. I must have left it on the floor of the bathroom. I feel my cheeks getting hot and I burrow further into the blankets. Maybe if I play sick she’ll go away. She doesn’t.

“What’s this? Is this why you came home from school today?” she asks, shaking the Kotex box.

I nod, burrowing a little further into the blankets.

“And my stomach hurt,” I add.

“Why didn’t you—” but Denise stops mid-sentence. I know what she was about to say. Why didn’t I tell her the truth? And it’s because I didn’t want to talk to her. She shouldn’t be the one here right now. I look down at the bed and pick at the hairy tufts of the bedspread. When I was little I thought they looked like fat pink caterpillars. That seems like a long time ago. Denise lets out a big sigh and perches at the end of my bed.

“God, I wish your mother was here,” she says.

“Me, too.”

Denise looks at me like maybe she wants to hug me but we’ve never really been huggy-huggy, Denise and I. Instead, she heaves one of her famous world-weary sighs and stares at the Kotex box in her hands.

“Do you have any questions?” she mumbles.

I can’t believe it. For once in her life she doesn’t know what to say. I think about what a miracle this is, and if only Benji were here to see it. Then I remember that everything
is different now, and where would I even start to tell him all this? It’s probably better he doesn’t know. He can be very queasy.

I shrug.

“We pretty much covered it in health,” I say. Which is partly true. Last year they sent all the girls to the art room to watch videos and draw diagrams of unspeakably embarrassing body parts. In none of the videos did it talk about what a cramp would feel like, or say that the blood can be more brownish than red, or mention that it’s not just your stomach but sometimes your whole body that kind of aches.

“You know, when I was your age I didn’t have sex ed or women’s health or whatever the schools are calling it now. They pretty much sat us down and told us if we French-kissed a boy we would get pregnant.”

I am absolutely certain this is not the sort of birds and bees talk my mother would approve of. Denise seems to think so, too, because she keeps twiddling her ring round her finger and jiggling her foot.

“I’m sure your mother would put it better than me,” she says. Then something happens and Denise snaps out of her jittery mode and gets a glint in her eye.

“Hey, why don’t we ask her?” she says.

I sit up.

“You mean call her?”

Denise jumps up and starts pacing the room, a big horsey smile spreading over her face.

“Better. Do you have any tests tomorrow? Anything important?” she asks.

“No.”

“Do you think you feel up to a little road trip?”

My heart leaps.

“You mean skip school?”

“One little day won’t hurt you. Lord knows I skipped my fair share of classes and I turned out all right.”

I open my mouth to say otherwise but Denise holds up her hand and stops me.

“Try to restrain yourself, Clarissa. I know it’s difficult, but I’m doing something nice for you.”

“It’s kind of for you, too.” I point out.

“Well, yes it is, but it’s still a damn nice thing to do. So pack your bag, kiddo. We’re going to see your mama.”

In half an hour I am packed and sitting in the front seat of Denise’s car, clutching a pillow on my lap and grinning from ear to ear. Denise is running around the house making last minute calls and looking for her toothbrush. My insides are so jittery I don’t think I can stand just sitting here in the driveway much longer. How long does it take to find a toothbrush? I lean on the horn. Finally the lights in the house go out and Denise comes running down the stairs, huffing and puffing, coat open and flapping around her.

She opens the back door and throws her bags in the back. “I’m coming, Clarissa — keep your pants on.”

She slides into the driver’s seat. “Here, take my purse,” she says between big gasps of air.

“You really should quit smoking,” I say.

“Don’t. Push. It,” she wheezes, but she’s smiling like nothing can put her in a bad mood. “If you open the inside pocket you’ll find a pack of gum,” she says. “Do me a favour and get me a piece, will you? You take one, too.”

“But it’s Nicorette gum,” I say.

“Darn, I thought I had the real stuff in there. Sorry, kiddo, there might be a mint or something for you.”

There isn’t. But I don’t mind. In ninety minutes I will be seeing my mother.

In all the excitement I never got a chance to call Benji, but as we pull out of the driveway I see the curtains in his front window move. Guilt gnaws at my stomach when I remember how I left school suddenly, never called him to explain, and am now making a secret getaway in the night with one of my least favourite people. But sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I know he’ll understand.

***

Denise is a lot more fun in the car than I thought she would be. First of all, unlike my mother, Denise thinks country music is for old folks and rednecks. “And we, Clarissa, are not rednecks. And, despite what you may think, I am not all that old, either.” This means we get to listen to the top eight at eight on the regular radio station. Denise knows all the words to every song, and I’m in such a good mood it doesn’t even bother me when she sings along. Soon, I’m singing along at the top of my lungs and I don’t care what I look like or who can hear me, because it feels great.

“Sing it, girl,” Denise yells, and she opens the window so I can shout out the song as we fly down the highway into the dark, endless night. The cool wind whips the hair around my face and I feel like we’re in a movie. I haven’t felt this good in a long time.

***

We make one stop along the way at a gas station. Denise gives the attendant a twenty and tells him to “Fill ’er up.” Then she winks at him, even though he is young enough to be her son. I roll my eyes but I am in too good a mood to
say anything else, especially when Denise gives me $10 and tells me to pick out some provisions.

Besides the woman behind the cash, who doesn’t even look up when I enter, I am the only one in the store. The lights are so bright they hurt my eyes. I scan the shelves for Delaney standards, like Miss Vickie’s chips, peanut M&M’s and Rainbow Twizzlers. I think about getting a 2-litre bottle of Coke but decide that ginger ale is better for Mom, who is probably feeling sick from the chemo. With my arms full of goodies, I saunter up to the cash register.

“Going on a diet?” the cashier asks. She laughs at her own joke, her enormous bosom shaking under her ketchup-red and mustard-yellow gas-station uniform shirt. Her hair is brassy yellow with dark roots and is so full of gel it looks like she just got out of the shower. I resist the urge to snort.

When I don’t answer, she asks me, “Going on a road trip?”

I shrug like it’s no big deal or maybe none of her business, which it isn’t.

“Maybe.”

“Well, have a good time.”

And because I am in such a good mood, I leave a whole toonie in the tip cup, just to show her what a good person I am and how I am above the likes of her. Besides, it’s Denise’s money.

***

When we reach London my stomach seizes up with excitement, or maybe it’s nerves. I can’t tell which. Denise unfolds the map and spreads it out over the steering wheel. She taps it with a finger and reads the street names aloud to herself.

“Hoyle. Dunmore—”

“Did you call and tell her we were coming?” I ask.

“Nope,” Denise says. “I can’t wait to see the look on her face. But don’t worry, I called the nurse, and she says she’s doing good today. She’ll be happy to have some surprise visitors. Wellington. Ah, Wellington. Here we are.”

Hopestead House is smaller than I expected. It looks like any old house, neat and tidy, painted white with blue shutters. The curtains are all shut, but they’re ruffled along the edges, like old-fashioned skirts, with light sneaking out from underneath like petticoats. There’s even a wraparound porch with a wicker loveseat out front. Inside a place like this you’d expect to see a mom baking cookies, or an old lady knitting in a rocking chair, not a lot of cancer patients with needles sticking out of their arms. My stomach clenches like a fist; will there be needles in Mom’s arm?

I step out of the car and wait for Denise to grab her bags.

“Ready, kiddo?”

We walk up the neat little stairs, past the flower boxes, and in through the front door. One of those embroidered pillows hangs in the window, white with blue stitching.
A Stranger is a Friend You Haven’t Met
, it says, surrounded by a whole lot of little blue flowers. They have five points, like stars. Maybe one of the cancer patients made it. Maybe they have someone come in and teach them how to embroider while they recover. But I can’t imagine Mom sitting in a circle, gabbing away, stitching a welcome sign or a pillow, though. She’s not what you’d call a crafty sort of person.

“Hello?”

Denise and I stand in the front foyer, looking around for signs of life. The only thing that makes Hopestead different from a regular house is the desk set up just under the stairs. There isn’t a receptionist in sight, but a little sign that says “Back in 5” sits on top of a pile of paperwork. Somewhere in
the house a
TV
is on; I can hear the rise and fall of the laugh track of some stupid sitcom, but it isn’t loud enough to tell what sitcom it is.

“Clarissa?”

And suddenly she’s there: wrapped in her old purple bathrobe, the one that’s worn out in places, like the elbows on an old teddy bear, standing at the top of the stairs. I am relieved that, even though her hair is pulled back and I can tell from here it’s greasier than usual, she still looks like Mom. In my head, I have been picturing her as one of those concentration camp survivors from the videos we watched in history: thin, grey and bald. I’m surprised to find I’ve been holding my breath. I let it out.

“Surprise,” I manage to say, but the word wobbles in my throat. Holding tight to the banister I take the stairs two at a time until I’m right in front of her. Mom smoothes the hair from my forehead and steadies my chin in her hand.

“Come on, I’ll show you my room.”

I manage to hold it in until we get to Mom’s bedroom. Once we’re safe inside I press my face into her bathrobe and let it all out. Feeling Mom’s hands running through my hair and tickling my neck just makes it worse. I sob and sob until my nose is runny and the front of her robe is damp with my tears. Finally the tears stop coming but my body still shudders, like it has more crying to do. The skin on my cheeks feels tight where my tears have dried.

“Better?” Mom asks.

I nod.

“Good.”

When I pull away I see that she’s been crying, too. Her skin looks grey and pulled tight, especially under her eyes.

“You don’t look good,” I say.

She laughs.

“Well, I’m not exactly at the spa,” she says.

“Is it bad, Annie?”

I’m surprised to hear Denise. She must have come in right behind me, but I was too busy crying like a baby to notice. She’s sitting in the rocker across from the bed, hands folded primly in her lap, like an old lady. She looks tired, too. Maybe she’s been tired for awhile and I never noticed.

“Sometimes,” Mom says. “But not always. It’s better when you have visitors.” She gives my shoulders a squeeze.

“We brought you something,” I say.

I wiggle out of her arms and reach for the night bag at Denise’s feet. For a moment I can’t find the movie, and I think I might cry all over again. But no, there it is. I hold up
My Best Friend’s Wedding
and smile triumphantly. Mom claps her hands and smiles widely.

“Good choice!” she says.

“We thought you might need it,” Denise says.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve had a grade-A, red-alarm Julia Roberts kind of day,” Mom says.

Denise snorts. “Join the club.”

***

There’s enough room in the bed for all three of us. I curl in next to Mom with my head close to her shoulder. She runs her hands through my hair like she used to when I was little and occasionally rests her chin on the top of my head. Denise sits near the end of the bed and attacks my mother’s toes with a new nail polish called Winter Berry. Her pink tackle kit sits open beside her like a big sprawling octopus.

“Your nail beds look like the trenches, Annie,” she says. “I’m leaving you a good moisturizer and some aloe socks.”

I had forgotten that chemo does bad things to your
stomach, so Denise and I divide the gas station provisions between ourselves. I eat string after string of Rainbow Twizzlers, the ones Benji says taste like soap but that I just can’t get enough of. Mom sips ginger ale from a paper cup and sucks on all-natural honey and lemon candies.

As comfortable as I am, I keep twisting around so I can sneak glances at Mom. Even though she’s only been gone a week it feels like forever. It’s nice to turn around and see her sitting right behind me. But you can only twist around to stare at someone so many times before they start to notice.

“What are you looking at?” Mom asks.

Well, now that she’s brought it up, there is one thing I’ve been wondering about, but I don’t want to ruin this moment. It feels normal — me, Mom, Denise and Julia Roberts.

“I was just thinking …” I start.

Mom raises an eyebrow and waits for me to continue. Sometimes there is no other way around something; you just have to say it.

“You still have your hair,” I say.

Mom shifts and I sit up, not wanting to hurt her.

“Yes,” she says. “I do, for now.”

That “for now” hangs in the air like a thundercloud waiting to ruin everything. Mom loosens her ponytail and fluffs out her hair. It’s then I see that it’s not just greasier than normal, but it’s thinner, too. I am alarmed at the amount of hair that clings to the elastic. Mom runs her fingers through her hair, raking out even more strands, and inspects the ends.

“I’m thinking of cutting it short,” she says.

“Oh, Annie,” Denise says and suddenly she’s crying. “Oh, Annie, your hair!” she sobs.

I don’t know where to look or what to do. I feel sad and uncomfortable and a little like laughing all at the same
time. Just like everything else she does, Denise makes a big production out of crying — hiccupping and shaking and howling away like a dog. I’m sure they can hear her all over Hopestead House. Although I guess I should be thankful we’re not outside or at the mall or something.

Denise keeps saying, “Your hair, your hair,” over and over again. It’s starting to get on my nerves. For someone who is supposed to be my mother’s best friend she isn’t being very considerate. It’s not like her hair is going to fall out. How does she think Mom feels, hearing someone go to pieces over something that isn’t even happening to her?

“
Shhh
,” my mother says. “DeeDee, it’s going to be all right. It’s just hair; it’ll grow back. That’s what hair does.”

“B–but you’re a
stylist
, Annie!”

Mom shrugs. “So, I’ll be a bald stylist. Maybe I can get a job at Curl Up & Dye.”

Denise laughs wildly for a second, but then her face crumples and she’s at it again. Mom rubs her arm.

“DeeDee, it’s not forever.”

Denise blows her nose into her sleeve and wipes her wet eyes with the back of her hand. Disgusting.

“I know,” she says. “I know. I’m sorry.”

As Mom shushes Denise, I think about Benji’s essay and how he was right. Even when things are bad, Mom helps other people. She’s the one with the cancer, but somehow she ends up being the strong one who makes other people feel better. Remembering the essay I feel ugly and ashamed that I didn’t think of it first. How can I be so blind? What else have I gotten totally and completely wrong?