The Girl With Nine Wigs (19 page)

Three glasses of wine and a few tapas later, I walk down the street to a restaurant on the Prinsengracht to meet up with Annabel and continue the celebration. The wine and the good news have gone straight to my head. Annabel is outside waiting for me and I fall into her arms. I can't believe it.
Am I really clean? Cured? Is this it?
I look at the people around me with jobs and schedules and plans.
Am I one of them again?

 

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 1

A
T MIDNIGHT
I
WALK
into Sugar Factory, a new club. I'm going out dancing, this time to remember and not to forget. Although my heart is still beating as fast as it was in Dr. L's office, I've managed to stick on my enormous fake eyelashes and to draw a smooth line around my eyelids. I'm wearing super-high-heeled boots, Bebé's long blond hair, and a sexy caftan that barely covers my butt. Annabel is wearing jeans and a tight jacket, and her dark hair is in a long ponytail. Jur is dressed in a green T-shirt, chunky black Nikes, and baggy jeans. He looks even cuter than he did yesterday. We drink red wine, just like yesterday. And like tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.

But he doesn't look. Not in the direction of my lips, at least. He talks, listens, answers, makes jokes, and speaks of his ex-girlfriend, his lovers. All while being terribly attractive.

What about me?
As I look at him, I think about my lips and his lips. My hips and his hips. My legs wrapped around his legs, and my eggs on toast next to his eggs on toast on Sunday morning. I fantasize that we'll spend my post-chemo year on white beaches and in unknown cities, but mostly under my sheets and his.

In the ladies' room I apply some extra gloss to my lips. I pull my blond hair into place and undo an extra button.

But he doesn't look. He's caught up in his own busy love life and doesn't seem to notice that I'm waiting in line as well.

“Jur?”

“Yes?”

“I've told you how much I like you, right?” He's walked me home and now we're standing outside of my house. The perfect setting for a Hollywood kiss.

Jur looks a little confused. “Yes?”

“Well, I've been a little in love with you from the first day we met. I mean, not all day every day because I don't see you as much as I would like, but I can't help it, I really like you.”

“Oh, uh, wow. That's really honest of you.” Not the response I was looking for.

“And?” I bat my XXL lashes for added effect.

“Sophie, you know I have a girlfriend.”

“Yes I do. But I had to tell you anyway.”

“Sophie, I think you're amazing, and we do have something special, but I think we're better as friends.”

“Oh.”

“Come here, you.” Jur grabs ahold of me and gives me a big hug.

Great, just what I wanted. Another friend.

 

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2

I
T'S PARTY TIME.
The ecstatic feeling from the good news is still raging through my body. I can't sleep. I'm lying in bed with my eyes wide-open. It's time to start getting ready anyway. Off to Club NL to celebrate.

Sis is joining the party too. Even Rob is here, and he greets me with a long kiss. Seeing him again, I instantly realize I want to stay friends with him no matter what, so I do my best not to think about Lady Long Legs. Much easier with her away on vacation.

Rob and I are together all night. We talk and talk. How much we care about each other. How sorry he is. How we'll be friends forever. Etc.

So now we're friends. Lucky me with all these great friends.

 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3

N
OW THAT
I
HAVE A
future again, things are looking up. Although the relief is immense, I'm still adjusting to the “ex” part of “ex–cancer patient.” I open
NL20
and go in search of my column. It's my first piece, and therefore longer than usual: just introducing me needs nine pictures alone. The boys are by my side and they are as excited as I am. It's the first time that Rob and I are sharing the same terrace again. After two weeks without each other's company, it feels more than good to have him next to me, holding my hand. All we need to do is forget the existence of Lady Long Legs.

SOPHIE'S WIGS
, it says at the top of the page. Below the headline they selected four out of the nine photos of me: the one with my middle fingers raised, which Jan took in the very beginning, and one each with Platina, Uma, and Sue. Random pictures that friends made.

The column I wrote is about my night with Tie Boy, which I always thought would remain completely anonymous. I wonder if he'll read it.

“Hey, look, I'm making my photography debut as well!” Rob points to the picture of Uma, which he took three months ago. I read the article out loud, and with every word, Rob's smile grows. Our hands make a ball that we don't let go.

“Rob, when are you going to get over this nonsense with Lady Long Legs? I can have her kidnapped, you know. Or, even better, attacked by a wild baboon. I have connections, you know.”

“You take her feet, I'll take her by her head,” Jan says, joining in the conversation. Rob laughs. The electric tension doesn't go away. We might have left each other, but it feels like our chemistry hasn't left us. For whatever reason, tonight it isn't hurting me as much as it has been. I feel great as I look at my journalistic debut on the coffee table. What a week: from cancer patient to feature article in a magazine.

 

MONDAY, DECEMBER 5

T
ODAY IS A NOSTALGIC DAY:
Sinterklaas. Sinterklaas is a Dutch tradition that makes small kids very happy and their parents somewhat less so. It basically means that we get Christmas twice. Sinterklaas comes on the fifth of December. Just like Santa Claus, he's an old man handing out toys, only he rides his boat through Amsterdam rather than a flying sleigh. It requires a lot of holiday spirit to celebrate both Sinterklaas and Santa, so most parents make sure only one of them comes down the chimney.

Since we live on the canal, there are always boats passing by. Small private boats, rental boats, big tourist canal boats, and paddleboats. There's a number of houseboats tethered as well, most of them never moving. Fortunately, Sinterklaas's boat arrives at the very start of wintertime, when the canals aren't frozen yet. If we're lucky, the temperature will drop enough to make the canals freeze. Only one of the canals, the Keizersgracht, can be used for ice skating. The others stay open for boats. But it's magical when it happens. When we were kids, our winters were colder, and even our canal, the Herengracht, froze enough that boats couldn't get through.

This morning all the schoolkids from the other side of the canal have gathered to welcome their favorite holiday visitor. It's such a sweet sight, with the music playing traditional Sinterklaas carols. Sis and I stand in front of the window, overlooking the canal and watching a part of our childhood passing by. It's one of those moments that could be tearful, but we keep our eyes dry. It's surprising considering in a few hours my sister will be on a plane to the other side of the world. It's the downside to the tumors being gone.

She's leaving me.

I'm sad, but there's nothing we can do. She promised she's going to come back and visit often. Luckily her boyfriend works for an airline, which should ease the pain of flying back and forth. I'd much rather her come see me here in Amsterdam than me go visit her in Hong Kong. After everything I've been through this year, my travel bug has left me. I just want to be at home.

 

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6

I
'M NOT THE ONLY ONE
who read last Saturday's edition of
NL20
. The daily talk show
De Wereld Draait Door
did too. Now they've invited me to come on the show and talk about it. Fortunately, Lady Long Legs is still somewhere far away and I have Rob all to myself. I'm glad he's with me; going on TV for the first time is scary, especially when wearing a wig.

In the makeup studio, all my various wigs are being passed around the room. I have brought matching outfits for all of them. Scarlet, followed by blond, followed by brunette; short, long, straight, and platinum. Who shall it be? The makeup lady asks me which one is the most “me.”
The most me? Good question. They're all me.

Uma, Daisy, Blondie, Sue, or Platina? Bebé
or Pam? Lydia? Stella, even? Who will come with me to sit between the hosts, the ironed shirts and clean-shaven faces, in front of the cameras, the media, and all those smiles? It sure is glam to be me. Glam to be a cancer patient.

The twenty minutes I was on live television are a complete blank to me. I don't remember how I walked up there. I don't even remember the questions they asked me. Or what I said. I do remember someone coming up to me just before I had to climb on stage saying another guest had bailed and I had to sit out the show—until the end. All of a sudden there were bright lights and the handsome host whose face I knew all too well sitting next to me. Then I started talking nonstop. And then, just as suddenly, it was over. When I turned around, Rob was all smiles and everyone else was congratulating me. An editor even handed me his card and told me he wants to turn my story into a book.

It's unreal. My wigs have become a media sensation. All I have to do is show people that you can live with cancer, that you can still laugh and enjoy yourself. That I still shop, dress up, and go on dates. That those things are still just as much fun as they were before I got cancer, maybe even more so. That life with cancer doesn't have to be just an emaciated body, pain, and endless vomiting. And that wigs can be fun, and not just for me, but for anyone with cancer.

How's that for a business card?
SOPHIE VAN DER STAP, THE GIRL WITH NINE WIGS.

When I get home from the studio, my inbox is full of e-mails. Ninety percent of the names are unknown to me, but from the subject lines I can see they are responses to the show. It makes me feel warm inside. My head doesn't hit the pillow until three thirty
A.M.

One e-mail stands out:

Date: Tue, 6 Dec 20:39

From: Chantal

To: Sophie

Subject: hi Sophie

Just saw you on De Wereld Draait Door, a friend of mine called me to tell me to turn on the television. I'm a cancer patient like you, only a little older. Spread breast cancer. Not the best one to have either. It made me laugh to see the similarities between your attitude and mine. Especially when you talked about that guy in the club. I had a similar experience. You used your wig to hide the effects of chemo, and I always wear scarves to cover up the radiation marks on my chest. I told one guy they were road maps to find my G-spot.… A true desperate single, ha ha.

I never wore wigs. I only ever found one that I liked but it was too uncomfortable. I go through life with a baseball cap. People stare and whisper, and usually I just say, “This is what someone with cancer looks like.” Not everyone appreciates my cynical humor, but I think you might.

Maybe you're thinking, hey, I want to get to know this girl or maybe the exact opposite, but I wanted to e-mail you because I think we have a lot in common. I bet you've received a thousand e-mails so I'll forgive you if you don't write back.

Love,

Chantal

 

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 7

“
A
RE YOU THERE?
Can you see me?” I ask.

“I can see you! Ready for the grand tour?”

“Hell yeah!”

I'm Skyping with Sis and she's about to show me her apartment in Hong Kong. The view is unbelievable. Absolutely everything looks high tech. And here I thought that Europe was the center of the universe. Not anymore, it seems.

“What do you think, will you be strong enough to come visit us soon?”

“Well, I still have two months of maintenance chemo. Maybe after, but I find it a bit scary to travel so far from Dr. L. I'd rather have him in arm's reach, you know?”

“I understand. Hong Kong isn't for the faint of heart—it's like a million people in one square meter and nobody looks where they're going. It makes me miss you even more.”

“That's your fault for moving!” I reply. “I'm sorry. I can't help it. Didn't mean to say that.”

“Yes you did.”

“True.” We both start laughing uncomfortably. “Well, the good thing is that I don't miss you yet, but it's only been two days.”

Traveling has always been number one on my agenda, but now all I want to do is sit in the kitchen with the scent of soup simmering through the house. With Sis sitting next to me, Mom at the stove, and Dad reading his newspaper.

Hong Kong, Schmong Kong.

 

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9

I
LEAN BACK INTO ONE
of the insanely uncomfortable seats for my day treatment at the hospital. A few hours ago the nurses welcomed me with cries of “Celebrity!” Sitting in the television studio, I'd forgotten about the IV drips and doctors. I'd forgotten my fears of the cancer coming back. I guess telly had its effect on me too. But now I have the headache from hell; it's as if a helicopter is zooming around in my head. Whenever my body suffers, fear lurks just around the corner. Oma, who's sitting next to me, doesn't seem to hear anything. I can tell by her eyes. She is smart, though, and sneaky so she confirms my remark about the noise of the propeller anyway, to make me feel better. The nurses look at me quizzically when I ask if they hear it. Some hospitals have helipads to receive medevac patients, but not this one.

“A helicopter?” the nurse asks again. “No, not in this hospital.”