Nobody talks in here. The deathly still is only broken by the noise of the receptionist drearily tapping in somebody’s information on the computer, or someone’s name occasionally being boomed over the announcer, followed by strict instructions to go to whichever doctor’s room. The clock’s monotonous ticking seems as loud as a pulsating dance beat in the middle of a crowded club, and every time someone coughs, everybody looks up in surprise to see who broke the hush.
Like most silences of this variety, it comes hand in hand with the pale, somber faces of those causing the quiet. If I wasn’t in such a state of depression myself, I would’ve leaped up and started dancing ridiculously just to put a smile on the drawn faces of my companions in the waiting room.
Realizing that this would really not help anyone, I reluctantly picked up the first newspaper within my reach to immerse my thoughts into some reading only to find, to my horror, that it was the National Enquirer. I was tempted to throw it back down in disgust after seeing the front page promising an intricate analysis of Jessica Simpson’s legs continued on page six, but as the only other available magazine choices were a gardening brochure and a tattered booklet on why not to commit suicide, I decided to stick with the Enquirer.
Just as my eyes were skimming an article about a new Harry Potter book coming out in a few months, a voice interrupted my thoughts.
“I don’t see why everybody be thinkin’ that book was the shit, man.”
I glance up to meet the brown eyes of the ghetto fab speaker sitting a few seats to the left of me. My head spins around me quickly, weighing up the chances he was talking to someone else; there’s nothing worse than happily replying to a friendly stranger that you think has kindly chosen you to indulge in conversation with only to find they were actually meaning the person behind you.
“Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you,” he laughs, shifting up one seat. “Harry Potter,” he points down to my newspaper in answer to my dumbfounded face. “Didn’t feel it, y’know?”
“Oh…neither did I. I always thought there was a lot of unspoken sexual tension between Harry and Snape.”
His booming laughter attracts the confused glares of the receptionist and a woman in the corner, who seems appalled someone could actually express any form of joy in a place like this.
“I’m Kyle,” he says, holding out his hand and still grinning, apparently impressed enough by my comment to give me his name.
Ignoring the old mantra of, ‘Don’t tell strangers your name’ because, to be quite frank, Kyle looks about as threatening as a plate of Jell-O, I reply, “Cat.” Instead of shaking my hand, he slaps it enthusiastically, in a way I often see rappers and the hip hop genre greet each other. And it hurts.
He moves up the remaining seats between us, closing the gap as I awkwardly put the newspaper down and rub my slapped hand. Glancing to the left as a red tinge enters my beaten palm, I take a closer look at him. He’s not ugly, but I don’t imagine women are particularly beating down his door either. Dark brown eyes, tinted skin that I would make a stab at is from some sort of Puerto Rican descent, and a slightly chubby physique covered in heavy Sean John hoodie make Kyle’s appearance as he smiles at me expectantly.
“Cat? Like a cat that goes meow?”
No, a cat that barks. “Yeah,” I force a chuckle to appease him, rather than spitting out a train of sarcastic comments.
“Nice to meet ya, Kitty Cat.”
Is this guy trying to kick me when I’m down? Here I am, sitting anxiously in the waiting room of a cancer clinic, and he’s coming up with “witty” nicknames that insult my Christian name? Perhaps I’ll call him Kylie as a subtle way of getting back at him.
He laughs. “I’m sorry; you must think I’m on crack or somethin’.” I don’t hasten to correct him. “Don’t worry, I’m clean. And I’m not hittin’ on you either.” Thank God. Who could be with a guy that never puts g’s on the end of words? “But it’s not often I find someone in the place actually willin’ to talk, y’know? I’m just a lil’ excited.”
I smile weakly. “I can imagine you might have a little trouble finding anyone in here willing to hold conversation.” I gesture around the dull room, my eyes grazing the lifeless color of the green chairs and the tightlipped woman in the corner. It hardly looks like a social landmine.
“You seemed like the only person who wasn’t gonna bust me in the ass for talkin’ to you.”
I try not to snort obnoxiously. “Do I?” I reply flatly.
“Well, you haven’t done it yet, have you?” he grins.
I smile and cross my legs anxiously, checking the clock.
“So, you waitin’ on someone?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Are you waitin’ on someone to get out? Your mom in for an appointment or somethin’?”
“Oh, no. I’m here for myself. My appointment is in a few minutes.”
He frowns at me. “Aren’t you a little young to be all up in this shit?”
I look down at my hands sadly. “I suppose I am.”
“I’m here for my sister,” he says darkly, casting the door that people who are called for their appointments exit.
“Has she got…um…”
“Yeah.”
A feeling of unease falls between us. “I’m sorry,” I reply awkwardly.
“Don’t be,” he waves his hand nonchalantly, but a glaze covers the chocolate of his eyes. “She’ll be okay. I know it.” His dark features morph into a resolute expression as he stares off into space determinedly; perhaps he thinks by saying it out loud it’ll come true.
I tear my eyes from his indomitable face and concentrate on the fashion that my skirt has folded in, clearing my throat uncomfortably as Kyle drops his head to discreetly rub at his eyes. “It’s good of you to support her,” I comment after a silence. “I’m sure she really appreciates it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, glancing up at me. “She’s my sister; I’d do anythin’ for her, man.”
“Well, it must be very taxing for you to--”
“Not half as much as it must be for her,” he interrupts, casting another miserable look at the door. “Support is what she needs most at the moment, with all that shit she’s goin’ through.”
My cheeks burn in defiance. “I’m sure she would manage on her own.”
He shrugs halfheartedly, tilting his head back to me. “You here on your own, mami?”
Mami…mami…what does that mean again? Is that how they address strangers here in New York? “Yes, I am.”
“How come?”
It’s none of your business is what I should say, but the politer liar inside of me speaks before my instincts can. “My boyfriend is um….sort of working, you know.”
His raises an eyebrow. “He lets you do go through this on yo’ own?”
Of course he wouldn’t. “He’s very busy.”
Kyle makes an odd “humph” noise before focusing his gaze forward again, apparently losing interest in me.
Noting that I had a good fifteen minutes until the dreaded appointment, (a fact which I hastily pushed out of my mind) I ask in pure desperation, “So, where are you from?” Oh, good conversation starter Cat; almost as great as, “The weather’s been playing up a bit lately, hasn’t it?”
“Born and bred in Detroit, y’know? I’m just visitin’ for my sister.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“You ain’t from these parts, are ya?” he smiles, and I jolt at seeing the gleam of a gold tooth. How gangster is this guy? Or is it gangsta?
“Um, no; I just moved here a month or so ago actually.”
“You speak all proper and shit,” he laughs, draping both arms comfortably over the back of my chair and the one to his left.
If ‘proper and shit’ means I can talk without needing to supply the subtitles that would be really useful around Kyle, then alright. “Is that an insult?”
He laughs. “Nah, you cool. How you likin’ New York?”
“It’s wonderful; fast paced, but wonderful.”
“Do you live with your boyfriend?”
I smile instinctively. “Yeah.”
He nods. “That’s cool. How long you guys been seein’ each other?”
“It’s hard to tell, really. We were friends and roommates for so long, I can’t really draw a line where it turned to more. A little under a year, I think.”
“Well, I’m sure he would be here if he could,” he says comfortingly, dropping the street lingo momentarily and gazing at me sincerely.
My heart skips slightly in my chest. “Yes…yes, I’m sure he would be.”
“Where does he work?”
“He works at…at…” My eyes grope for a suggestion, finally landing on the magazine pile. “At a garden. As in, he’s a gardener,” I correct quickly. Oh, just brilliant.
Kyle does little to disguise his disturbed look that says, ‘he’s out pruning roses whilst you’re stuck in here?’. “Oh.”
“So what do you think about this magazine selection?” I continue quickly, gesturing towards the pathetic display of reading material in an attempt to save the dwindling conversation. “Worst range ever?”
He grins. “Definitely. I mean, it’s not like I was holdin’ out for porn, but something better than that gardenin’ shit.”
“Catherine Saunders to surgery two please.”
The smile on my face is wiped off as quickly as my head snaps up, and I tug back my sleeve to look at the hands on my wristwatch. Already? I thought I had been sitting in the waiting room for a little over ten minutes, when really forty five minutes has just flown by; why does time have that pesky habit of speeding on when all you want it to do is stand still? However unintentional it was, Kyle’s brief encounter almost made me forget what I was here for.
“That’s me,” I say, exhaling loudly as I stand up, trying to appear brave.
“Good luck, mami,” Kyle lightly pulls at my elbow, turning me to glance at him, and, for just a split second, I see Justin sitting beside me.
“Thank you. And…thanks. For taking my mind off things, I mean,” I grin sheepishly, feeling the pumping of my heart start to intensify at the prospect of what awaits me in the next few minutes. “I really needed someone to do that.”
“No worries; you just take care of yourself, aight?”
I smile sadly. Justin sometimes says aight, mainly when he’s talking to Pharrell or someone of equal street respect, and it always makes me laugh. I don’t even know why he bothers to dip into the colloquial language used by most rappers when he’s so obviously a white boy from Tennessee, but he tends to sprinkle words like “yo”, “aight” and “ill” into much of our everyday conversation; sometimes he means it seriously, but more often than not he’s just saying it to pull me from a bad mood.
I can’t even imagine the insanely stupid jokes he would be throwing at me to cheer me up if he were here. His endless supply of knock-knock jokes, or perhaps his many tour stories revolving around him, Trace, and a lot of alcohol would surely make regular appearances. Justin’s like that; he can entertain the stiffest crowd with his ridiculous stories. Making me smile in a waiting room of a clinic would be a dawdle for him.
Giving Kyle a wave, I drag myself towards the door, trying to obliterate all thoughts of running in the opposite direction. The sooner I get it over with, the better I suppose. After all, the next time I go through this door, I should know whether I have breast cancer or not. Don’t I sound casual? As though I’m pondering whether the supermarket will have any mayonnaise. By treating is as just another bump in the road, I suppose I’m subconsciously taking the sting out of it. Who wants to admit they’re faced with something possibly life threatening?
I feel as though I’m on trial for a murder I didn’t commit. The evidence is stacked up against me, but it should seem so painstakingly clear that I’m innocent. I just can’t comprehend why it’s me up here instead of someone else. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? Why am I bearing the burden of somebody else’s mistakes?
As I leave the room, the hush descends again, stilted by the customary noises. The clock starts ticking, the receptionist starts tapping, and Kyle starts to cough. What feels like a monumental step towards a potentially life changing appointment for me is simply someone freeing up a seat in the waiting room.
-----------------------------
“Want to bet a thousand dollars I get this in one take?”
“It’s costin’ us that much to even be in this studio, so just shut up and play the guitar Timberlake,” Pharrell’s voice booms through the headphones.
I smirk and gently start to strum the guitar strings, occasionally looking up to glance at the music sheet. This is one of my favorite songs; it’s about Cat, of course, and is basically one of those simpering ballads about love and trust, how they overcome all obstacles. If Cat wasn’t so considerate about my feelings, she would have told me that it was the cheesiest, most overdone song she’d ever heard when I played it to her at home a few weeks ago. She didn’t, of course; she kissed me on the cheek and whispered very quietly that she loved me.
When my lithe fingers come to a stop a few minutes later, having performed nothing but sheer perfection I might add, I look up to check Pharrell’s expression with a sneer.
“You want me to do that again?” I ask cockily, knowing full well the expected response is ‘no’ due to my flawless playing.
Pharrell mirrors my smirk before slowly leaning forward into the microphone and pressing the talk button. “Er…yes.”
“Why?” I exclaim in outrage. “I was great.”
“I know. I’m just trying to piss you off actually.”
The opening of the door catches my eye before I can retort with a slicing insult and Chad comes in, carrying a few Chinese takeout bags. “Lunch, guys.”
Immediately dropping the earphones and setting the guitar against the wall, all self-righteous thoughts elapsed, I exit the recording booth and join Chad and Pharrell in the mixing room. After making a grab for the egg fried rice that I know Chad tries to steal every time we have Chinese and taking a beer, I make a spot for myself on the heavily cushioned sofa, ready to indulge in the mindless chatter that always exists between the three of us.
“I don’t know what that Sunflower bitch did to you Justin, but these songs are better than anything you’ve ever written,” comments Chad, cursing under his breath as he picked up a noodle he had dropped on his polo shirt with his chopsticks.
“Thanks buddy,” I reply, an arrogant but still appreciative smile spreading across my face. “I think I had a better muse this time too.”
“And there was me thinking after Britney you’d be screwed,” Pharrell remarks, handling his chopsticks with some difficulty. “What could possibly be more inspirational than a blonde gymnast who screwed your head over?”
I laugh, taking a swig of Coors Light (as though that’s going to compensate for having a calorie-filled Chinese). “I know. Remember how I thought I was never going get over her?”
“You were such a chick about it. ‘I cried myself to sleep’; Jesus, what was that all about?”
“Good press.”
“You used to have the most gorgeous rebound girls though,” Chad adds, pointing one of his chopsticks at me in admiration. “That dancer was so hot, dude. Jenna? Jemima? Never figured out why you broke up with her, actually.”
“Because she was trying to get pregnant so I would stay with her,” I kindly remind him, shuddering at the mere memory of what I thought was just a girl with fantastic lips who actually turned out to be a nutcase with a severe fixation with marriage before twenty five.
“Cat’s not pulled any crazy shit like that, has she?”
I smirk, my mind taking a very pleasurable walk down memory lane as I thought to the night before. Handcuffs and blindfolds could definitely be classified as crazy shit. “The only crazy shit Cat’s been pulling lately has been thoroughly enjoyable, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
I pause, staring into my box of rice and flicking a grain with my chopstick. Should I tell them about Cat’s little freaky outburst last night? I don’t usually talk about my sex life, except in those male grunts that all guys do, which only focuses on how dirty it was rather than the sentimental details. Cat will talk about her sex life with her closest friends (as I discovered the day after we first consummated our relationship and Diane wouldn’t stop winking at me) but, although she’s made a few bonds with some of the women living in the building, there’s no one she’s that close to. Except Trace and a few of my friends, but that would just be weird.
Knowing Cat, her face would probably erupt into flames if anyone knew about our little…thing last night. Even this morning she was a little off, but I know it’s just because she was trying to deal with the surprise she must have felt inside. When you do something so wild that it shocks even yourself, it’s weird to handle. Hell, I was surprised enough for the both of us. Cat using bondage in a humorless, genuinely dirty way? Impossible.
I begin slowly, picking my words carefully. “Have you ever like…dated a girl--”
“Amazingly enough, yeah,” Chad supplies with a snort.
“Shut up. Anyway, have you ever dated a girl who you thought would never do something, but then, out of the blue, she like…does?”
They stare at me blankly. “She killed someone?”
I give Chad a patronizing glare. “No. I mean something nice…something fun, just kinda sorta out of character.”
“Kinda sorta out of character?”
“Yeah. As in you would have never expected it from them.”
“What did she do?” asks Pharrell, proceeding to cram as much lemon chicken into his mouth as he could.
I pause and shift uncomfortably. “Um…I can’t really say. I don’t want to embarrass her.”
“Does it follow the theory the quiet ones are always wild in bed?”
I jolt, puzzled not only by Pharrell’s quick logic, but also what a suitable response would be. “Er…”
“So that’s a yes,” Chad grins, raising his beer bottle in a toast to me. “Well, props man; you got some quality ass!”
I snort and shake my head in amusement. “I did not get ass. I just…anyway, whatever, my point is: doesn’t that seem a little strange for Cat?”
Pharrell nods in agreement quickly as he stares into his Chinese box; I think Pharrell would say Cat was strange in any circumstance. They can sit alone in a room and find things to talk about, but their relationship is always a little strained. I guess Pharrell was a little stung the time Cat said Chad was better looking and, just to add insult to the injury, finished with an ‘obviously’.
“So?” Chad says, looking at me incredulously. “Don’t question it for God’s Sake. When we were kids did we ask whether Santa was real? No, we just kept our mouths shut and took the presents with a smile. C’mon dude, be grateful.”
“I guess,” I laugh, setting my food down and relaxing back into the couch. “I think it could be a turning point in our relationship actually.”
“Calm down, brotha,” Pharrell chuckles. “Just because she gave you a blow job or somethin’ don’t mean you gotta be all analytical and deep about it.”
“No, seriously,” I protest above Chad’s giggles. “I think it shows how much she trusts me.”
“And how’s that?”
“Well, I sincerely doubt she’s done that crap with anyone else,” and if she has, I’ll kill them, “so I think by doing…what we did, it illustrates how much she, you know, cares about me and has faith in our relationship.”
“I don’t get it.”
“See, she trusts me, doesn’t she? She’s willing to let down her barriers and try to experiment, do things she’s never done before.”
“You got all that from a blow job?”
“It was not a blow job!” I exclaim, fighting with the grin on my face as Pharrell ducks from the flying cushion I sent his way.
“Alright, alright, I’m sure you’re correct,” he smiles, sitting up properly again. “You guys tell each other everything, right?”
“Of course,” I answer immediately, mildly offended he would suggest otherwise. “We have one of those relationships with no secrets.”
“So where is she now?”
I shrug, twirling my bottle of beer around in my hands. “Well, that I’m not entirely sure about; I found her and Trace arguing this morning.”
“Her and Trace?” repeats Chad in surprise. “Those two never argue.”
“Exactly. And it was about some stupid shit like he read her mail or something, I don’t know…anyway, he stormed off and she went after him after telling me to just go to work. I mean, it’s half twelve now and I haven’t heard from her, so she must’ve found him.”
“But how will she know where to find him? I mean, he could be anywhere.”
I stop, the mouthful of beer from my recent swig fizzling in my mouth. That’s an awfully good point. “Well I suppose she just…knows.” Because if she isn’t with Trace, where else could she be?
“She’ll just find him on his cell, right?” Pharrell shrugs.
“Precisely,” I reply, feeling reassurance course through me. But she did seem pretty hesitant to spend time with me this morning…no, no, I’m just imagining things. She was just upset about Trace: I’m overanalyzing.
“So, how many songs you wantin’ on this album, J?”
I give myself a shake and turn to Pharrell, trying to get into a music mindset again. “Well, I’ve got three with Amber that will definitely be used, a few I’m not sure about, and you know the one we did on Friday? Well--”
The opening of the door and Trace’s shuffling as he fiddles with the zipper of his coat interrupt my sentence. “Hey guys,” he mumbles distractedly, harshly pulling at the fastener impatiently.
“Hey,” I say, frowning when Cat doesn’t come in behind him. “Um…where’s Cat?”
“How the hell should I know?” he snaps, shooting an irritated glance in my direction. “You lost her?”
“Well, yes…she said she was going after you after your argument,” I explain, anticipating a look of recognition to wash over Trace’s features. “She didn’t find you?”
Trace stops and stares at me, his eyes holding some sort of…sadness, sympathy, I can’t pin it down. He slowly removes his coat and hangs it over the back of a chair, before running his hands tiredly over his face. He seems so drained, so upset, so un-Trace. Trace is the one who is calm and rational as I freak out over anything and everything. What could possibly have made him like this?
He leans back against the mixing deck and brings his hands down from his face. “She’s done it again.”
“Done what?”
He doesn’t answer me, only pushes the sleeves of his gray track jacket up to his elbows and buries his head in his hands.
“Where did you go?” asks Chad, attracting Trace’s attention as he brings his head up and looks over at Chad.
“Nowhere, really,” he answers, picking up a stray box of food and poking around its contents. “I went to that little drug store just two blocks away and got some cigarettes, walked to--”
“What?! Cigarettes?” I cry out in surprise.
In the olden days, when Trace and I spent our time partying and drinking, he used to be well known for permanently having a cigarette (whether it contained tobacco or otherwise) hanging out of his mouth or resting between his fingers; in fact, you rarely saw him without one. But when the last serious girlfriend he had, and this was at least two years ago, warned him it was either cigarettes and no kissing or her and plenty of kissing, Trace kicked his habit with impressive speed. Even when they broke up, he grudgingly admitted that he smelled and looked a lot better without smoking so I presumed that he never planned to pick it up again. After all, why would he? No one benefited from it anyway.
“What the hell, dude?”
“Back off, Justin,” he orders, throwing the box of food back down, and suddenly the nauseating smell of smoke hits my nostrils. I can manage that smell in bars or clubs, but not coming straight off my best friend. “I’m a big boy, and I’ll smoke if I want.”
“But why have you started again? You did so well to stop.”
“Because I felt like it, okay?!” As if to prove a point, he pulls a crumpled pack of Marlboros out of the back pocket of his jeans and begins to toss it teasingly between his fingers, as though just daring me to push him to the edge and make him smoke one.
“So where’s Cat?” I ask suddenly, tearing my eyes from the packet of cigarettes and fixing them squarely on Trace.
He lets out a loud, aggravated groan and throws his head back in frustration. “I don’t fucking know!”
“Jesus dude, what is wrong with you?” I back down, trying to ignore the hurt settling in the pit of my stomach.
“Just ask your girlfriend,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls out a cigarette, attaching the long stick of death to his lips and fiddling with the lighter.
“What was that?”
He sighs roughly, whether at me or the broken lighter I don’t know, and starts to push the button on the lighter with more determination. “Nothing.”
“Trace, what did you say?” I ask, a frown slowly etching into my forehead as I rise from the couch.
He emits another angry exhale of air and snatches the unlit cigarette from his lips, looking at me with tired annoyance. “I said: nothing.”
“What is your problem?” I demand, pulling myself to my full height, easily towering over Trace’s short stature. “You’ve been getting at Cat all day; first this morning, now this. She hasn’t done anything wrong, so just leave her alone.”
“She hasn’t done anything wrong?” he snorts, raising his eyebrows at me and tossing his cigarette towards the trash can. “Let me tell you, Justin,” he pokes a finger angrily into my chest, pushing me back slightly, “Cat has done a lot wrong, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “What could Cat have possibly done that I wouldn’t know about?”
He lets out another irritating snort; every time he does that, I get the feeling there’s something going on that I don’t know about, and I don’t like that feeling. “Plenty.”
“Oh, good answer,” I retort sarcastically, rolling my eyes. “You haven’t got shit on her, so just admit it; you’re just being pissy, and she’s the closest person to lash out at.”
He shakes his head, incredulity on his face.
“It’s true; I mean, why pick on her? Why not me?”
“It’s because of her that we’re even having this argument!”
I scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous, not it’s no--”
“When will you see, Justin?!” he shouts, a voice so loud and desperate erupting from his body I have to step back in surprise. His eyes widen at me in desperation, as though he wants shake me until I understand. “Cat has been lying, and lying, and lying to you, because she’s too scared to tell you the truth!”
Trace’s words scratch themselves into my mind as the air thickens with tension. “W-what?” I stumble quietly, doubt seeping into my mind like water through a straw.
Trace steps back slightly, straightening from his hunched position and staring at me sadly, breathing deeply.. “Like I said man, you need to talk to her.”
“Tell me what’s wrong with her,” I insist suddenly, the shaky feeling of fear hitting me slowly. Trace wouldn’t be this dramatic over something trivial; whatever’s going on, it’s big. But what could be wrong with her? Is she sick? Has something bad happened to her? Why didn’t she come to me for help, or support, or for someone to talk to?
So many questions, and no answers.
He hitches, staring at me carefully. “I’m sorry J, I really can’t…”
My arms reach out on their own accord and grasp Trace’s shoulders tightly. “No, Trace, seriously. You have to tell me,” I chuckle nervously, “I mean…I’ll just drive myself insane with worry if you don’t.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“For fuck’s sake, Trace!” I shout, roughly pushing him away and starting to pace the room, much to the disturbance of a wide eyed Pharrell and Chad. “You can’t just casually tell me that something awful has happened to her and then expect me to brush it off!”
“It’s not my business to tell.”
“This is not fifth grade, Trace! We are not ten year olds running around with pigtails in our hair talking about secrets! This is serious.”
He lets out an exasperated breath. “Don’t I know it! I’ve been the one who’s had to balance sympathizing with her and making sure you don’t find out at the same time--”
“What? So Cat’s intentionally been keeping this from me? But…but why would she tell you and not me? I’m her boyfriend, for God’s Sake!”
“Well, I don’t know! Why are you asking me? I’ve just been dragged into this, whether I wanted to be or not a completely irrelevant issue!”
“Oh, Cat trusts you enough to tell you her darkest worries. How simply awful for you,” I snap sarcastically, anger starting to dance its evil way through my blood. Shit, here I was spouting such ridiculous tripe about how honest we were with each other, when really she’s been going behind my back telling everyone but me what’s been bothering her? That’s fucked up, so fucked up.
“Justin, don’t get angry with me,” Trace warns calmly, returning to his usual, non frazzled self. “Go home, cool off, and Cat should be back soon,” he says, glancing over my shoulder at the clock hanging on the wall. “You guys can talk about it alone; this has nothing to do with me.”
“Back from where?”
He looks up at me, his eyes pleading to tell me something but his mouth set in a firm line. “From finding out whether this was all worth the worry.”
--------------------------------------------------
“Do you understand the procedure, Ms Saunders?” enquires Dr Papierma…Paperymal…I don’t know how to pronounce his second name, all I know is that it sounds slightly like papier-mâché.
I blink slowly at him, guilty of every single word that just left his lips having flown straight over my head into oblivion. “Yes, of course,” I reply, nodding.
“If you’d like to just follow me, please,” he says, beckoning me with a tanned, aged hand.
If I’d like to? Of course I wouldn’t like to; I’d rather gnaw my way through the cement in these walls than follow you, but I don’t think that’s necessarily what he means.
Sitting myself on the cold leather of the seat he had motioned to, I anxiously tap my foot rhythmically on the floor, filling the room with the dull thud of my sole meeting the linoleum.
“This is the needle I will be using to perform the FNAC,” he says, glancing up at me when I stare at him blankly. “The fine need aspiration cytology. To drain the lump or extract a sample.”
My eyes dart down to his hands holding the long, thin stem of a needle, and immediately my palms start to moisten. Is this the part where I’m supposed to be brave? Pretend the sight of a fine pointed, razor sharp needle doesn’t scare me? Pretend I don’t realize the fate of my life rests in that stupid piece of medical equipment? Pretend that it won’t hurt?
I didn’t want to be brave. I wanted to curl up in a ball; shelter myself from the cruel, harsh blows that the world gave to me. I didn’t want him to come anywhere near me with that needle; I had been terrified of injections ever since I was seven and I had to get some random shot without the assistance of my loyal companion, Mr. Ears (a childhood toy in the shape of a bunny that my dog eventually devoured) so, when it hurt, I had nothing to hold onto. To this day I still get freaked out if a needle pricks me when I’m attempting to sew one of the many holes in Trace’s jeans.
To be courageous does not mean you aren’t allowed to be scared. It means you’re brave enough to overcome fears, but nowhere in the rule book does it say thou shalt not have a racing heart, sweaty palms and stuttering speech. But I didn’t even feel courageous; I just felt alone, scared, and oddly spaced out. As though I was watching the scene from a million miles away, when really I was right there in the room living it.
Is it childish to look away? Is it immature to not even be able to face my fear straight on? Should I be looking at the needle like a man? Or a woman, but the concept is the same. I remember when I was younger and going through a very strict, “I hate boys” phase, and my mom used to joke, “Are you a man, or a mouse?” and I would always shriek “mouse!” before subconsciously shuddering and saying “Boys equal cooties”.
It’s ridiculous how, even in situations like this, I still manage to think of funny anecdotes. It must be some sort of retaliation mechanism against fear; thinking I can scare it away with a few laughs. If I do have cancer, who will be laughing then? God? Laughing because he hit me when I thought everything was okay?
Lifting up my gown to let him see the lump, I quickly look off to the right, trying to avoid seeing the needle at all costs. I let out a low hiss as I feel a prick on my left side, try to reason with myself that the sooner it starts, the sooner it’s over, and blink my watering eyes. The doctor informed me that general anesthetic to numb any pain was “unnecessary”, so they wouldn’t be using it…I’m beginning question that theory. Do they like the fact that I’m in pain right now? Do they enjoy seeing me bite my lip to stop from crying out?
I wish Justin was here. I so, so wish he was.
“Almost done,” comes the gentle murmur of the doctor, and I nod quickly, closing my eyes as a few tears of pain sneak out and streak my cheek.
“Okay, finished,” he says gently, and a moment later I feel the cushiony texture of a cotton swab brushing against my skin, wiping away blood from the incision.
I hate those awkward moments where you’re just dying to ask something, but you feel it would be inappropriate to do so. At someone’s funeral, for example: for fear of sounding selfish, hundreds of other people stay quiet, keeping their curiosities about whether they were left something in the will to themselves, until someone finally breaks the silence by saying, “Um…let’s have a look at that will, shall we?”
But that’s exactly how I felt; I was literally bursting to pelt queries at the doctor as he disposed of the needle and began to scribble hastily on a piece of paper, but I didn’t want to irritate him by interrupting his work. I could feel the time slowly trickling by and had started to anxiously grind my teeth in anticipation as to what he was going to tell me; I was horrified when he looked up and raised an eyebrow in question to my scraping teeth, silently telling me to stop it. It was a few nanoseconds of silence that elapsed between us, but to my vexed mind it felt like a lifetime.
“Well Ms Saunders, as you can see, we were able to drain the lump.”
I slowly raise a hand and press it gently to the area I have been loyally avoiding for two weeks, as though it was going to burn me if I touched it. My brows furrow into a frown as my fingers trace smooth skin, not skirting over the small, peanut sized lump I had come to hate.
“It’s…it’s gone,” I mutter softly, clutching the side of the leather seat in front of the doctor’s desk to steady myself.
He nods, his gray streaked hair bobbing up and down and clasps his hands on top of his desk, like a business man preparing for negotiation. Sweat prickles at my forehead as my heart rate picks up, thumping noisily against my chest. It’s almost like…painful anticipation.
“Well, what do I have to do?” I ask eagerly, failing to disguise the despair in my voice. “Do you have to analyze the stuff you took out? How long will it take until the results get back to me? Can you possibly tell me now what my chances are?”
Dr…whatever his name is blinks at me slowly. “Ms Saunders, you do know what this means, don’t you?”
I hastily shut my eyes, willing the tears to stay at bay just a little longer. I can only assume that it means the worst, but how the hell am I supposed to know? Did I spend five years in fucking medical school? No, I did not…
My anger subsides almost as quickly as it rose, and I cover my face with my hands miserably. “No…no, I don’t.” The quick beating my heart had adopted suddenly quadruples, and I half expect it to leap right out of my chest as I wait in agonizing suspense for him to continue.
The doctor’s grave face suddenly breaks into a wide grin. “It means it was a cyst of course.”
My fingers slowly melt away from my face, unsheathing my terrified look to the doctor. “I’m…no, that can’t be…what?”
He chuckles slightly. “Well, the odds were always on your side. No history of breast cancer in your family, age obviously not being a factor…you weren’t worried, were you?”
Is that a joke? That’s a joke, isn’t it? Who wouldn’t be worried?
“So I…I don’t have cancer?”
He lets out a laugh and gives me a questioning look, as if to ask why one earth I could fret over something so blatantly obvious. I marvel at his laidback attitude as he swings back in his chair, putting his hands on the back of his head in the most relaxed fashion one can manage in a white lab coat.
“Of course not, Ms Saunders.”
Elation. Relief. Happiness. Release. Blissful euphoria. Liberation. Breaking free from the bonds of doubt. Emotions I couldn’t even describe gushed through my body all at once, so strong I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.
It was one of those moments. One of those, “Fuck you world, I outsmarted you” moments. The kind of moment where you feel as though you’ve suddenly rocketed up into the stars, leaving those who doubted you in a cloud of dust back down in earth.
It was more than a weight being lifted off my shoulders; it was like the burden of a thousand worries that had been resting heavily on my heart had suddenly crumbled as easily as a cookie in milk. I felt a rush of relief that seemed to wash through my body, cleansing me of the aching anxiety that my body and mind had had to support for too long.
I didn’t have cancer. I don’t have cancer. It feels as though someone as suddenly given me back my life again after cruelly snatching it away for a while and juggling my fate carelessly. The overwhelming sensation of helplessness against something that would cripple my body against my will was excruciating, but with a click of the fingers that feeling disappeared.
What am I supposed to do now? There’s no point in telling Justin now that I know I’m in the all clear; it would be senseless to worry him now that everything’s okay, and he would probably just get angry that I had been lying to him. Well, not so much lying as…hiding the truth. I think the best thing would be for me to forget all about this horribly dark stage of my life and take from it what I can: I have to start appreciating things that I previously took for granted. I have my health and I have love; what else could I possibly want?
Oh, but I’ll have to have a long talk with Trace. I only realized how selfish I was being when I saw his upset look this morning; it must be killing him to have to lie…or hide the truth, rather, to Justin. I hope he’s not too mad at me, I hate having arguments with people.
Nodding happily towards the doorman as I walk through the doors of our apartment, my steps seems so much lighter and easier now I don’t have that bogging down on my mind. I’ll just be so happy to put all of this behind me.
The moment I step off of the elevator and into our apartment however, I know something’s wrong. It’s impossible to pinpoint, but the air seems thick with unspoken tension, almost like the waiting room in the clinic. The apartment is void of noise; no Trace blabbering into his cell phone, no distant drone of the television playing a crappy Lifetime movie, no wailing of Justin singing an Al Green song…what could possibly be going on?
The next thing to strike me after the silence is the musty smell of smoke. And not the endearing kind you get off burnt toast, but the intoxicating, filthy smell of cigarettes that hangs around seedy bars and secluded areas of restaurants. Justin doesn’t smoke, I don’t smoke, and Trace doesn’t either. Well, he used to, but he said he would only resort back to it if he was “stressed to the point of suicide”, so that’s irrelevant. Maybe Justin had a friend round before he went to the studio and he let them light up in here; I’ll talk to him about it later.
Slowly slipping my coat off and craning my neck to see if anyone was in sight, I shrug and walk into the living room. Justin is probably still in the studio and Trace must be…oh God, I hope he’s not in some brothel at two in the afternoon, but you never know with Trace. It must be my imagination conjuring up the tension; there’s no one in here to be tense after all.
“Did you find him?”
I startle, jumping back and almost knocking over a vase standing on a small table by the television. Clasping a hand to my heart, I try to calm myself. “Justin, what are you doing here?”
Justin’s stiff frame sits rigidly on the couch, his eyes staring straight ahead of him blankly. If the atmosphere contained any hint of humor I would have made a joke about him resembling Frankenstein in a bad mood, but the taut face of Justin did little to encourage me to do so.
His head slowly turns to me, his penetrating, cold stare sending a shiver through my spine. “Did you find him?”
“Who?”
“Trace. That is, after all, who you were searching for this whole time, right?”
Recognition slowly dribbles into my brain. I told Justin I was out looking for Trace, didn’t I? God, I wish now that I hadn’t lied so much, or at the very least done it better. “Um…no.”
Justin continues to gaze at me, his eyes unfeeling and bland. “Well, of course you wouldn’t. Because he’s right here.”
He motions behind me and I glance over my shoulder, only to see Trace’s stocky figure lurking in the corner. My frown deepens as Trace refuses to meet my eye, only looking down to scuff his feet on the carpet.
“What’s going on?” I ask slowly, my eyes going back and forth between the emotionless Justin and the timid Trace. Jumpy fear starts to filter into my veins; you would only have to say “boo” and I would scream. A churning feeling in my stomach kindly reassures me that something has been said, something had been done, and that something concerns me.
He couldn’t possibly know, could he? Please God, don’t let him know. He’ll be so hurt…and angry, dear Lord very angry.
He takes a deep breath, pressing his knuckles into the couch to lever himself up. Slowly swaggering towards me, I see a tint of feeling enter his cool blue eyes as he walks toward me, my thumping heart audible in the silent room.
“I’m not going to force anything out of you, so I’ll ask this just once, Cat. Is there anything you have to tell me?”
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