Words That Start With B (12 page)

We three are so tuckered out from crying that we fall asleep before the movie’s over. I awake with a start the next morning and find Denise snoring away beside me. I can’t remember the last time I slept so soundly. My arm is stuck under her pillow. Carefully, so as not to wake her, I pull it out and shake away the pins and needles. Static buzzes on the
TV
screen. It reminds me of the mornings Mom would get me up and say, “Quick, Clarissa, come look! The weather station says it’s going to be a snowstorm!” I would rush downstairs and see the static on the
TV
and then hear Mom laughing away upstairs. Just another example of a bad Mom joke, the kind I’ve been missing with her gone.

I let my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness and take a good look at the room. Mom has a corner room on the second floor. It has windows on two sides and a big iron bed covered in quilts, which squeaks when you climb into it. A low bookshelf is crammed under one window and full of books with titles like
I am Not my Breast Cancer
,
Breast Cancer: A Survivor’s Guide
and
Real Women Talk about Cancer.
There is also a bible and a stack of fat romance novels.

On the nightstand, next to a glass of water, is a slim journal with a pen sticking out of the top like a bookmark.

“Good morning.”

Mom yawns and sits up, rubbing at her eyes.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s my journal,” Mom says. “I read somewhere that it can be therapeutic to write down your feelings during the process.”

I stare blankly at my mother. I have never known her to write down anything, not even a grocery list. Keeping track of your feelings sounds awfully granola to me. All of a sudden I notice that there are candles on almost every surface. Maybe they’re those aromatherapy candles. In one week these Hopestead people have taken my mother and turned her into a granola hippie. Mom is running a finger up and down the spine of her new hippie journal. I hope she doesn’t read it out loud, but at the same time, I wonder if she’s written anything about me.

“Are you hungry?” she whispers.

I nod.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs to the kitchen. I want you to meet everybody.”

We slide out of bed as carefully as we can, not wanting to wake Denise, although I’m not sure that’s even possible. She snorts once and rolls over, taking up the whole bed. Mom wraps herself up in her bathrobe and I throw on my fleece. Together we pad downstairs.

The kitchen at Hopestead is bright and sunny and surprisingly full this early in the morning. Two women sit across from each other, leaning over steaming mugs of tea. One of them has a nubby knitted cap pulled down to her ears. She’s completely bald underneath. Her skin looks greyish, like clay, but she smiles and her eyes are friendly.

“This must be the famous Clarissa,” she says. I’m surprised to hear that she has a British accent.

Mom puts her hands on my shoulders. “Morning everyone, this is my daughter Clarissa. The light of my life, or the highlights in my hair, as we say in hair business.” I can’t believe my mom would make a hair joke in front of the bald lady, but she laughs just as hard as anyone else.

“Lovely to meet you.” she grasps my hand and shakes it. “I’m Joanne, and this is Carrie.”

Carrie nods at me. She is all wrapped up in a bright scarf and wearing a kimono. She looks like an actress in a black and white movie, except for the bruises on the inside of her elbow. Carrie catches me looking and readjusts her kimono sleeves.

“From the needles,” she explains. “They look a lot worse than they are.”

I’m too embarrassed to say anything else.

Another woman stands at the counter, buttering toast. Her hair is growing back in fuzzy patches all over her head. I can’t stop staring at her face. There’s something weird about it, but I can’t put my finger on what. When I finally realize it’s because she has no eyebrows or eyelashes, I feel bad for staring and I look away quickly. I read about that happening in one of the pamphlets Mom gave me before I threw it away. If it bothers her, she doesn’t act like it.

“I’m sorry we don’t have anything exotic, like bacon or eggs,” she says wistfully. “I used to love the smell of bacon frying. Now it just makes me nauseous. Ah, well.
C’est la vie!
Toast?”

I take a plate of toast, butter it and sprinkle the whole thing with cinnamon sugar. Joanne and Carrie shove over to make room for Mom and me at the table.

“Thanks, Susan,” my mother says to the bacon-lover with no eyebrows.

I eat and the ladies sip their tea in silence for awhile.

“Clarissa drove all the way up from home last night to surprise me,” Mom says, winding my ponytail around her finger. She hasn’t done that in ages. It’s comforting.

“She doesn’t look old enough to drive,” Joanne says, brushing my cheek with her finger. I flinch only a little. “What’s your secret, love?”

“Denise drove,” I explain.

“Denise is my oldest and dearest friend,” Mom adds. “We left her upstairs sawing logs like an old lumberjack.”

The ladies chuckle.

“Is this your first visit to Hopestead?” Susan asks from the counter, where she spoons loose tea leaves into a bag.

I don’t say anything but I nod, aware that my mouth is full of toast and not wanting to seem rude to these polite women. I can’t remember when I ever had such a polite meal.

“This is my third time at Hopestead,” Joanne says. “And you know what they say, third time’s a charm.”

“So, your cancer came back?” I ask. Somehow I don’t feel so bad about asking her questions.

“Unfortunately,” she says. “First time in my left breast, second time in my right, now I’m afraid it’s found its way into my lung.” She leans close to me and lowers her voice. “Persistent little bugger, isn’t it?”

Susan frowns. “Don’t scare the poor thing, Jo,” she scolds. To me she says, “Don’t worry. Not everyone relapses.”

“But it is a fact that some do,” Joanne adds. “No need to lie to the girl. Clarissa here looks like she’s made of the strong stuff.”

“She is,” Mom says.

I feel about ten feet tall. And very grown up.

Joanne gestures at her chest. It’s then I notice that her bathrobe hangs flat where the other women’s robes curve out from their bodies. “All this is a very small part of my life,” she says. “It’s never stopped me. Did you know that last year I travelled to Costa Rica? I rode horses in the surf and I even tried zip lining.”

“Really?” I ask, unable to picture this woman flying down a mountain on a thick wire.

Joanne nods. “And the year before I ran a half-marathon.”

Even if you don’t like running, you have to admit that’s pretty impressive. Joanne looks like she is at least sixty years old. Maybe older.

“Don’t expect me to take up running,” Mom says. “Although it might be nice to go on a trip.”

My heart leaps. “Really?” I ask.

Mom smiles and nods. “Why not?” she says. “We’ve never really been anywhere.”

“That’s the spirit,” Joanne says.

The women chat about all sorts of things, comparing T-cell counts, asking after family members, arguing about some
TV
show they’ve all been watching. It isn’t all cancer this, cancer that. They laugh and joke like they’re just a normal group of friends having a normal breakfast. But something has been bothering me. I wait until Susan and Carrie leave, and Mom is clearing the dishes.

“Can I ask you one more thing?” I ask Joanne.

Joanne leans close to me, like she’s about to share a secret. “Anything,” she says.

“Aren’t you angry?” I ask.

Joanne thinks for a moment before answering. “I used to be. I used to be very angry, indeed. And there are still
some days where I want to slap someone hard across the face or scream ‘why me’ at the top of my lungs. But so many good things have come of it all. I know that’s very hard to believe, but it’s true. If I hadn’t been diagnosed with cancer, I may have been content to sit on my fat bottom and never go anywhere or do anything my whole life. Sometimes you need a little hardship in life to get the blood flowing. Just think, if I hadn’t been diagnosed, I never would have come to Hopestead and met such good friends,” Joanne says. “My mother taught me there is always a silver lining. You just have to look for it. I think it pays to think positively, don’t you agree, Clarissa?”

“Yes,” I agree.

Joanne winks.

“Smart girl.”

Before she has to check in at the clinic, Mom and I go for a long walk. It’s one of those perfect winter days where the sun is bright and the air is crisp but not too cold, and you can almost believe that spring is just around the corner. Hopestead is in a nice neighbourhood with nice looking houses. Families are coming and going, off to get groceries or go to work. People raise their hands and say good morning as we pass by, like we’re regular neighbours and not strangers who are staying in the cancer house. It feels good.

“The other women seem nice,” I say. “Especially Joanne.”

Mom smiles. “I thought you would like her. She’s one of my favourites, too. An amazing woman, full of spunk. She reminds me of you.”

I don’t know how an old British lady with cancer can possibly remind my mother of me, but I like that she’s been thinking about me. And I like that she called me spunky and not moody. I want to tell her that I’m sorry I didn’t listen when she called every night, and that I’m sorry I seemed so disinterested in her life at Hopestead. Instead I say, “I’m glad that you have friends here.”

“Me too. They’ve been very helpful. But enough about me, I want to hear about you. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

It’s easier to talk about things when you’re walking. Maybe because you can keep your eyes on where you’re going, and you don’t have to look someone in the eye and feel them staring at you and judging you — or worse, feeling sorry for you. I tell her about Benji and Terry DiCarlo, Denise almost burning the house down and how Michael Greenblat won’t leave me alone and now everyone thinks I have a crush on him. I don’t tell her about Mr. Campbell or the letters. She doesn’t interrupt and waits until I’m finished before saying, “You’ve been busy. Anything else on your mind?”

I wonder if Denise told her about my (ugh)
period
, because she seems to know that I’m holding the most important thing back. Or maybe it’s just a mom thing. So I take a deep breath and tell her about history class, and Mattie finding me in the bathroom, and faking sick to go home. When I’m finished she turns in the middle of the sidewalk and wraps me in a big hug.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not.

“No,” Mom insists. “It isn’t okay. None of this is okay. I should be there for this stuff. I want to be there for this stuff.”

For one horrible moment I think she might cry. I don’t know what I would do if my mother burst into tears in the middle of the street. “It’s not your fault,” I say. “It’s not like you wanted to get cancer and miss the worst day of my life.”

She laughs and throws an arm around my shoulder. We keep walking.

“Oh, Clarissa, I’ve missed you. I miss you every second of every day. Let’s get you a treat. Something to celebrate your transition into womanhood.”

Ugh. I cover my ears with my hands but even my mittens
are aren’t thick enough to block out those words.

“Mom!” I protest. “
Please!
”

Mom laughs.

“Okay, okay. Not celebrate then, how about commemorate?”

“Why would I want to remember it?” I protest.

“Hmm.” Mom thinks about it. “What if it was to celebrate that the worst day of your life is over and done with?”

“Can I have a coffee? A tall one with chocolate and whipped cream?”

“I think you mean a mocha,” she points out.

“Whatever.”

“Yes. As a new woman on the road to adulthood, you may have a mocha.”

“I accept.”

We shake.

***

Denise and I stay again on Friday night and take Mom out to the mall on Saturday. There is something so normal about listening to Mom and Denise argue about the price of jeans that I forget how much I hate shopping and have a great time. I am totally willing to spend another night, but Denise doesn’t want us to tire Mom out, so we head home after dinner.

By the time Denise and I pull into the driveway, it’s dark. There are no lights, no signs of life over at Benji’s house. The curtains are absolutely still, so I know that he isn’t sitting there watching for me. My good mood sags a little bit. I was looking forward to seeing him.

Denise slams the car door and fumbles with the keys.

“Let’s go, kiddo,” she says. “Mini-break’s over. I’m pretty
sure we left dishes in the sink. It’s going to take a minor explosion to get the crud off.”

“What do you mean ‘we?’ You’re the one who put the dishes in the sink without rinsing them.”

“Clarissa,” Denise’s voice has that warning note in it that Mom gets when she means business. If you ask me, she’s taking this temporary guardian thing way too seriously.

I point out that I have homework to catch up on and Denise gives me a murderous glare.

“Fine,” she says, “then you can call your little friend, get the assignment and sit in the kitchen and finish it while I do the dishes.”

But we never get that far. When we get inside the red light on the answering machine is flashing, and when I press
play
Mattie Cohen’s voice bounces around the kitchen.

“Clarissa, it’s Mattie. I don’t know where you are but I thought I should call you and tell you that Benji was beat up really badly today and taken away in an ambulance. Call me as soon as you get this.”

There is no answer at Benji’s house. I hang up and call again, just in case the Dentonator was sleeping the first time and didn’t hear the phone. Still no answer. I slam the receiver in its cradle.

“No answer?” Denise asks.

I glare at her.

“Obviously!”

“He’s probably at the hospital.”

“Thanks a lot, now I feel much better.”

“Did you try your friend Mattie?”

“She is not my friend and no, I did not, because half of what she says is made up anyway.”

I can’t believe that Benji is really in the hospital. It doesn’t seem right. No matter how I try, I just can’t picture an ambulance coming and taking him away. I wonder who rode with him to the hospital. I feel sick thinking about it.

“You have to call the hospital!” I shout at Denise.

“They don’t just give out patient information, you know,” Denise starts. But when she sees how serious I am, she throws her hands up and says, “Okay, okay. Just don’t bite my head off when they tell me to get lost.”

The phone rings and rings. Why isn’t anyone picking up? I can barely stand it.

“What’s taking so long?”

Denise shushes me. Finally someone picks up and Denise puts on her best professional woman voice.

“Yes, hello. I’m calling about a patient. Last name Denton, first name Benjamin, but everyone calls him Benji. He would have come in yesterday. Yes, yes, thank you.”

Denise hangs up.

“Well?”

“He’s not there.”

“Not there?”

“He must be at home, probably asleep, poor lamb.”

I rush over to the window and search Benji’s house for any signs of life. Nothing.

“I’m going over there,” I say.

Denise puts out an arm and stops me.

“Honey, maybe it’s better to wait till morning.”

“I can’t wait that long! I need to find out how he is! He may be dying!”

Denise bites her lip and for a second I think she’s going to stop me, but instead she sighs and steps aside.

“Okay, but if no one answers, don’t go breaking the door down. You come straight home and—”

But I don’t hear the rest of what she says. I’m already out the door.

***

At first there’s no answer. I ring the bell and bang on the door as loud as I can, and when that’s not enough, I kick the door with the toe of my boot. Finally a light comes on and the Dentonator opens the door.

“Clarissa,” he says. “Christ, I thought the apocalypse was here.”

“I need to see Benji.”

David Denton shakes his head and steps out onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

“He’s asleep,” he says.

“But it’s not even nine,” I protest.

“He’s had a rough couple of days.”

My breath catches in my throat.

“Is he okay?”

“Well, he looks like a kid who’s been in a fight, but he’ll be okay. No permanent damage.”

The words permanent damage make me feel queasy.

“What about temporary damage?” I ask.

“He’ll live. I’ve seen a lot worse in my day.”

I had almost forgotten I was talking to Benji’s dad, the famous Dentonator, former hockey star, genuine tough guy.

“But you were a hockey player,” I protest. “You probably started half those fights. Benji doesn’t believe in fighting.”

“No, he doesn’t, and frankly I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he may not have thrown the first punch, but he definitely started the fight. And from what he tells me, the other guy deserved it. Looks like you rubbed off on him.”

Now I’m totally confused.

The Dentonator looks at me, I mean really looks at me, before continuing.

“You’re a good friend to my boy,” he says. “I know you’ve put yourself on the line for him in the past. You come back Monday; I know he’ll be happy to see you.”

Then he puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes it and slips back into the darkness of the house.