Always and Forever (13 page)

Melissa giggled. “She’s worried about her tip, you know. Two shakes and fries won’t pay her rent.”

“So let her take up brain surgery with the rest of the centerfolds working here.”

When the food came, Melissa tasted it cautiously.

“Is it all right?” Jory wanted to know.

“Don’t mind me. My medications sometimes give food a funny taste.”

“And so?”

“And so this is delicious. Tastes just like liver.”

“You’re kidding.” Jory’s mouth dropped open, causing Melissa to laugh out loud.

“I’m kidding. It’s good. Thanks.”

They nibbled on the fries and listened to the music. “You know,” Jory observed, “this is just like old times.”

Melissa tapped the brim of her hat. “In some ways.”

“It won’t always be like this, Melissa. You’re going to lick this thing.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Melissa straightened suddenly at the sight of a bronze-colored
car. Brad Kessing parked his Firebird across the concrete median dividing the two parking areas. Brad was not alone. Melissa slouched low in the bucket seat of Jory’s vehicle. “Let’s split.”

“But I’m not finished with my … ” Jory’s sentence trailed as she followed Melissa’s line of vision. “Why that creep.”

“Stop it, Jory.” Melissa’s tone sounded wooden. “He’s a free agent. I have no claims on him.”

“He’s still a creep.”

Curiosity gnawed at Melissa, and she peeked out the window for a better look at the girl with Brad. She was pretty, with wispy blond curls. “Do you know who she is?”

A guilty look crossed Jory’s face that Melissa couldn’t miss. “Sarah something or other.”

“You’ve known about Brad and her for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Not that long,” Jory said with a self-conscious shrug. “A few weeks.”

“It’s all right you didn’t tell me. I have no hold on Brad. He made me no promises.”

“He really
did
ask me about you a few times. I mean he was really interested in how you were doing.”

A sad smile turned up Melissa’s mouth. “It’s all right. You don’t have to make me feel better about it.” She set the milk shake on the car’s console. “I think I’m finished with this thing. It’s lost its flavor.”

Jory flashed her lights, and when the waitress came she paid her. As she backed the car out, Melissa saw Sarah climb from Brad’s Firebird, throwing him a provocative smile and words she couldn’t hear. Brad, handsome and athletic, gave Sarah a thumbs-up signal, and Melissa fought a rising sadness.

The last thing she saw as they drove off was Sarah flipping her beautiful head of hair, laughing. “She’s pretty,” Melissa told Jory, straightening in her seat and adjusting her seat belt. “Pretty and perky—just Brad’s type.” To herself she added,
And healthy, too
.

Melissa stopped writing in her journal. The psychiatrist had been right—there was something therapeutic about putting down her thoughts and feelings. Although talking to herself on paper about everyday matters was now a habit, it still surprised her when thoughts about God and faith and the whys of sick kids slipped out. She sighed and and shut the book. Time hung heavy for her. The days and nights were too long, and she knew that so much introspection was getting her down.

She tucked the journal into her desk drawer and studied her clock radio with a frown. Her mother wouldn’t be home from work for another hour.

The melodic chime of her phone made Melissa jump. Annoyed by its ability to startle her, she snapped “Hello.”

“Melissa? Hi. It’s Ric Davis.”

Her hand squeezed the handset tightly and her mouth went dry. “Why, Ric … How are you?”

“More to the point, how are you?”

“I’m doing all right. I look like a newborn baby, the way my hairs coming back, though.” She touched the dark silky down on her head as she spoke. “But
I’m taking the oral medications now and only going in for tests and some IV chemo. You know the routine.”

“Yes, I know it. What have they got you on?” She told him and he said, “Watch that last one. It makes you eat like a pig and before you know it, you’ll weigh a ton.”

“I could use some meat on my bones,” she confessed, staring into the mirror on her dresser and wishing she hadn’t. Her clothes still hung on her, and the baggy sweatshirt she wore did little to hide the hollow gauntness of her frame.

“Some meat, sure,” he emphasized. “But that particular drug will make you bloated. That’s what it did to me.”

Melissa didn’t like the course of the conversation. She didn’t want to be told about more problems, more distortions to her body. Abruptly, she asked, “So what’s new? Going home for Christmas?”

“Yeah, I am. I’m wrapping up exams tomorrow, then catching a plane home. I’ll be back after New Year’s.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“If my prosthesis doesn’t set off the metal detectors at the airport.”

Same old, Ric
, she thought. “It’s nice of you to call and check on me, Ric.”

“I told you when you were still in the hospital that I wanted to go out with you. I still do.”

Her dry mouth felt like cotton. “I’m not sure I’m ready to face the world yet.”

“You’re going back to school aren’t you?”

“Yes. But that’s almost a month away. I … uh … I’m hoping I look better by then.”

“In other words, there’s a guy you like and he’s been sort of cool since he found out you have cancer.”

She would have dropped the phone if she hadn’t been gripping it so tightly, yet the uncanny accuracy of his comment made her defensive. “That’s not what it is.”

“Come on, Melissa. It happened that way with me. Her name was Megan.”

She thought about Brad and tan, healthy Sarah. Her shoulders drooped. “I know that the kids at school will have to adjust to the new me when I go back. After all, I look so different now.” She raised her chin and slipped in a note of defiance. “But I’m still me.”

Ric’s low-throated chuckle came through the line. “I know, Melissa. And that’s the girl I’m interested in dating.”

She felt herself softening toward him. Ric did understand, and he had already traveled the road she was about to take. “So call me when you get back to campus. Okay?”

“You’re on,” he said. “Now take good care of yourself, and have a Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks, Ric. You too.” She hung up feeling a wistful nostalgia she couldn’t explain.

Later, when Jory stopped by and she’d told her about Ric’s call, her friend asked, “Ric’s older, isn’t he?”

“Nineteen.”

“Thought you didn’t like ‘older men,’ ” Jory needled.

“Be kind, Jory. I don’t feel very witty today.”

“Well, do you want to date him?”

“I’m not exactly deluged with offers you know.”

“Yeah, but that’s going to change once things level
out for you. In a few months, no one will even think of you as having been sick.”

“What do you do? Sit around and compare notes with Michael? That’s exactly what he says.” Irritation had crept into her voice.

“I wish I could sit around and compare notes with him.” Jory rolled her eyes and reached for the bowl of popcorn resting between them on the floor of Melissa’s living room.

Melissa pursed her lip. Why couldn’t Jory and Michael and her mother understand how she felt about herself? Her body had turned on her. Without warning, it had begun making cancerous cells and changed all the rules of her life. “Forget it. If Ric calls again, I’ll decide then if I want to date.”

“You need to get your confidence back.

“You’re right,” Melissa said, resigned. “I don’t feel like dating because I don’t feel like a decent-looking girl any more.”

Eagerly, Jory leaned forward, her green eyes dancing. “What do you say we retire the scarves and go wig shopping. I know just the place. It’s private. The saleslady is sharp and knows her stuff. You’ll love it. You can try on everything in the store. What do you think?”

“Mom told me I could get whatever I wanted for Christmas,” Melissa said, trying hard to catch Jory’s enthusiasm. “I guess I might as well start with new hair.”

Two days later, Jory dragged her into a secluded salon, tucked away in a corner of the mall’s most prestigious department store. The lights were bright, mirrors and wig stands lined the walls, and Styrofoam heads and round boxes clustered on shelves and pieces of furniture. A vanity table with chairs on either
side and a swivel mirror in its center dominated the floor area. Settling into one of the chairs, a saleswoman with a soft southern accent and long, slim fingers jotted notes on a pad as she questioned Melissa about her tastes. Without her mask, Melissa felt somewhat exposed, but she was glad she didn’t have to wear it in public any longer.

The woman eyed her with keen, professional interest and noted, “If you want to go through these swatches, you can show me the color that’s closest to your natural hair. And if you tell me a little about the style, I can show you something so similar to your own that you’ll be hard-pressed to tell the difference between your real hair and your new wig.” The idea that she had an option hadn’t occurred to Melissa. “Long or short?” The woman asked.

“Oh, long,” Jory interjected. “And dark. Melissa had hair all the way down to her waist. And none of this fake stuff either. Melissa wants real hair.”

Nervously, Melissa licked her lips and shot Jory a pleading glance. “Whose hair is this, anyway?” she asked with a tense laugh.

The saleswoman intervened. “Natural human hair that long would be very expensive and we’d have to special-order it from the Orient. They seem to be the only women growing long hair these days. Human hair is also harder to maintain, and it’s color can fade. You can buy it,” she added hastily, “but believe me, synthetic hair is much less costly and just as attractive.”

“No,” Melissa said hastily. “I don’t want long hair. And I’m not so sure I want something just like I used to have.” She ignored Jory’s surprised expression.

“Many women want a wig that most resembles
their natural hair, but the choice is yours. And we do have many choices,” the clerk said gently.

“I have an opportunity to change my image, don’t I? So why not?”

Quickly the woman crossed to the shelves and returned with a variety of wigs in a range of colors. “Would you like to be a blond?”

“They have more fun, right?”

She smiled and placed a saucy, curly wig on Melissa’s head. The hairpiece felt warm and clung to her scalp, but the tight curls clustered about her face only emphasized the hollowness of her cheeks. “I don’t think so,” Melissa told her.

“How about this?” Jory asked from across the room, where she was searching the merchandise at random.

“That’s our Dolly Parton look,” the clerk said, settling the almost white, bouffant-style wig on Melissa. “We do a big business in theater and stage performers.” One look in the mirror and Melissa cracked up.

“All you need is a guitar,” Jory said, laughing hysterically.

Melissa glanced down at the front of her bulky knit sweater. “A guitar and two watermelons,” she corrected. She turned to the saleswoman. “Maybe something a little less ‘show biz.’ ”

Laughing herself, the clerk removed the wig and selected another, more sedate one. An hour and twenty wigs later, Melissa finally chose a thick chestnut fall with a little curl that hung just below her ears. It was soft to her touch, but felt odd, too. It was strange to run her fingers through the hair and not have it tug at her scalp. The saleswoman taught Melissa how to care for it, to clean and brush it and
secure it to its Styrofoam head when not in use. Melissa paid for it, placing the crisp bills in the saleswoman’s hand, then carried the box through the store, ignoring the festive twinkle of lights and decorated Christmas trees. Outside in the parking lot, she tugged her trench coat closer against a raw, gusty wind.