Positively Beautiful (36 page)

“I hope he does,” I say, thinking about the burning-bright kid who had the world by the tail only a couple of years ago. Then life happened and wiped him out like a tsunami.

“What about you? Have you heard back from any schools?” Trina asks. “Chaz and I both got into GSU, so I think that's where we're going to go.”

Once upon a time that would have hurt. Once upon a time it was supposed to be me and Trina going to college together. But it doesn't hurt now. Trina is doing what she needs to do, and so am I. Our friendship is different than it used to be, but it's still real and true.

I shrug, and don't answer, which they take to mean bad news. In reality, the letters from three schools lie unopened in our junk drawer. They are fat envelopes, probably acceptances, but it really doesn't matter. I'm not going anywhere; Mom needs me too much right now. Once she gets better, and she
will
get better, then I can think about college.

“Did you ever answer that woman who wanted you to blog for the BRCA website?” Trina asks.

I grimace. “No, I can't decide what to say to her.”

The moderator for one of the BRCA websites I frequent sent me an e-mail asking if I wanted to write a blog for younger previvors. She said she noticed my posts and thought I had something to say that might resonate with younger women.

It's flattering, but I don't know if I can do it. I don't know if I can write those words and have everyone read them and know who I really am.

I check my phone to make sure Mom hasn't tried to call, panicked a little I have left her so long. A hospice nurse comes in during the day, but at night I'm the only one she has.

I hear Chaz say, “Hey, buddy, you need something?”

I look up and see Jason standing there.

“Erin,” he says.

He looks different, though it's only been five months since that last terrible day I saw him. Bigger, more like a man, and even sunburned and gloriously messy as usual, he still makes Chaz look like a little boy. He fills the space, somehow, like the essence of Jason is too tremendous to be contained in the envelope of his body.

I'm staring at him openmouthed and Trina gazes back and forth between us quizzically.

“
Jason
,” I whisper and her expression clears, becomes more wary.

“Jason.” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here? How … ?”

“I went by your house. Your mom said you were here.”

He stands there looking at me with his eyes the color of the sea, and I want to weep, to throw myself in his arms, but I don't.

“You really messed with her head last time,” Trina says, going on the attack. “Are you here to do that again?”

Jason doesn't speak for a moment. It's so ridiculous, Trina bristling, Jason looking tired and full of words. “I never wanted to hurt her,” he says finally. “That was the last thing I wanted to do.”

Trina purses her lips.

“Okay, enough.” I slide out of my seat and grab my bag. “Jason, we can talk outside.”

Faith comes in as we go out and she turns to stare at Jason, then touches her finger to her arm with a hissing sound. Jason is hot. Like I don't know. Like walking close to him doesn't make me hot and cold and tingly and want to pull him into the backseat of my car.

Jason leans up against a motorcycle and I see the Deadhead stickers on it and know it's his.

“You're taking up suicide as a hobby?” I nod at the bike.

“It gets me around.”

We stand for a moment, just staring at each other.

“Do you know,” he says softly, “you look so beautiful, all I can think about doing is kissing you and never stopping?”

“Jason,” I say, closing my eyes.

“Your hair's grown out some. I like it.”

“Why are you here?” I run my hand through my hair, and cross my arms tight over my breasts.

“I couldn't take it another day,” he says in a low voice. “Life is too freaking short to waste by yourself when you love someone. I had to at least tell you that. I came here to say that. I didn't want to go through life wishing I had said it to you. To wonder if it would have made a difference.”

“No. Wait. Wait.” I clear my throat. “You love me?”

“Come on, Erin, you know I do. You're strong and courageous, and you have this radiance, this glow, when you smile, and when you do you're positively beautiful.”

He steps toward me and cups my cheek with his big, warm hand, and I close my eyes, leaning into his strength.

“But what happened? I don't understand,” I say, and then almost wish I hadn't. I don't want to talk him
out
of loving me. But I have to know. “You said you wouldn't fall in love with anyone. So … why me?”

He laughs, soft in his throat. “I was stupid, okay? I was arrogant and stupid, and I had never fallen in love so I just didn't understand what it would be like. I didn't understand that it would hurt more to
not
love than it would to love, and how important it is to love someone and have them love you back. I'm sorry it took me so long to say it. I was just so afraid … But Ashley set me straight. You know we told her about the mutation last week, the day after her birthday? Yeah, of course you know, Ashley said you two had been talking. Anyway, once she knew, we started talking about it all. And, God, I'm in awe of her. She's decided she's not going to get tested. She says she refuses to be defined by words on a piece of paper, that knowing wouldn't change how she plans to live. She'll be careful, she'll do surveillance, but she's not going to let it rule her life. She also told me I was acting like a dumb-ass. She asked me how I'd feel if the roles were reversed, if you left me because you were afraid I'd have to watch you die. I realized that I want to be there holding your hand when you died, hopefully when you're a hundred and twelve, but earlier if necessary. That I wanted to be
that
person for you, the one who's there through the good and bad. And I see now that it works both ways. Maybe you want to be the one to hold my hand at the end too.”

“
Yes,
” I say. “Yes, I want to hold your hand through all of it, the good
and
the bad. But I'm worried because I leaned on you too much. I took advantage of you, and it wasn't fair, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. And I was afraid if I had you back, I'd do the same thing again.”

“Erin, that's exactly what I'm saying. That's how it works. I see that now. You lean on me some, and someday I'll lean on you.” He steps closer to me, and lifts a strand of my hair in his fingers. “That's the deal we make when we love someone.”

I close my eyes, feeling
him
, feeling the warmth of his love.

I start crying, and he takes me in his arms and it feels so
right
, so
good
, that I cling to him, inhaling his sweaty, gorgeous maleness, wanting to climb inside of him. We hold each other for a long, long time, until I realize Mom is waiting for me, that I haven't even gotten the pizza, that I'm supposed to be meeting somebody at my house.

“I've got someone coming to look at Dad's Mustang,” I say. “The guy wants it for parts.” Which seems sad and good all at the same time. Anytime I saw an older Mustang on the road, would I wonder if maybe a part of Dad's Mustang was in it, making it a stronger, better car? “And I need to get back to Mom.”

“She didn't look well,” Jason says. “She looked like …” He doesn't finish.

“Yes.”

“Erin, why didn't you call me? Man.” He shakes his head. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's going to be fine,” I say. “She's going to pull though this. I know it.
I know it
.”

Jason looks at me with his worldly, timeless eyes but says nothing. I've seen that look before, and I don't want to understand it.

On my eighteenth birthday, I take Mom flying.

As a student pilot, I'm not allowed to take a passenger by myself, so Stew comes with us.

Jill pushes Mom in her wheelchair to Tweety Bird and Stew helps Mom into the back of the plane, handling her as if she's labeled “Fragile Handle with Care.” Jill's been staying with us for the past week, and she fusses over Mom, making sure she's comfortable.

When Mom first asked if she could come flying with me, I didn't know what to say. She's so weak that brushing her teeth exhausts her. The medication now just takes the edge off her constant, gnawing pain. I don't want her to wear herself out.

But she insists I take her, and when she talks about it her face glows with feverish determination. She says it will be a good birthday gift for the both of us.

Stew buckles my mom in, his hands gentle, and I hand him her blanket. He tucks it around her.

“Your husband was a good man, Mrs. Bailey,” he says. “A good friend. I'd like to look after his daughter, if that's okay with you.”

She looks at him and smiles. Her face is shiny with sweat and radiant. “Yes. I'd like that,” she says.

I refuse to understand what they are talking about.

I do my flight check and my hands are shaking. When I get in, Stew beside me, I sit for a long moment with my hands on the yoke, trying to find that place of calm that I know is somewhere inside of me. I imagine it as a moon-drenched lagoon where manatees come and play.

I tighten my hands on the yoke and I look over my shoulder at my mom, wondering if she's frightened. She is looking out the window and her face is still. As she has gotten sicker, it's like the essence of her is shining through stronger and brighter, like a candle put in straight oxygen. All the impurities have been burned away and it is just
her
, that distilled, purest part of her that remains.

I take a deep breath.

“You okay?” Stew asks me through the headphones. He looks at me sideways. “If you want me to, I can do the flying.”

“No,” I say. “I need to do this.”

I need to show Mom I can do it, though even on my eighteenth birthday I feel younger and less secure than ever before. Will it always be like this, feeling less equipped to deal with life each year that passes? Is this what being an adult feels
like, realizing the choices don't get any easier, just more important?

As I neared my eighteenth birthday, I've been thinking more and more about my BRCA mutation. I wish now that I had waited to get tested through a doctor's office. At Mom's insistence, I've gone to see a genetic counselor, and the woman gave me all the information I was craving for all those months after I found out I could have the mutation. My options are still the same, but I feel like I understand them more clearly. I am now old enough to get a mastectomy if I want, though most doctors would advise against doing that at my age. I can schedule the surgery and it would be over; I would never have to worry about breast cancer again.

But does it take more courage to cut off my breasts, or to wait and see what happens, trusting life can be strange and wonderful and surprising? I don't know. I truly don't. I want to have the strength to make the right decision, but I don't know if I'm strong enough.

I'm taxiing now, and the trees soften with speed, and there's the moment I have come to love, when we are free of the earth, the stomach-dipping lightness that means that I am flying.

I climb steadily over houses and tender green trees; hawks float in air currents far below us, rising and falling effortlessly. The sun has found an opening in a far-off cloud bank, gilding it gold and spilling gauzy rays of light toward the ground. The sunlight looks tangible; if you stood beneath those beams, you know you would feel a warm drizzle of sun on your upturned face.

“
I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth, / And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings,
” Mom says softly through the headset.

I nod, because I feel Dad with us too.

We circle over our house, and Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. It is May, and spring is in full riotous glory. Pink and purple azaleas bloom madly, forsythias glow yellow, and dogwoods drip snowy blossoms. From the air it looks like a child has taken a paintbrush and spattered Easter-egg colors over the canvas of the landscape. The earth is coming alive again.

“It's beautiful,” Mom says through the headphones. “I never knew it could be this beautiful. How much I have missed …”

I reach back and she puts her hand in mine, and I feel the coldness, the sharp bones.

“You're here now,” I say. “Once I get my license I can take you up anytime you want.”

She squeezes my hand and lets go. I let myself fall into the sheer pleasure of flying, feeling happy as I can only feel in the air.

Always, always when flying you must keep a lookout for other planes—“Head on a swivel!”—and it's while I'm peering out the side window that I see it.

“Look!” I point at the perfect, circular rainbow against the side of a puffy, white cloud bank. Inside the rainbow is a tiny plane, Tweety Bird, and I think if I had binoculars that I could probably see
us
inside of it.

“It's a glory,” Stew says, and I stare at it in awe. Rings of
reds, yellows, blues, greens, and violets radiate outward from the shadow plane, and it's almost as if I'm seeing another plane, another us, reflected from heaven.

I remember something then, and say into the mic, “Mom! Remember? Dad always wanted to show you a glory, didn't you say that? He liked that no two people saw the same thing, that everyone saw their own personal glory.”

Mom doesn't say anything, and I glance over my shoulder to see she is asleep, her head resting on Jill's shoulder. She looks like a child.

Jill holds my mom in her arms, tears slipping down her face as she stares out the window at the glory in the clouds.

On May 14, my mom collapses trying to make it to the bathroom. On the way to the hospital I call Jill, and Jason, frantic, crying so hard I can barely see the ambulance in front of me.