Words That Start With B (9 page)

“And she’s battling—”

“Don’t say it!”

“—breast cancer.”

“You
know
I hate that word.”

“Sorry. Why are you so mad?”

“I am not mad!” I protest, but even as I say the words, I know they aren’t true. I am mad, but I’m not sure why. So what if Benji chose my mom? The things he said are true. By Mr. Campbell’s standards, she is a regular modern day hero. And yet all I want to do is grab Benji’s essay and rip it to shreds.

“If you don’t want me to hand it in, I don’t have to,” Benji says, but I know that’s not what he wants. That is just the kind of best friend he is. I’m sorry to say that I actually consider taking him up on his offer, but only for a second. I may be a bad daughter but I am not a bad friend.

“I could do someone else,” Benji continues. “Like Oprah.”

“Don’t be stupid, you’re already done.”

“I don’t want you to be mad.”

“I already told you, I’m not mad!” I snap. “I’m just — surprised.”

That isn’t exactly true: I am both mad and surprised. Or maybe I’m mad because I’m surprised. It never occurred to me to use my own business-owning, cancer-battling single mother as my modern day hero. She’s just Mom. Someone who is always getting on my nerves and who knows just what to do to make me so angry I could scream. But Benji thought she was a hero. I went from mad to surprised to ashamed. If anyone should be writing about my mother the hero, it should be me.

“Are you going to show it to her?” I ask, hoping the answer is no. It’s one thing to write about her, but to write about her AND show it to her would be too much. I would never live it down. I would forever be compared to sweet, perfect, considerate Benji.

But I shouldn’t have worried. Benji pales and shakes his head. “I could never,” he says, and I know it’s true. He still calls her Miss Annie, for crying out loud. He’d probably faint dead away if she knew he had dedicated a whole social studies paper to her.

“Well, I won’t tell,” I promise, which if you think about it, is a very nice thing for me to do. Benji has so many embarrassing things to live with already; I wouldn’t want to add fainting in front of his own personal hero to that list. So you see, sometimes I am not only a good friend, I am a great friend.

On the day of Mom’s surgery, Denise picks me up from school so she can drive straight to the hospital. I wish Benji could come with us but he isn’t allowed to go places without the Dentonator’s permission, which he probably wouldn’t have given anyway. He would never let Benji get into a car with Denise. She tends to take corners a little faster than most people and has more than a few dents in her front fender to prove it.

“Call me the second you get back,” he makes me promise.

“I will.”

In the car, Denise is rattling off information about the surgery and how fast it is these days — how amazing medical science is. I don’t say anything. If medical science is so amazing, why haven’t they found a cure for cancer?

We stop in the gift shop but nothing there reminds me of Mom. In my backpack is a get-well card that Benji made this morning during health class. It’s just like Benji to make something himself. I know he doesn’t mean to, but he makes me look bad. I could never make a card like that. For a moment I think about not giving it to her. It’s not my fault that I’m not any good at art. I browse through the cards lining the wall of the gift shop, but none of them are as good as
Benji’s. Instead, I buy a bunch of magazines, add my name to the bottom of his card and vow that when I’m famous I will buy him a house with an art studio.

***

“You can see her now.”

Denise gives me a push toward the nurse. She looks nice enough, a little bit like a kindergarten teacher, with a big smile — the kind that’s meant to keep little kids from crying. Her dark hair is pulled back in a thick and lustrous ponytail, with zero frizz and no wisps. All-American hair, my mother would say. She’s wearing pink scrubs and her running shoes are immaculately white, almost too white to be real. It makes me suspicious. I wonder if nurses have to bleach their shoes after every shift. Maybe those shoes just look white but at one time they were splattered in blood.

“You must be Clarissa,” says the kindergarten nurse. “I’m Cheryl Cohen, Mattie’s mom.”

Dilemma. Because of Cheryl Cohen and her big mouth, my entire class knows about my mother’s cancer. I have half a mind to tell her exactly what I think of big-mouthed, Nosy-Parker goody two-shoes. But now Cheryl is my mother’s nurse. I can’t very well be rude to her while she’s looking after my mom.

“Oh,” I say. “Hello.” I clench my teeth to keep all the things I would like to say to her from flying out of my mouth.

Cheryl gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You’re a brave girl,” she says. “Mattie tells me all about you. Now come say hi to your mother. I know she wants to see you.”

Inside, the room is divided into two sections by what looks like a huge green shower curtain. There’s a woman
sleeping in the first section, but on the other side of the curtain my mom is propped up in bed, with a tube sticking out of her arm and a glass of water resting on a food tray across her lap. She smiles when she sees me and holds out her hand. Her lips are chapped and her face is chalky white. The Annie Delaney I know would never be caught dead in public looking like that.

“Clarissa,” she drawls. “Come here, baby.”

Her words are slurred and she has a dopey smile on her face. I go to her and she fumbles for my hand, grabs it and pulls me to her. I’m careful not to brush against her chest in case she’s still sore. I don’t even want to think about what it looks like under the paper-thin hospital nightie. She leans in and kisses the top of my head. She smells like the hospital, strange and antiseptic, not a trace of her coconut shampoo or perfume.

“Let me look at you.” She lays a hand on each cheek and scans my face. I can’t very well look away, so I study her face. She looks tired. Her skin is so pale I can see the freckles on her nose and the bags under her eyes. She keeps blinking slowly, like she’s having trouble keeping her eyes open.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I feel sort of numb.”

“That’s the anaesthetic,” Cheryl says. “It takes awhile to get out of your system.”

Mom falls back against the pillows with a sigh, still smiling that strange, loopy smile. I can’t stop staring at her hands, which have fallen still on the blanket. The Annie Delaney I know is always doing something with her hands: filing her nails, twirling her hair or, most annoying of all, drumming her fingertips on the table. But these hands just lay there like something dead.

It’s hot in here. I rummage around for the card, thrust it at her and mutter, “Here, we made this for you.” Mom smiles and keeps blinking and for a horrible second I think she’s going to cry. If she cries, I will cry, and I will not cry within ten feet of Mattie Cohen’s shiny-haired mother. I can just imagine the Cohens sitting around the dinner table, clucking their tongues and shaking their heads over that poor Clarissa Delaney. There is no way I will give Mattie that satisfaction.

“I’ll go get Denise,” I offer, and I’m out of there lickety-split. As I leave, Cheryl Cohen squeezes my shoulder and tries to ruffle my hair, but I’m too fast for her. I glide out of there like an eagle on the wind and I don’t, not even once, look back.

***

Mom was right. It doesn’t take her long to get back to her bossy self. She’s up and at ’em over Christmas like the surgery never happened. That day in the hospital seems so long ago, sometimes I think I must have dreamt it up, or at least exaggerated it a little. But Christmas turns into New Year’s and now she’s packing and getting ready for her stay at Hopestead in London, where she is scheduled to start treatment in a few days.

We have a low-key New Year’s Eve party, just me, Mom, Benji and Denise, of course. It isn’t much different than any other night except we wear paper crowns from leftover Christmas crackers and at midnight Mom puts a splash of champagne in our orange juice.

“My New Year’s resolution is to kick cancer’s ass,” she says.

“I’ll drink to that,” Denise adds.

Mom is leaving today for Hopestead. She slips a key off her key chain and hands it to me, like a peace offering. “I’m giving you the key to the Hair Emporium,” she says. “I want you to look after her for me. Keep her clean, air her out once in awhile. Go on, take it.”

I hesitate. If I take the key, it means I accept that she is leaving me here with Denise. Still. She’s not giving it to Denise, who I know would love to snoop around in there and get her big man-hands on all of the product. I take the key.

“All right,” I say.

“Good girl.” Mom kisses my cheek and smoothes my hair before shouldering her bag. “Denise is waiting and you need to get to school. I’ll be back before you know it. You’ll have so much fun you won’t even miss me.”

Doubtful.

“I love you.”

I try to say it back to her, I
want
to say it back to her, but the words get stuck in my throat. I nod and back away into the house, throat burning. Mom catches me in a firm grip and pulls me to her anyway. She crushes me against her
chest and whispers in my ear, “It’s okay. You don’t have to say it. I know you love me, too.”

When she turns to go I rub my eyes with my sleeve, sopping up the hot tears before they make it down my cheeks.

***

No matter how hard I try, I can’t concentrate. Mr. Campbell’s voice drones on and on like a mosquito I wish I could swat. I keep looking at the clock and wondering where Mom and Denise are. Stopped at a gas station for a snack? Checking in at Hopestead? Meeting with the nursing staff? A note lands on my desk, folded into a neat little package. I open it up and see Benji’s handwriting curling across the page.

Are you okay? You’re twitchy.

I straighten up immediately and pretend to be fascinated in the lesson.

***

When we come home the house is quiet: no hair dryer, no country radio, no chatting. Denise won’t be done work till five, so it’s just me and Benji until then. It’s too creepy downstairs with the Hair Emporium closed, so we stay in the kitchen to do our homework.

“It’s weird,” Benji says.

“What’s weird?” I snap, even though I know exactly what he’s referring to.

“The house, it’s so quiet.”

I shrug.

“I kind of like it,” I lie.

I try not to think of Mom in a strange bed in a big house full of other cancer patients. Instead, I attack my math homework. I have never been so grateful for long division.

***

“I thought for our first night I’d make you something special for dinner.” Denise says.

“I thought you hated cooking.”

Denise frowns and plants her hands on her hips. “I never said that. When did I say that? Anyways, what do you feel like? Roast chicken? Meatloaf? Casserole?”

None of these sound delicious in any way.

“Can’t we just order pizza?”

Denise pouts. “Well that’s no fun. Pick something special.”

Denise plucks a cookbook from on top of the fridge and plops it on the table in front of me. It’s been there so long that the cover has a film of thick dust. Mom and I aren’t into eating things that require written instructions. If it can’t be boiled, Shake’n Baked or stir-fried, we don’t bother. I draw a big C in the dust with my finger. When I was little I used to draw the letter C everywhere, in the gravel, in the snow, on the car window when it was all frosty in the morning. A big C for Clarissa. Now that C makes me think of cancer.

“Anything?” I ask.

“Anything,” Denise promises.

I flip through the glossy pages, looking for something with little to no vegetables and lots of cheese. Or better yet, ribs. I love ribs.

“Can we have mussels?”

“I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Lamb?”

Denise is horrified. “What kind of a person eats baby sheep?” she asks.

“Fancy people,” I say.

“Heartless people,” Denise says.

“You eat cows and chickens,” I point out.

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not. You said I could pick anything,” I complain.

“Within reason,” Denise adds.

“Well, then I want this.” I open the book to something called beef bourguignon. The instructions go on for two pages.

“You’re sure this is what you want?” Denise asks.

“I’m sure.”

“Fine,” Denise sighs. “I just have to pick up a few things from the grocery store.”

She grabs a pencil and starts making a list. Some of the ingredients I’ve never heard of.

“Can Benji stay, too?” I ask.

“Sure thing, kiddo. The more the merrier.”

***

Denise insists that she wants no help from us and shoos us out of the kitchen. Instead, we sit on the floor of my bedroom looking through Benji’s comics and old magazines from the waiting area. Every once in awhile there is a big bang or a clatter as something falls to the ground. Denise swears under her breath, but not so quietly that we don’t hear it from the bedroom. Then, after all that banging around, it’s eerily silent. Benji looks concerned.

“Do you think we should see if she needs any help?” he asks.

“She said she wanted to do it herself,” I remind him.

“I know, but it’s been ages. I’m getting hungry.”

“I don’t think she’s in the kitchen anymore. She’s probably just waiting for it to cook.”

I crawl toward the vent and press my ear to the slats. Sure
enough, I can just hear the sounds of the
TV
coming from the basement.

“What did I tell you? She’s watching
TV
.”

“Can we at least grab a snack?”

“Fine.”

But snack time will have to wait, because when we get to the kitchen, the stove is on fire.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no …”

“Benji, snap out of it! Denise!
Denise!”

Benji grabs a dish towel and waves it at the flames that crawl out from the burner and make their way across the pot. They reach so high the side of the cupboard is singed black.

“You’re making it worse!”

I push him aside and make for the tap, filling a cereal bowl left over from breakfast with water.

“Move!”

I push past him again, water sloshing over the sides and getting all over my sleeves, but I don’t even feel it. I can’t feel anything but the heat from the fire. How can such a little fire make so much heat? Standing as close to the stove as I can while still feeling safe, I toss the water on the burner. My hands are shaking so badly I miss the pot and end up watering the floor instead. The smoke alarm kicks in and starts wailing away. Denise enters the kitchen and immediately starts swearing.

“Sweet Jesus! Kids, go to the living room — I’ll deal with this.”

Denise throws open the cupboards, shoving aside plates and cups.

“Where in God’s name do you keep your baking soda?” she asks.

“In the fridge,” I say.

“Well, don’t just stand there, grab it!”

Denise puts on the oven mitts and throws our largest pot lid over the mess on the stove. Then she reaches around it to turn off the burner. I hand her the box of baking soda from the back of our fridge. After about a minute, she approaches the stove again.

“Stay back, kids,” she says.

Carefully, she lifts the lids and pours the entire box of baking soda over the smouldering mess that was supposed to be our special dinner. At least the fire is out.

Denise takes a few deep breaths.

“Should we call the fire department?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“No,” Denise says. “I’ve got it under control. What were you thinking, throwing water on a grease fire? You
never
throw water on a grease fire!”

“How am I supposed to know that?” I yell. “I was thinking that my house was going to burn down and I had to do something about it!”

Denise’s face is almost as red as her hair, and I can tell she’s not through yelling at me. But then she must remember that she’s supposed to be the adult here, because she heaves a big sigh and shakes it off instead.

“Fine. I’m sorry. Benji, order a pizza. Clarissa, go get me your mother’s biggest bottle of Annie-Off. And if I hear one word from your smart mouth, so help me God …”

But I don’t say a single thing. Even though there are so many things I want to say, I keep them to myself. I want to live to see my mother’s face when she comes home and
finds her cupboards and a pan ruined, and sassing the woman who almost burned our house down is a sure way to get myself killed.

***

“My turn,” Benji says. “Would you rather be Michelle Tanner’s babysitter or be Kimmy Gibbler’s best friend.”

“I hate
Full House
questions.”

Benji grins. “I know.”

“Even though Kimmy Gibbler is annoying, she isn’t as annoying as goody-goody Michelle Tanner, so if I had to, I’d be Kimmy Gibbler’s best friend. My turn.”

I’m going to have to get him good for that one.

“Would you rather eat Denise’s cooking or eat raw sheep guts?”

Benji shudders. “Ugh, neither.”

“You have to answer.”

“Denise’s cooking. At least it’s not raw.”

“You might as well lick the barbeque grill, it probably tastes the same.”

Benji giggles. We’re lying on my bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. I made my mom put them up two years ago when we were studying the solar system and they’ve been there ever since. They used to shine almost all night long, but now they last about twenty minutes before fading away to plain old ceiling white. I can’t bring myself to take them down.

“Knock, knock.”

I don’t understand why Denise can’t knock like a normal person. Instead she says the words “knock, knock” and walks right on in before you can say “go away.”

“It’s time for Benji to go,” Denise says.

I sit up on my elbows and look over at the clock.

“But it’s not even nine,” I point out.

“It’s a school night.” Denise says.

“So?”

“So you two need your beauty sleep.”

“But I’m not tired yet. I never fall asleep before eleven.”

I use my best sappy Michelle Tanner eyes. If Mom was here she would have sent Benji home earlier, but Denise doesn’t need to know that. For a second it looks like she’s going to fall for it, but something comes over her and she shakes her head.

“Not tonight,” she insists.

“I’d feel safer if he stayed,” I say. “What if there’s another fire?”

Denise’s eyes narrow and she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Benji, Clarissa will see you tomorrow.”

Benji hops off the bed, gathers his backpack and coat and smiles at Denise as he leaves. “Okay. Thanks for the pizza, Denise. Bye, Clarissa.”

“Bye.”

After he leaves, Denise and I stare at each other.

“Well, I’m going to watch
TV
and then I’ll make my bed up in the living room,” she says. “If you need anything, you know where I am.”

She turns to leave and then looks back at me over her shoulder.

“Good night,” she says stiffly.

“Good night,” I answer.

It feels weird. I can’t remember the last time Mom and I said good night; usually we just sort of wander off after dinner to do our own thing. I wonder what she’s doing this very minute, and if anyone said good night to her.