Warpaint (6 page)

♦

 

A few days later, seated in yet another MacDoc's alcove waiting for her first chemo, immured in one of Quiola's wide-eyed silences, C.C. announced:

“I'm all set. Let's get this show on the road. The sooner it's over, the better.”

Another patient, a hollow-faced woman with black hair so black it had to come out of a box, and skin as white as stage-paint and lips as red as lipstick could get – Snow White in the cancer ward – laughed.

“Honey,” she said, “you must be fresh meat. We'll wait like good children until the vampires are ready. And you don't need to think it, because it's been said. I look like a vampire myself.” She laughed again, a smoker's cackle. A few of the other patients ogled her; the rest kept their eyes on the tattered copies of old magazines or stared into space.

C.C. was so startled by Snow White, she said meekly, “Oh.”

Quiola leaned over. “I like her. She has what my Mother used to call moxie.”

“Moxie-schmoxie” said C.C., her attention drawn suddenly to a young woman, bald, pale-yellow to white, as if she were wax, turning.

And so they waited, as Vampirella White knew, until the chemo-nurses, three efficient, no-nonsense women named Donna, Barbara and Doris, took each patient in turn to a row of recliners under windows in the ward. The recliners were reminiscent of old-fashioned beauty parlor hair-drying stations, except each had an I.V. hook up already ‘loaded' as one nurse put it, with a patient's particular mix of medicinal toxins. C.C. didn't watch as the needle entered her arm with a chill, wicked little sting, and the tape to hold it was taped on, and Barbara solicitous but firm about the red liquid that was about to drip into her patient's veins, while Quiola kept up a funereal silence.

“Say something,” commanded C.C. as soon as Nurse Barbara bustled away on her silent white sneakers. “Talk to me, baby, soft and sweet.”

“That's a line from an old song.”

“I know. Think of something, Quiola or I'll go nuts.”

“All right. I've decided. I want a horse.”

“
You want a what?
”

“You heard me. A horse.”

“How old are you? You sound about ten.”

“If you're going to be insulting, I won't say anything.”

“Fine.” C.C. sighed. She was beginning to feel very peculiar. At first the chemo had been cold; now, it felt hot. “You want a horse – the wish of every ten year old girl. Do you know how to ride? I mean more than just hanging on, like I did on that trail in Lutsen.”

“I could take lessons.”

“You could. But why do you want a horse? Why not get a cat? Much easier to deal with, much cheaper, far less demanding.”

“Would you mind, C.C., if I moved back to the states now instead of months from now? Would it be a problem? I want to come home.”

“Not just because – of this –” she gestured with one had at the ward.

“No, I told you. Paris is killing me.”

“You don't mean that –”

“I do. I know its sacrilege, but I prefer to be where I can stretch and breathe and wander in the woods, my woods in the US of A. Paris can be merciless to a stranger. Do you know for the first month over there, I became a deaf-mute? It was easier to say nothing. People started speaking very loudly and slowly, and became very helpful.”

“But you speak French, Quiola. You read it.”

“Only a little. I murder the mother tongue. I know I should be grateful for the chance to be there, and Paris has given me watercolors – I mean, the demanding speed of the medium. If you aren't in the zone, if you don't measure effect, watercolor is ghastly. There. I agree with Liz. But when it's right –”

“I know. I've seen some of your new work, remember?”

Quiola sat very still. “You do like it?”

“Much, yes. Paris. It's hard to believe you hate it. When I first went there –”

“I know. But I want a home. I want – a horse.”

“And just where are you going to keep a horse, in Chelsea?”

“Don't be silly. I'd move out of the city – although people do ride in the park. I've seen them.”

“You mean Donald Trump's daughter rides in the park, don't you? Where do you want to live? You can sell the Chelsea flat, that will give you a nice, tidy bundle of money – or we can sell both it and the Paris flat.“

“Your money. Those properties are yours, C.C.”

“Okay, let me put it this way: Lizzie deeded both places to me. I hereby give them to you. I don't need the money. I need you to be happy. Which you aren't.”

“No. I'm not.”

“It isn't just Paris, is it? Are you in love?”

Quiola laughed. “No. But I think I need –”

“– a horse.”

“Oh, C.C. for heaven's sake, give me three seconds. I'm not as good with words as you are.”

“You mean you're not as glib.”

“For Christ-sake.”

“How are we doing here?” asked Barbara, who'd grown used to swooping in on testy conversations. “How do we feel?”

“
I
,” said C.C. icily, “feel weird. I'm not sure how my friend feels.”

Barbara folded her arms. “Oh, I see. Well, I've had your kind before.”

“I'm sorry. I'm feeling crabby.”

“Obviously. Now, would you care to tell me how you feel, physically?”

“Fine.”

“How's the drip? Too fast? Too slow?”

C.C. shrugged. “I can't tell. My first time.”

The nurse picked up the chart. “I see. Let me give you some tips. To start, a first time chemo patient will be famished when the drip is over.”

So, on the drive back from New Haven to the “shed”, C.C. and Quiola kept their eyes peeled for The Three Bears, housed in an old colonial.

“Pasta,” said C.C., after they were seated. “with a meaty sauce. I guess I'd better eat while the eating is good, before I lose my palate, along with my hair, but we took care of that, didn't we? Nurse Barbara was impressed with our foresight. On the sly she told me the tattoo was inspired.”

Quiola made something like laughter. She couldn't get all the way to a real ha-ha.

“Do you like yours?” asked C.C.

“My tattoo? I love it. Otter is a family name, and otters are joyous creatures, and since he's on my shoulder, now, I hope to feel more joy. Does that make sense? Or is that way too corny?”

“Corny? Yep. But it makes sense, too.”

“At least I make a little sense. Look, C.C., I think what I want is a home. A house. Not an apartment in a city, not a flat, or a condo. A house. I'm tired of living out of a suitcase, or in a cupboard. I want land. I want to plant corn, squash, lettuces, and tomatoes. Mom tried to give me a home, but all we had were rentals. Even so, she taught me how to cook with fresh everything. That's how come her restaurant did so well. She grew her own, before it became all the rage. Now I want to do it. I want a home, a horse – and cat, too.”

“A cat I can understand. They're no bother. What kind of a cat?”

Quiola's cheeks colored. “Siamese. Actually, I've already found one.”

“You have, have you? That's funny. Did you know Liz used to raise Siamese?”

“No! Did she actually breed them?”

C.C. nodded. “When I was a kid. She had about twenty at one point. Kind of scared me, all those tiny pairs of wide blue eyes. Where did you find your baby?”

“Online. While you were recovering, I spent some nights on the Internet. Just to pass the time. I couldn't read and I didn't want to bother you with the television, so I surfed. Eventually, she found me.”

“
She
found
you?
”

After they made their order, Quiola explained. “Petfinder is a website that searches rescue shelters and such, by preference. I decided I wanted a Siamese kitten. So I just kept typing in my preferences until Amelia's face popped up. She's perfect, just three months old.”

“Of course. Everyone's cat – or dog – is perfect.”

“No, she's really –”

“You
are
in love, aren't you.”

Quiola made a sheepish grin. “Guess so. I can't get her until she's old enough, and the shelter spays her. That'll be next month.”

“Well, now that the question of the cat is settled, I think we're going to have to find you that horse, hmm?”

And so they talked about pragmatic matters, how much they might get for the City flat, what to do with the Paris one, and what they might expect to buy in Connecticut because Quiola wanted to be to hand when C.C. needed help. Tacitly they avoided talking about the real nitty-gritty of what kind of help but soon got a taste of it later, when the younger woman was jolted out of bed by C.C. crying, pitiful and terrible – “Quiola! Quiola – Oh god –”

Quiola bolted downstairs from the loft, her heart-valves shutting like a submarine in dive. Breathless, she found C.C. kneeling on the tiled floor of the bathroom, cradling the toilet, as if drunk. The floor was lousy with vomit, pasta marinara redux. Quiola put one hand on the older woman's shoulder, while her other hand felt for fever. But C.C.'s forehead was cool.

“Can you stand up? Has it passed? Is it over?”

“Oh, god, oh god –”

“Okay. Just rest. Tell me, when you're ready to get back in bed. Tell me what you need. When you can.”

“Jesus,” said C.C. violently. “Look at that. Would you look at that?” She lifted her head, and pointed in the toilet. The water was a bright, fire-engine red.

“You're bleeding? Where's the damn phone, I'm calling 911.”

C.C. blinked, like someone coming to from a coma and started to laugh.

“C.C., what's
happening
?”

C.C. put her arms around Quiola's waist. “Oh God, I thought I was bleeding too, and the sight of it scared me so much I puked my guts out. But you know what that is? Not blood – it's the dye. From the chemo. Nurse Barbara warned me about peeing red, but I forgot.” She smiled weakly. “Silly me.”

 

♦

 

“Would you have enough space, here, do you think?” asked the real estate agent, Molly Limon, had already shown Quiola two weeks worth of properties.

“Best we've seen so far,” she said, but she wasn't impressed. She'd miss the City flat, right in the middle of Chelsea. The well-seasoned wood floors, warmed by an old oriental rug, and the kitschy plastic beads of the kitchen entry reminded her of San Francisco. By contrast, everything she'd seen in Connecticut was fatally suburban. She didn't say so to either Molly or C.C., but her nerve was beginning to fail. Leaving Paris was one thing. Selling the Chelsea flat another. There'd be no going back.

“It's not encouraging, Molly. This place.”

The real estate agent cocked her head. “No, I agree with you. Well, I have one more condo on my list today. It's a little more irregular than this place.”

“It's all just so ordinary. Plain but not simple. Why would anyone want it?”

“Security,” said Molly, gathering up her papers. “It looks just like every other place. People find that comforting. But you're different. Come on. I think you'll like the next one.”

Molly was right. Quiola decided to make a bid, even before they set foot inside the place, but not out of passion, out of practicality. The two-bed, one-bath condo was five minutes, if that, from C.C.'s “shed”, plus the place was new, yet designed to look old on the outside. Inside, it had high ceilings and plenty of light. Within the month, she had the keys. When she walked over the threshold for the first time, she had her new kitten, Amelia, in her arms. The day after the movers had come, Quiola, on her knees in front of her coffee table, exclaimed to C.C., “Would you look at this! It's cracked and they didn't bother to tell me.”

“You've got to expect damage. When Mom and Dad sold the farmhouse, they lost a hallway mirror that'd been in the family since the last century. Shattered to bits.”

“Seven years bad luck. How are you feeling?”

“Lousy.” C.C. sat down on the sofa. She tucked her feet up under her. “I'm tired. And the chemo goes on until November! Then, radiation – god knows what that'll be like. Honestly, I don't know if I can stand it.”

“But you will.”

“Will I?” C.C. closed her eyes. “I sometimes wonder if it's worth it.”

“Don't say that. C.C.? Please.”

But the older woman had fallen asleep.

Later that week, C.C. told Quiola: “Look, why don't you take the day off? I can drive myself to chemo.”

“I don't think so –”

“I do. I'll be fine. It doesn't bother me so much now, I told you.”

“Yes, but you're tired all the time. You sleep in a wink.”

“I'll be fine.”

And she was. Confident from her smooth ride up to New Haven, all chemoed up, C.C. marched back from St. Matthew's to the Heap, pleased. She started the car, which belched as usual, and backed out, slipping easily onto the highway. The miles zipped by until, just as her exit was at hand, C.C. noticed that the sunlight was getting a little dim, then dimmer, then suddenly –

“Hey –” she said, and aimed at the exit ramp. The next thing she knew, a car horn was blaring in her ear, and a worried man's face peered through the windshield, which seemed to have grown a crack.

The man had to shout over the horn. “Ma'am? Ma'am? Are you all right?”

“I think so. I don't know.” She moved. Nothing hurt. “Can you get the door open? Open the door! What's the matter with this dang horn –”

The door opened, and she popped off the seat belt. The Heap was smaller than it should have been, and she had to crawl out the half-crumpled door, into the stranger's arms. He helped her stand, and looked her over.

“My cell's in the glove box,” she said.