Page 25 of Past the Broken Bridges

“I’ve seen people get so bad they needed their stomachspumped, so I’d say you did all right,” she reassures, letting go of Banks. “The first party I ever went to, I was surrounded by people snorting cocaine. The cops ended up coming and breaking it up, and a ton of people got busted with fake IDs and hard drugs. I was lucky enough to sneak out the back before they found me and the girls I came with.”

Cocaine? “Dang. And my mom was worried I’d smoke weed,” I mused, getting Dixie to laugh again. “I’ve never even been to a college party.”

I went to a high school party once. I was a fifteen-year-old sophomore. It was the first boy-girl party I’d been invited to, the first time I drank, the first time I ever kissed a boy, and the only time I ever had sex. Well, sort of. I’d like to think the interaction between me and the random senior I hooked up with that night didn’t count, since he barely lasted ten seconds by the time we got things rolling. I counted each painful second and was grateful when it ended, wondering if anyone could see the difference in me that I thought I would when I’d agreed to do it.

I was stupid and drunk and left feeling guilty that I’d lied to my parents about staying at a friend’s house when we’d actually gone to the party instead. The next morning, I woke up so sick that I thought it was karma for lying. I puked so much my voice was raw and raspy. I couldn’t eat anything without turning green. I spent a week sleeping on and off and praying that the punishment would end.

If only I’d known it was just beginning.

“Not your thing?” Dixie guesses, sipping her drink and settling into the couch cushion. “It’s not really mine either. I’ve only been to a couple with some girls I had class with. They were trying to get me to join their sorority. I think they were glad I didn’t after that. We were…different.”

That’s one thing I’ve never been interested in, not that there’s anything wrong with joining Greek life. I’ve heard good things about some organizations. But most of the ones I saw around campus wanted the kind of rah-rah spirit that I just didn’t possess.

“I’ve never had the opportunity,” I admit. We haven’t exactly gotten to know each other well, and the whole “cancer” topic isn’t one I like to break the ice with. Frankly, it’s not on my list to tell anybody unless I absolutely have to. When Dixie asked to come over and raid my closet for our night out, I hadn’t even wanted her to see my apartment in case she discovered the wigs I’d shoved carefully in boxes on the top shelf of my closet or the cabinet full of medicines that made me look like some sort of addict. The entire time she was here, I worried she would find out and see me the same way my former classmates did before I opted to homeschool.

Instead of divulging too much, I tell her what I’m comfortable with. “I went to school online for the first two years because life was a little…hectic. This is basically my freshman year even though I have the credits I need to be a junior. Everything is new to me.”

I’m not embarrassed by it. In fact, I’m proud. I think my history makes me unique. I’ve gone through hell and back and still managed to find a way here. I’d say that’s impressive. It takes a lot of willpower to live when you have little to live for. I wanted to give myself a reason to.

Dixie doesn’t judge me. “I debated going to school online, but I need discipline. Plus, if I’d stayed in Pennsylvania, my parents would have driven me crazy. They wanted me to keep playing music since I was getting offered paying gigs. I love them, but I wanted to do my own thing for a littlewhile. You know, take a break and explore other options in the industry.”

I know from previous conversations that her childhood consisted of piano lessons, violin lessons, and singing lessons when her parents weren’t schmoozing with important people at country clubs. They both knew how to play at least one instrument, her mother used to sing in their local church choir, and her father taught guitar lessons. Their constant pushing got her to win three talent shows at the elementary school she went to, where she earned free tuition into some ritzy music summer camp. While I was getting mud under my nails and learning how to climb trees, she was keeping hers short to learn piano keys and strings.

I’m grateful my parents never tried pushing Bentley or me to do anything we didn’t want to. Maybe I should be glad there were no special talents that any of us had. We couldn’t play sports. None of us knew how to read music, much less play an instrument. I’ve only heard my father sing, making up lyrics as he goes when he doesn’t know the actual words. And I vaguely remember Mom singing along to an eighties pop song in the car on the way to school. Bentley told her to stop because “she wasn’t good like the singer.” He was four, but he was right. It was borderline painful.

“I guess I’m lucky,” I say. “My parents both support me being here and doing what I need to.”

She smiles. “Tell me about them.”

Wetting my lips, I hold the warm coffee cup closer to me and loosen a soft breath thinking about my childhood. Where do I even begin? My family is tight-knit, something you need when you grow up in the military. I learned that firsthand seeing the village it took to raise me, and eventually Bentley, when Dad was away.

If Mom didn’t have Grandma and Grandpa Parish in North Carolina, I’m not sure what would have happened when we had to leave New Orleans before Katrina hit. Aunt Taylor in New York was another big asset when I got sick. My grandparents were too old to take care of Bentley when all the doctor appointments began for me, so we moved to upstate New York to be closer to Mom’s sister. I guess it all worked out because the kind of medical attention I needed went beyond what the small urgent care we had near my grandparents could handle.

Fate, Dad called it.

Even though it took us farther away from him, being in New York meant the best treatment options for me. Something we didn’t know we needed until the doctor came in wearing a bright-yellow shirt with a tie covered in farm animals to deliver the bad news. I remember thinking the colors of his shirt were far too happy to be worn by someone telling us such sad things.

“We caught it in time,” he tells us, scooting the rolling stool over to where my mother sits beside me. “Cancer is a scary thing, but this form is very treatable. You’ll be up and running around again before you know it.”

It was Aunt Taylor who comforted Mom when she cried that night—the first of many times. They never knew that I snuck downstairs when they thought I was in bed to hear how bad it was for them, but I eavesdropped on them talking over wine in the kitchen.

Looking back, I wish the doctor hadn’t been so optimistic. Maybe then my mother and I wouldn’t have gotten our hopes up. Because one round of chemo became two, and two became three, and the remission only lasted about a year before I had to go back in for round four.

Touching the damp ends of my hair that I tried washing in the sink after this morning’s excursions, I hide my frown when I realize how long it’s been since I’ve touched my own hair. During the first year of remission, my hair got long enough to cover my head and tickle my ears. I styled it into a cute pixie with the help of YouTube but never found the confidence to wear it outside the house. I wish I had because it didn’t take long before the next round of helpful poison made what little I had fall out and leave me back at square one.

I cried alone in my room, not wanting to ask my mother to shave my head again. So I did it myself. It was patchy. I cut myself and bled for far longer than I should have. Bentley found me a few hours later in the bathroom and helped me clean up. He never said a word about it, but I could tell my little brother was horrified. I did that to him, and secretly, I never forgave myself for putting him through it.

Instead of telling Dixie the long, drawn-out sob story of the past five years of my life, I opt for a condensed version. I don’t consider it lying, simply censoring the truth. Slightly.

I tell her all about my father’s naval career, the moves we had to make because of it, how Hurricane Katrina uprooted us from my favorite state, and how I swore I’d come back someday. It feels good to say that, sitting in a one-bedroom apartment furnished with all my secondhand necessities, exactly where I said I’d be when I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to.

She hears about my annoying little brother who’s nearly nine years younger than me, my mother’s embarrassing safe sex talks, and all the ways I miss their overbearingness.

“But here I am,” I conclude, studying the quaint space. It’s nothing extravagant. The decorations are minimal,the furniture cheap. But it’s mine and only mine. I had to share hospital rooms plenty of times whenever I stayed for monitoring. If I was going away, I wanted a space of my own that I didn’t have to share with anybody at all.

“Here you are,” Dixie repeats, her eyes following mine as she takes in the apartment. “So what are you going to do with the newfound freedom? Have parties here? Invite cute neighbors over?”

“Cute neighbors, huh?” I muse, taking a long sip of my drink to hide my growing smile as one specific Clark Kent lookalike comes to mind.

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