Dany
“Well, girl, you’re back, are ya?” Gerry and the rest of the girls are watching as the nurse inserts the IV and plugs me into the chemo.
“Humph,” says Cleopatra.
Sylvie frowns. “Now, dears. Dany was merely having a hard time before. It was her first day. First days are always hard. She didn’t mean any offense.”
“Exactly,” says Matilda. She sends me a warm smile.
The tightness in my chest loosens. I was embarrassed about how I spoke to them last week. They hadn’t done anything to deserve my anger. All of them are smiling at me now, well, except for Cleopatra, but I haven’t seen her smile yet. I give a tentative smile back. I’m still not exactly interested in becoming one of “the girls,” but I can be polite.
The cold bite of the medicine hits my veins. I block it out.
To be honest, I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t see the girls again. It was awkward last time.
“How is it that you’re all here again at the same time?” I ask. Chemo is treated in cycles, and not all the cycles are the same. It can be once every week. A full week straight then three weeks off. Or once every three weeks. The list goes on.
“Sylvie and I have the three o’clock appointment on Thursdays. If you don’t like us, change your time,” says Gerry.
“Bah, I’m here when I’m here,” says Cleo.
“I’m just…I come a lot,” says Matilda. “I try to make my time match Gerry’s. I like her stories.” She fidgets with the hem of her cat T-shirt.
“Dears, did I mention how much I like how they put the recliners in a circle? It’s like a knitting circle,” says Sylvie.
“No one is knitting,” says Gerry.
“I am,” says Sylvie.
I smile and decide not to reach for a magazine.
I could change my appointment. If I don’t want to see them again. I could change my time. Or maybe the days.
I look around the little room. Today, Sylvie is knitting a… “Is that a scarf?” I ask.
“No, dear. It’s a blanket. See, I’m knitting all these flowers in a row.”
Sylvie holds up the blanket and I look closely. The light from the window shines through the pattern. There are flowers, little light green stems and yellow petals all chained together surrounded by rows of white.
“It’s lovely,” I say.
It reminds me of when I used to string together dandelions as a kid. My hands would be stained yellow and I’d wear the dandelion necklace. That was before my mother’s final marriage, when I still played outside. I can smell the bitter scent of dandelion. The antiseptic and alcohol smell of the hospital chases away the memory.
Sylvie is talking, explaining the blanket. “I mark important moments in life with knitting. A cardigan and hat for births. A sweater for kindergarten. Socks for graduation—walking into life. A blanket for love.”
“Ooh, I like that,” says Matilda. “Steve’s mama gave us a quilt when we got married. I can’t imagine she thought about what we’d get up to under that quilt.” Red spreads from Matilda’s cheeks up to her hairline. I’ve never seen anyone turn such a bright tomato color.
“Dear, she was counting on it. Don’t underestimate the lure of grandbabies,” says Sylvie.
Gerry lets out a loud guffaw.
I smile into my hand.
“I’m not poetic, or a journaler, but I can knit,” says Sylvie.
“Who is this blanket for?” asks Matilda.
“Why Dany, of course” says Sylvie.
“Me? Why me?” I open my eyes wide. Oh, that’s right. I told them last week that Shawn and I were getting married in a few months, foregoing the postponement.
“Oh, right. The wanker,” mutters Cleopatra. “Did he come crawling back?”
Sylvie watches me with a shrewd expression. Her needles click as she knits the blanket.
“I, uh…” I pause and lick my lips. Could I share with them what’s happening? I look around the room. Sylvie with her knitting. Gerry with her turquoise track suit and wild makeup. Matilda in a pink sparkly cat shirt. Cleopatra scowling at the window. I glance down at myself. I’m just another woman in the circle of chairs, getting a dose of chemo. All of a sudden, this feels like a circle that hopes can be shared in, without fear. This place is safe. Strange, seeing as we’re all being fed a chemical cocktail that poisons our bodies. But there it is. I feel as if I can share.
So, I tell them about how Shawn dumped me when I woke, how I had to find a new place to live, how I saw Shawn with another woman. At the end of my story I look at Sylvie’s needles clicking away as she knits my love blanket.
Finally, I say, “The hardest part of it all…a month ago, I knew exactly who I was and where my life was going. I was healthy, happy. My fiancé loved me. Then it’s like…” I struggle to find the words. Instead, I snap my fingers. “Gone.”
I catch Cleopatra studying me closely. She nods at me. “And…” she says.
I lean forward. “I want it back.”
“Why?” asks Gerry.
This is hard to admit. “Because I’m scared. If I don’t get it back, does that mean I’ll die?”
I don’t look up. I stare down at my clasped hands. I admit my darkest thought. “And…if the man I lived with and loved, who I gave all my best parts to for five years doesn’t love me…then who will? Who could?”
“Who indeed,” says Sylvie.
There’s a smile in her voice, so I look up. Her brown eyes remind me again of warm chocolate chip cookies.
“Humph. It’s my turn today,” says Cleopatra.
We all turn to her. I let go of my fears and prepare to hear Cleopatra’s love story.
She scowls at the group of us. “I’ve heard enough of your syrupy love stories. David, blah, blah, David. I’m going to tell a real love story today.”
“By all means, wow us with your romance,” says Gerry.
“Humph,” says Cleopatra.
I settle back in my chair and raise the leg rest.
Cleopatra scrunches up her wrinkled face and begins.
“When I was seventeen, I fell into puppy love with my neighbor. His name was Robert. Big brute. Hung like a horse. Gerry, you’d like that.”
My mouth falls open. I look at Gerry. There’s a smile on her bright pink lips.
“My parents were devout Catholics. They saw me watching Robert. He used to chop firewood in his front yard. I would sit and watch and watch. His arm muscles were thicker than my thigh. We never spoke. Not once. But I loved him. I watched him swing that ax. He would watch me watching him. Some days he would wink. That wink. It made me thirsty. So, one day, I went inside and made him a big cup of iced tea. I brought it over to him. He took the cup from my hand. Neither of us said a word. He drank the entire thing in one long gulp. His dark eyes watched me the whole time. Then he took his hand and wiped his mouth. The whole while we never broke eye contact. He walked to the wood shed. I followed. I don’t know what I expected. It was rough. It hurt. The whole thing lasted less than a minute. There was no speaking. No kissing. Nothing. When he was done he went back to the wood pile and started chopping again. I cried a little. Then I wiped off my tears and went back to my house.”
She stops.
“Cleo, your idea of a romance is as warm and fuzzy as a porcupine mating,” says Gerry.
“Humph,” says Cleopatra. “It’s my romance.”
“Go on,” says Matilda.
“Four months later, it’s obvious that I’m in the family way. My parents suspected Robert. They’d seen me watching him. But Robert had left town. We’d never spoken. We’d never met again after the day in the shed. My parents found me a groom and married me off. His name was Vince.”
Cleo puts a hand up to her face and presses the wrinkled flesh beneath her left eye. “Vince was a mean bastard,” she says.
I stare at her. At her hand pressing against her cheekbone. There’s a wealth of meaning in those words.
I can’t take my eyes off Cleo. Her wrinkled face. Her mouth, tilted down in a frown. For a moment, the only noise in the room is the clacking of Sylvie’s knitting needles.
“Did you leave him?” asks Matilda.
Cleo drops her hand.
“I didn’t. Did you know there were worse things in life than a mean bastard for a husband?”
I let that sink in. It falls like a stone to the bottom of a lake. Dark, heavy, awful.
After a moment Cleopatra goes on. “Finally, my birthing pains started. I begged Vince to take me to the hospital. He wouldn’t. We were dirt poor. No insurance. He said he wouldn’t pay any money for another man’s bastard to be born. He sent me outside, where he didn’t have to hear me carrying on. I gave birth to my baby girl in the back garden. She had a cord wrapped around her throat.”
“Oh no,” says Matilda. “Cleo, I’m so sorry.”
“She didn’t make it?” asks Gerry.
“No,” says Cleopatra. “I passed out. Vince buried my baby girl while I was unconscious. When I woke, he wouldn’t tell me where her grave was. Said it was time to forget and move on.”
“How nice,” says Sylvie dryly.
“It was spring. I got depressed. I’d spend hours outside throwing flower seeds into the wind. The packets had been a wedding gift. I thought I could throw all those gifts away. Funny thing, come summer, there were flowers everywhere. Darn stubborn things. I grew with them. Learned I was strong. Maybe not beautiful. But worthy. I started to love myself. I bloomed. Became me. Once I loved myself, nothing could take it away from me. Not Vince. Not this cancer. Nothing. My whole life has been a garden, full of weeds and flowers. But, let me tell you, the best bit has been learning to love myself. Me. Cleo.”
She hits her palm against her chest and leaves it to rest above her heart.
“That’s a real romance,” she says in challenge.
For the first time, I see her not as a wrinkled woman with a down-turned mouth and a sour expression, but as a thorny flower that has thrived in rocky soil.
“Well done, Cleo,” says Gerry.
“Humph,” says Cleopatra.
I smile at her. “I want to survive,” I say. Then, I’m shocked, because until that moment I didn’t admit out loud that I might not. Cleo looks at me with understanding.
“And thrive,” I add.
“Throw your seeds to the wind then. From my view, you’ve been closed up tight your whole life. Try blooming for a change,” says Cleo.
I shake my head. “I don’t know how.”
Sylvie tsks. “Dear, every flower is born knowing how to bloom. You have to trust yourself.”
“Follow your joy,” says Gerry. “Like I followed my David.”
“Oh, blah,” says Cleo.
“Steve and I always made lists. You could make a list of the things you’ve always wanted to do,” says Matilda.
“A survive and thrive list,” I say.
“The fall in love with yourself list,” says Cleo.
We settle into silence. I think about all the things I’ve never allowed myself to do. I’m lulled by the soothing click clack of Sylvie knitting my love blanket.