A few days later, Mom left Carmen and Jimmy with Grandma, so “You and I can go pick out my new boob,” she told me, laughing because it sounded like a funny way to spend an afternoon. Up till now, she’d been wearing what she called her “boob pillow.” It did look like a pillow, a round pad with the kind of stuffing that you find in teddy bears. But now that her wound had healed, she needed to get a silicone breast form that matched the size and weight of her remaining breast. “If I don’t,” Mom explained, “I’ll start having back problems because I’m not balanced.” I nodded, remembering how I ached when I wore my backpack over one shoulder, instead of two.
We went to a medical supply store that specializes in prosthetics. There were models of artificial hands and legs, some very lifelike. There were also different kinds of shoes, some attached to braces and others with very tall soles, like the platform shoes rock stars wore. When the assistant caught me staring, she said they were for people with one leg that was shorter than the other. I thought about those who were born this way and those born with a short arm or an extra toe and those born blind or deaf. Then I thought about people born with problems on the insides of their bodies—like lungs that couldn’t breathe normally or hearts that had trouble pumping blood. Our bodies could fail in so many ways. Even if we were born normal, something, like cancer, could happen to us later. No wonder my parents told me to be grateful for my health.
“Follow me,” the assistant said, leading Mom and me to the back of the store and into a private room with posters about “how to fit a bra” and “types of breast forms.” When the assistant said, “Let’s take some measurements first,” Mom started to remove her blouse.
“Mom!” I didn’t mean to shriek, but I couldn’t believe she was undressing in front of a stranger.
“Quit acting so scandalized. We all have the same things.” She sounded just like Mrs. Garcia, our coach, after we complained about having to change clothes for PE the first year of middle school.
“Shouldn’t I wait outside?” I asked, not wanting to see my mom’s bare chest.
“Absolutely not. I need your help. This is a big decision for me, so I need another woman’s opinion.” This was the first time she had called me a woman. I felt proud but also undeserving. After all, a true woman was a lot more mature. She had a job, a marriage, children, and a developed body. I was still in middle school! I was still waiting to have my first boyfriend.
Mom removed her shirt and the bra with the pillow boob. She turned toward a mirror, and I looked at her reflection, how one side was completely normal while the other had the line of her scar. Her mastectomy side wasn’t completely flat like I’d imagined but a bit caved in. I must have frowned because Mom said, “Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not,” I replied, glancing at my mood ring, which was between colors, black and brown—nervous but with a sense of anticipation, too. Did this mean I was between emotions? That I really was scared, but also fascinated?
“Time to measure,” the assistant said, measuring tape in hand.
She told Mom to lift her arms. Mom winced, explaining that she was still struggling since the surgery and would be starting physical therapy the following week. The assistant wrapped the tape around Mom’s torso beneath her breast, then measured her cup size, and finally the length for the shoulder straps. As she wrote everything down, Mom put her shirt back on. Then the assistant took out a catalog of breast forms, along with some samples. She handed them to us. They felt like water balloons, only firmer. Some were smooth, while others had nipples. They came in different colors, too, one for every skin tone.
“Where’s the Mexican one?” Mom asked, because the one she held was too peachy for her skin. When the assistant handed it to her, Mom laughed.
“What’s so funny?” I wanted to know.
“Look at us,” she said, “touching all these fake breasts. Imagine telling your friends that you and your mom went shopping for boobs.”
“And talking about whether or not we should order one with a nipple.” I giggled.
“And asking for the Mexican color even though no one’s going to see it because it’s going to be under my clothes.”
“And discussing whether you should get the teardrop or the triangle shape,” I added.
“Oh, you’re definitely a triangle,” the assistant told my mom, all serious.
“Did you hear that?” Mom asked me, laughing harder now. “I’m a triangle—like something you study in geometry.”
We had the kind of giggles that wouldn’t stop, that made our bellies ache, but eventually, we settled down and made our selections. Who knew buying a fake boob was so complicated? Not only did Mom have to choose a skin tone, but she had to decide whether to buy the adhesive kind or the kind you slipped into a pocket in the bra. When it came to the choice between the triangle or teardrop model, I said, “Yep. You’re a triangle. The teardrop doesn’t fit you at all.”
Mom took my hand, squeezed it, and said, “That’s right. No teardrops here.”
The next week, Mom started going to physical therapy, so she left me in charge of Carmen and Jimmy for a few hours every afternoon. The first time, I was nervous. I kept thinking something bad would happen. When Jimmy crawled under the table, I worried that it would collapse and crush him. When Carmen went to the garage to get a hammer and nails for something called “string art,” I worried that she’d lose a hand at the table saw even though she wasn’t going anywhere near it. And when she started hammering the nails, I knew she was going to break a finger, so I told her she couldn’t work on her project till Mom or Dad came home.
And who knew there were so many breakable things in our house? Glasses, plates, windows, vases, Chia Pets. Who knew there were so many poisons? Bleach, Windex, hydrogen peroxide, every medicine in the cabinet. I didn’t want Jimmy or Carmen to leave my sight. If something bad happened to them, I’d never forgive myself.
Once, I spent the whole afternoon in a near panic. When Mom returned, I gave her a giant hug and said, “I’m so glad you’re here! Taking care of kids is hard work. Do you know how many things can go wrong?”
She just laughed and said, “Well, I’m glad everyone’s still in one piece.”
By the second week, babysitting my brother and sister felt a little more routine, but that didn’t stop me from imagining all sorts of horrible accidents.
In the meantime, Carmen kept the bathrooms clean, and I took long walks to get ready for the 5K in October. I felt stronger every week and could walk the whole distance—twice! I was still a little suspicious about the power of promesas, but I was beginning to believe that they worked because Mom was getting better. So maybe a 5K was enough after all.
“We do stretches in therapy,” she explained at dinner one evening. “That way, my tissues will stay flexible. Otherwise, they’ll get rigid and tight, making it hard for me to move my shoulder around.” She cautiously rolled her shoulder.
“Soon you’ll be able to carry Jimmy again,” I said.
“And do your step aerobics tapes,” Carmen added.
“Are you kidding? I’ll be strong enough to go to the gym and lift weights with all those musclemen.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” Dad said. “We can’t have some muscleman falling in love with you.”
“One already has,” Mom replied, winking at him. And then she said something in Spanish, something romantic because Dad blushed.