The Art of Getting Stared At (3 page)

“I banged my head on the bathroom door at school and I have a little cut, that's all.” I'm not sure why I lie. Perhaps because telling her will make this into Something and I want it to be small-n nothing. Or possibly because I feel like a baby complaining about a bald spot when there are ten cancer kids down the hall. “My scalp's a little sore, that's all.”

She studies me with her “nurse look,” face tilted slightly to one side, grey eyes intent and questioning. “I should get back to work then.”

“Sure,” I say. “Go ahead.”

But she doesn't move. “I'm really sorry about Jade, Sloane. I know you have a bond.”

I want her to leave. Talking about Jade makes me want to cry. Plus, I want to check my head. “Yeah, it sucks. But like you said, there are treatment options.”

“Right.” But she still doesn't move.

“So,” I say. “See you next week.”

Finally she moves to the door. “See you next week.”

As soon as her pale blue nurse's uniform disappears around the corner, I spin to the mirror, yank my hair back, and stare.

Whoa. It's a bald spot all right. Pink and shiny. I touch it. It's as smooth as a baby's scalp. How bizarre is that?

Hands shaking, I separate my dark, thick hair into sections. My fingers comb through the strands, rubbing and searching. Nothing. My trembling eases. I'm fine. My hair's fine. I'm being silly. There's a logical explanation for that spot. There has to be.

And then I feel another one. It's so small that I missed it the first time. An inch above my left ear, almost directly opposite the other one.

“Shit!” Fear knifes through me, sharp and unexpected. This isn't normal. I need to see Mom. Right now.

Two

T
he hospital complex is huge and it takes me almost five minutes to reach street level. As I walk along the sidewalk to the emergency entrance, the low rumble of rush hour traffic and honking horns is familiar and reassuring. The spots are nothing.
Nothing.
Then an ambulance whines and my heart picks up speed.

What if they are something? What if?

I weave around a weary-looking doctor in green scrubs, a man on a scooter. When I pass a trio of laughing women, the tallest one pushes a clump of red hair off her forehead. Involuntarily, I reach up to touch my own shoulder-length dark hair. It's coarse, slightly unruly, and it needs to be trimmed every six or eight weeks just to keep it in check.

Somewhere around my ninth birthday, I'd gone through a phase where I'd wanted to be blonde. And pretty. Every once in a while, I still get that twinge—like when Matt ditched me for bimbette Breanne—but then I remember that study Mom showed me last year: half of all women think their appearance is more important than their intelligence. That's not me. That's not who I am.

Except, that doesn't mean I want to lose my hair.

By the time I reach the emergency entrance, I've convinced myself I'm overreacting, that I don't need to bother Mom with this. At least not this second. I'm not like Lexi who has a panic attack over a hangnail. She even admitted once that getting free medical advice from Mom is one of the benefits of our friendship.

As I stand there thinking about Lexi, the doors whoosh open and a gust of wind blasts me. My hair flies back. I see my reflection in the glass. I see the spot. Right here.

And my stomach does a nauseous flip. This
isn't
normal. I do need to talk to Mom. I pull my hair forward, cover the spot, and walk inside.

Emergency is always busy so I'm surprised to see empty seats in the waiting room. Only six people are sitting in the orange pleather chairs and nobody's moaning or anything.

That's pretty amazing.

It's also a sign. I head for the admitting cubicles. A sign I'm supposed to be here.

Sara, one of my favourite nurses, is on duty but she's doing an intake on a mother holding a crying baby. Take-noshit Nancy is in the cubicle beside her and she's alone.

“Hey, Nancy.”

“Sloane.” She doesn't look up from the chart she's studying.

The butterflies in my stomach roll and dance as I speak to the top of her head. Nancy is a sharp, angular woman. Even her head seems to be all angles and planes. “Can you tell Mom I'm here? That I'd like to talk to her for a minute?”

She looks up then. Her flinty grey eyes narrow; her skinny lips almost disappear. “She doesn't have a minute. A flatbed
truck crashed into three cars over on Third. It's ugly.” She inclines her head to the waiting room. “Those guys out there are going to be waiting two hours at least.”

I resist the urge to squirm. “Tell her it's important.”

“Is it an emergency?”

Yes. No. Maybe?

Nancy taps her barely-there nails against the desk, arches a measly eyebrow. “Well? Is it?”

“It's not an emergency but it—” I pause. “It could be ... significant.”

“Significant.” She snorts. “That's a new one.”

Underneath her crusty exterior, Nancy is a good nurse. And fair. I lean close and lower my voice. “Something's going on. With me. I think.” There's a shift in her eyes. A softening. Just a little. Just enough. “It's private and it's important and I need to talk to Mom.”

Her sigh is long and dramatic. “Give me a sec.” She stands. “I'll go tell her.”

She's back two minutes later. “She takes her break in half an hour. She'll meet you in the cafeteria.”

In the cafeteria? I want to see her in private. And I want to see her
now
. I open my mouth to protest but Nancy speaks before I can. “That's the best I can do, Sloane. You're not dying here. Lots of young women have been in your position before. It's not the end of the world.”

I flush. She thinks I'm pregnant. “I'm not—”

“Go. Go.” She shoos me away with her hand. “She'll see you there in thirty.”

Forty-five minutes later I'm sitting at a table in the corner, surfing WebMD on my iPhone when Mom walks in and scans the crowd. She's tall and brown eyed with a too-wide mouth that a patient once said reminded him of Julia Roberts. I stand up and wave. She waves back and heads for the food stations.

I watch her check the pasta offerings before moving on. She'll have soup. She always does. We have the same taste in food and the same sense of humour. Physically, though, I'm more like my dad—not too tall, round face, small nose. But I have Mom's hands. I stare at her head. And the same thick, dark hair. Only hers is flecked with grey, twisted into a knot, and not falling out.

“I've only got a few minutes,” she warns when she finally joins me. I catch a whiff of garlic and tomato as she unloads a bowl of minestrone soup, a roll, and a cup of black coffee. “There was a messy accident over on Third and I can't be gone long.” She puts her tray aside and sits down. “What's up, babe?”

A couple of interns are walking by, their trays loaded with meatloaf and salad. I wait until they pass and then I pull back my hair. “Look.”

She adds pepper to her soup, gives it a stir. “What am I looking at?”

“My hair.”

Disbelief blankets her face. She raises her eyebrows. “You asked me here so I could look at your
hair
?”

“Not my
hair
hair. The spot.”

She scoops up some soup. “What spot?”

For an ER doctor, sometimes she can be thick. “
My
spot.” I lean across the table and point. “Look. Right here.”

I can tell the second she sees it because she goes very still. “Oh.” Her spoon tilts; she lowers it to the bowl. “I see.” Her index finger is cool when she touches me. “Are there more?”

“There's one on the other side.” I turn my head to show her. “But it's so small I almost missed it.”

She touches me a second time and she's so gentle I want to cry. “Any other symptoms? Rashes or anything like that?”

“No. Why?” She drops her hand and I stare into her eyes, trying to read what she's thinking, but her face is a careful blank. The “doctor look” I call it. “What do you think it is?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe I'm reacting to that new shampoo I bought?”

“Could be.”

“You think? It's possible, right?”

“Anything's possible.” She pushes her soup aside. “Your skin's sensitive; you know that.”

Relief makes me giddy. Mom's right. Last year I broke out in hives when I ate too many strawberries.

“In the meantime, we need to rule everything out.”

Rule everything out
is not a reassuring phrase.

“We need to find you a dermatologist. So they can take some blood and run some tests.”

“Blood tests?” My fear returns, dark and heavy. “This is serious then?”

“I don't think so. You've lost some hair, that's all.”

“That's
all
? That's huge.”

“It's all relative, Sloane. There's a guy down in ER about to lose his leg because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Most people wouldn't notice the wobble in Mom's voice but I do. “
That's
huge.”

Ashamed, I glance at a tiny spill of pepper on the table.

And there's Jade, in the hospital again. That's huge too. “I'm sorry for him. I really am. But this is weird. Almost scary. What if I have some kind of disease? What if I'm dying?”

She smiles. “You aren't dying,
Lexi.
”

I manage a weak giggle.

Mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I know you're scared but you're fine.” She winks. “I'm a doctor, remember?”

“Then what is this? What's
wrong
with me?”

She squeezes my hand a second time before releasing it. “It's probably nothing but I'll make some calls and see who can fit you in.”

“Soon, right?”

“It has to be soon because—” She averts her gaze, reaches for her cup. “There's been a change in my travel plans.”

“What do you mean?”

She sips her coffee. “I'm flying out sooner than expected.”

Mom has been volunteering in Sudan every other year since I was twelve. She usually goes for two weeks, often over Thanksgiving. She's supposed to fly out a month from now, at the end of October.

“How much sooner?”

“I'm leaving next week.”

A cold chill prickles my spine. “Next week? But you know how busy specialists are. There's no way I'll get in to see one before you go.” This isn't something I want to face alone. This isn't something I want to face at all.

“I'll pull some strings. I'll do my best. And if I can't go with you, your dad will.”

“No!” If Dad knows, he'll tell Kim and I don't want my stepmother involved.
No
way. “I don't want him to know.”

“That might be tough. I'd like you to stay with him while I'm gone.”

“But you
promised
I could stay at our house. That Lexi could come and stay with me for the two weeks you're away!”

“That's the other thing.” Her coffee cup clatters when she lowers it to the saucer. “Admin has extended my leave.” Finally she looks at me. “I'm going for eight weeks.”

“
Eight
weeks?”

Her eyes plead with me to understand. “They need me, Sloane. You know what it's like there.”

I do. I know all about the village in Sudan and the poverty and the terrible medical conditions and how they rely on doctors like Mom to come in and devote their time. I'm proud of what Mom does. I am. But I need her too, especially right now. “I can't spend eight weeks with Dad.” That's two months. With
Kimberly.
I'll never survive. “I ... I can't stay there. I have this—”

“I'll get you in to someone,” she interrupts. “Before I go.”

This demo tape to do. A possible scholarship to try for.

“We'll talk more when I get home.” She stands, picks up her soup. “I need to get back. I'll wrap this to go.”

I follow her to the stack of Styrofoam containers by the cashier. I don't want to wait. I want everything settled now. But that's not going to happen. “I'll see you later then.”

Mom snaps the lid on her take-out container. “Promise me something, Sloane.”

“What?”

“Promise me that you won't pull a Lexi.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

She steers me out the door towards the elevator. “Promise
me you won't google symptoms. Nothing good comes of that.”

In spite of everything, I smile. Lexi's hypochondria is equal parts entertainment and annoyance. “I promise,” I lie. WebMD was a bitch to navigate; I don't know how Lexi does it. I'll have to find an easier site when I get home.