2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 4

People see cancer in colors. At least we did. Marla said that the cancer was sky–blue, and I never asked her why. I assumed it was because of my dad's veins. They started snaking around his arms, viciously, hungrier looking veins than I had ever seen — as if they had just suddenly appeared for the pain medicine.

We discovered it in summer — and it happened because of summer, I guess. But it was also discovered then, the melanoma, which is unfair because you shouldn't feel ashamed of taking your clothes off and feeling the grass on your ass. You shouldn't feel guilty about trying to get as warm as you can.

As a family, we consumed sunshine like fuel. I used it to chase away depression or boredom, or to scare memories out of a room. We were also big on nudity; we equated it with comfort. It was the reason we lived on five acres. But I don't recall anybody tanning after that August. We froze that summer. We stayed in the shade and glared like we were already ninety — Marla and me, clenched together in sisterhood. Suddenly dried up and dark at nine and fourteen.

The mole itself was purple–red, a splotch. It was no bigger than a cystic pimple when my father found it and started to poke at it — with the hope that it would suddenly erupt pus and move on and dry up; that it would become a simple gross–out event for his wife and daughters, like the brown snot that came out of him during winter sinus infections. After blowing his nose, he'd chase us around with the tissue, making us scream.

We hoped his cancer would become like that — a gross short story, something funny in the retelling. We told jokes about it, warming up our performance skills, and trying out our glib reactions on each other — before the strangers came up with their damn sympathy. Sympathy came in colors, too — which made it easy to spot and resist. It was too blinding and hot — pounding on our shoulders — spotlighting us in the middle of the grocery store. People would come up to us and we would feel obligated to burn they way they needed us to, turning tender red with halting soft anger — parroting the belief that cancer should really only happen to the very old or very young — affecting the people you could help and cry easily for because they were so very far away from yourself.

* * *

"You can have my bed."

As soon as the words are out I regret them — and I stand there with my mouth hanging open, a stupid–looking smile. My dad laughs with relief, a grunt that he swallows with a sigh. My bed is more comfortable than his, but he knows I am a liar. He bought that bed for me, a Christmas present. It is all dark wood and pillow top mattress — it is so much higher than I am that I have to get a running start to jump into it. It is the literal ladder to my dreams, and I shouldn't be giving it up. But like all my other words, they fly out of my mouth without warning — just so I will have something to say, something to give. My dad climbs in. He is weak but tall enough to get in without much effort. The sheets are my faded gold ones; they are not clean and fresh. He pulls the sheet up to chin level, adjusts the pillow, and my hands stay at my sides. I am no nurse, and my heart is thumping like a useless civilian. "It's OK, Mary." He flashes me a genuine smile, then ruins it with a deep sigh of pain.

"I know it is," I lie. I watch him settle in — eyes closed, breathing slow and loud out of his mouth. I wonder how much fear he can smell in my pillow, and how I will walk away without pushing him to the floor.

The sweet smoke was supposed to make us relax, make us feel giddy and free. I wasn't smoking a pipe with my mother. I was simply inhaling whenever she exhaled. She never passed it to me, but I still hoped for a contact high. I breathed with purpose, ready to do anything to laugh about nothing. The fact that we were sitting on the front porch, at twilight — the fact that we were doing this while rocking in rocking chairs, made things less strange, less of an after–school special. It's something my grandparents would have done — minus the joint. We were innocent. Summer was about getting high on nature's bounty, however you can.

"Is he asleep?" Mom was stoned, but her face hadn't really changed its expression, hadn't found any release. Her mouth was set in a thin, ugly line, eyes glued to the small bits of grass that fought to grow in a nearby dirt pile. Her face was shiny with sweat, too tired to even force a yawn so she would have an excuse to go in the house and reload the pipe. She stayed with me, trapped, seemingly laminated in place. It wasn't any better in the house. She needed me to notice she was perfectly worn out. I gamely took her hand, nodding, leaning a bit closer.

"He ate plenty of zucchini casserole, half a plate," I report, then instantly felt guilty. I had put him to bed after giving him the neighbor's food — even helped myself to the leftovers — but left her the nausea and vomit that would eventually come. She pretended not to notice my frown.

"Looks like he's lost that beer belly for good, doesn't it?" The desperate giggle made me uncurl my fingers from hers. "I'm so glad we shaved his head. Even cancer looks good on him. He makes it work." I waited, unsure how to compliment my father behind his back on his stylish illness. Would we talk like this when he was finally gone?

Marla came out, not bothering to catch the screen door, letting it hit with a satisfying bang. She was dressed to the nines: white shoes, navy dress and matching ribbon, although it was crookedly tied. Her bare knees had been softened with lilac lotion, taken without asking from mom's lingerie drawer. She stood right next to my mother, daring her to comment on the scent.

"I have a birthday party tomorrow," she announced flatly, "Maria Jennings invited me — two o'clock."

"And so you're dressed to shop? Now?"

I fought back my own giggle. It was eight–thirty. Nothing was open except Walgreen's. Plus, there was no way we were running errands between nine and one tomorrow. It was the only time Dad was awake for more than minutes at a time.

Marla turned, figuring if she walked down the stairs with enough authority towards the car, my mom would have no choice but to follow. She looked back at us on the second step, her voice still high and hopeful. "Mom?"

My mother's eyes didn't meet hers. She kept her head tilted back, kicking her restless feet at nothing, like she had spasms from time to time. Her voice was cool and unapologetic, as summery as melting ice. "Marla, give your friend one of your school pictures that you have left. There's a red frame up in the cupboard that'll fit, and some wrapping paper from Christmas."

Marla's face turned red, and then drained just as completely, her stance suddenly less sure on the stairs. "Maria already has one. We traded already — when we first had them taken."

I saw her shoot a glance towards the house, could see her thinking about how delicious throwing a tantrum would feel. My mother saw none of this. She was looking up at the stars. "Well, I'm sure she'll like a frame then." There was no shame in her voice. The neighbor ladies would be impressed that my mother found a minute to tie a hair ribbon. Marla would have to bear the weight of the gift alone.

Marla walked in front of us, but her voice was soft. All the brisk confidence from seconds before had leaked out. "That's not really a present," she said weakly.

"I'll wrap it for you," I said from my seat, thinking quickly how the gift could be improved with the addition of drug store candy, a garish lip gloss, maybe a magazine subscription sent two weeks later. I knew of a sparkly silver bow hidden away too, from Christmas. Little girls would like anything that was prettily wrapped. I would use that for Marla.

"I'm going to kiss Daddy," she finished crisply from the other side of the door. There was no use arguing. She was back to the business of cancer, an efficient visitor in her own home. She let the door bang without catching it. We were both satisfied when it thumped behind her.

Two minutes went by before my mother raised her head. She was sleepy–eyed, and shivered a little when she noticed the darkening sky. Our dog, Zevon, snarled in the entryway. He was as moody as the rest of us — he reminded us his food was ten minutes late. My mom cleared her throat, and pushed her sweaty bangs out of her face. "Mary, did I ever tell you how we came to live in this house?" Her voice rose melodramatically over the dog, like she was performing a monologue, like this was planned.

I nodded. She would tell the story anyway — stories were easier than conversation. We clung to our golden scripts that summer, scared of raw improvisation.

"I was here, at a garage sale. You were with me, I think. Over in the books, nosing through them, like you always do." She smiled at me then — my cue — and I returned it just as smoothly, accepting the praise she offered in her memories, because it helped me along now. "There was this fat black woman, she owned this house. She had the kindest face I've ever seen. As I picked around her knickknacks, she kept looking at you, smiling at me, asking questions that were a little too personal for chitchat. She let me see the upstairs, even though she didn't keep anything up there to sell."

My mother's posture grew more rigid as she talked. As she stiffened into this memory, I felt her leave me alone on the porch. My head began to hum.

"She loved her house, she told me, but was ready to sell it to someone, someone that needed it. She asked me how many kids I had, how much money I had in the bank. And then she offered to sell us this house for three thousand dollars. Three thousand, Mary! It was magic! It was unheard of. I thought she was joking. But your dad and I signed the papers and moved ourselves in."

Her voice broke then, this was her favorite part of the story. "That lady was magic, Mary. She just wanted us to love this house."

My mother gave a real shiver and swung her full body to face me, staring me full in the face. "I do love this house, Mary. I do." She looked at me for a crucial response to her statement, something immediate that she needed from me. I thought about all the useful things I could do right now, ticking them off in my head one by one.

"I'll feed Zevon," I said hopefully, starting toward the entryway, fearing that the summer air was suddenly too thick to swallow. My mother's gaze lost all of its warmth. I saw her forget the sounds of comfort. In that moment, I saw her stop believing in the meaning of words, in the power of them. She pushed me back into my chair with one strong hand. My tailbone burned when it hit the splintery wood. I felt a bruise forming and a lump in my throat.

"I'll do it." The words were clipped and guttural as she disappeared into the other enclosed part of our porch.

My tears came out in sputters — a sound that I tried at first to block with a grimy hand, and then gave up when my sobs turning into soft screams. There was no response from her — it was quiet. I heard her start to mutter to herself, and then to kick the dog — first for his hunger, and then again for his pain.