sinuous murmur of Bebel Gilberto to hear her.
Silence thickens between us. I hear Phil rooting around, molelike, in the living room before the TV kicks in.
“She didn’t mean it, Quel. She’s terrified of losing you. Especially after Dad—Quel? Are you there? You know how Ma is, she’s just venting. You’re not a quitter, you’re just . . . in transition.”
“Lost in transition.” I try to sound jokey, but my voice is shaking.
“Hey, Moose. We’ve all been there.” Instead of stinging, the old, despised nickname feels unexpectedly cozy.
“Thanks, Laur,” I say, meaning it.
“Will you go, then?”
Oh God. The homeopath. Sociopath. Whatever.
Stewing over my mother’s jagged words, then, I know.
I can’t tell them.
I have been (mis)diagnosed for a reason. My diagnosis means—and I got this straight from Shiny, so it must be right—$245,325 for breast cancer. It means babysitting services for some poor woman who would otherwise have to drag her kids to chemo with her. It means somebody’s mother or grandmother, who hasn’t had a manicure or a doctor’s appointment or a day off in years, will be more likely to keep that follow-up appointment after that soul-killing mammogram because somebody, somewhere, is getting paid to harangue her about it. It means somebody who should live is going to live.
It’s not all about “them.” I can be honest with myself. I can! I am being given a chance to reinvent myself, a rare opportunity for change, extended into my life like an olive branch for the soul. I will fight this thing. Even if it isn’t real, I will fight it. I will show Ma, show all of them, that I’m not the quitter, the forever-in-transition mediocre artist/half-assed mother/ feeble wife they think I am. I’ll show Laurie she isn’t the only Schultz sister who can make Ma proud. I’ll show my kids their mom can bring it on with the best of them. I’ll show them how to rise up when life bites you in the butt. I’ll show Phil I am more than the slightly chunkier, infinitely less sparkly, version of the girl he married. I’ll show him I
deserve
to be cherished. I’ll show Ren he chose the wrong sister.
I’ll show them all.
“Send me the directions,” I tell Laurie.
CHAPTER 6
This Is Your Colon on Meat
I feel the minivan shudder as its transmission registers the sharp incline and drops to a lower gear. For one startling moment I see nothing through the windshield but stark blue sky, then the grade levels slightly and neat rows of Victorian cottages appear, spliced by blossoming cherry trees.
Dr. Minh of the eight-month waiting list practices out of his home, a low-lying Buddhist-shrinish collection of buildings hidden behind a high fence crawling with bougainvillea. I find a parking spot and ease the Sienna into it, mindful to turn the wheels toward the curb so the car doesn’t hurtle down the steep San Francisco hill if the brake fails.
Walking up to the house, my heart beating wildly from a combination of generalized anxiety and deception, I find myself wondering about the other Raquel Rose. Did she change her name, too, or was she actually born with the sparklier Raquel? Were her kids nicer to her now that they knew she had cancer? Did her husband’s boss take her into private bedrooms at company parties and flirt with her under surrealist artwork? How did Meissner break the news to my less fortunate alter ego? Did he have sex with her on the biopsy results, or just tell her to skedaddle on over to radiation for a few UVBs?
I ring the bell. The intercom crackles to life.
“This is Raquel Rose. I have a two o’clock with Dr. Minh,” I say, as if I am getting my hair done instead of attempting to deceive a master diagnostician.
“Come through the red door at the back. Please leave your shoes in the entryway. I’ll be out to get you shortly,” a woman says.
I follow her instructions and plant myself next to a Zen fountain and a framed diagram of the body’s major
Silence thickens between us. I hear Phil rooting around, molelike, in the living room before the TV kicks in.
“She didn’t mean it, Quel. She’s terrified of losing you. Especially after Dad—Quel? Are you there? You know how Ma is, she’s just venting. You’re not a quitter, you’re just . . . in transition.”
“Lost in transition.” I try to sound jokey, but my voice is shaking.
“Hey, Moose. We’ve all been there.” Instead of stinging, the old, despised nickname feels unexpectedly cozy.
“Thanks, Laur,” I say, meaning it.
“Will you go, then?”
Oh God. The homeopath. Sociopath. Whatever.
Stewing over my mother’s jagged words, then, I know.
I can’t tell them.
I have been (mis)diagnosed for a reason. My diagnosis means—and I got this straight from Shiny, so it must be right—$245,325 for breast cancer. It means babysitting services for some poor woman who would otherwise have to drag her kids to chemo with her. It means somebody’s mother or grandmother, who hasn’t had a manicure or a doctor’s appointment or a day off in years, will be more likely to keep that follow-up appointment after that soul-killing mammogram because somebody, somewhere, is getting paid to harangue her about it. It means somebody who should live is going to live.
It’s not all about “them.” I can be honest with myself. I can! I am being given a chance to reinvent myself, a rare opportunity for change, extended into my life like an olive branch for the soul. I will fight this thing. Even if it isn’t real, I will fight it. I will show Ma, show all of them, that I’m not the quitter, the forever-in-transition mediocre artist/half-assed mother/ feeble wife they think I am. I’ll show Laurie she isn’t the only Schultz sister who can make Ma proud. I’ll show my kids their mom can bring it on with the best of them. I’ll show them how to rise up when life bites you in the butt. I’ll show Phil I am more than the slightly chunkier, infinitely less sparkly, version of the girl he married. I’ll show him I
deserve
to be cherished. I’ll show Ren he chose the wrong sister.
I’ll show them all.
“Send me the directions,” I tell Laurie.
CHAPTER 6
This Is Your Colon on Meat
I feel the minivan shudder as its transmission registers the sharp incline and drops to a lower gear. For one startling moment I see nothing through the windshield but stark blue sky, then the grade levels slightly and neat rows of Victorian cottages appear, spliced by blossoming cherry trees.
Dr. Minh of the eight-month waiting list practices out of his home, a low-lying Buddhist-shrinish collection of buildings hidden behind a high fence crawling with bougainvillea. I find a parking spot and ease the Sienna into it, mindful to turn the wheels toward the curb so the car doesn’t hurtle down the steep San Francisco hill if the brake fails.
Walking up to the house, my heart beating wildly from a combination of generalized anxiety and deception, I find myself wondering about the other Raquel Rose. Did she change her name, too, or was she actually born with the sparklier Raquel? Were her kids nicer to her now that they knew she had cancer? Did her husband’s boss take her into private bedrooms at company parties and flirt with her under surrealist artwork? How did Meissner break the news to my less fortunate alter ego? Did he have sex with her on the biopsy results, or just tell her to skedaddle on over to radiation for a few UVBs?
I ring the bell. The intercom crackles to life.
“This is Raquel Rose. I have a two o’clock with Dr. Minh,” I say, as if I am getting my hair done instead of attempting to deceive a master diagnostician.
“Come through the red door at the back. Please leave your shoes in the entryway. I’ll be out to get you shortly,” a woman says.
I follow her instructions and plant myself next to a Zen fountain and a framed diagram of the body’s major
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