What's Left of Me
Page 12

When we get back to Genna’s, I notice the garage door is open. Her maroon G6 is gone, but Jason’s in there waxing his newest toy: a crotch rocket. I let out a soft laugh remembering when Genna called me to bitch about his purchase. She was so upset. Something about them being too dangerous and how he’ll just be reckless on it. Personally, I find it rather hot.
We both wave at Jason before heading into the house.
Once back in my room, I get into cotton shorts and a tank top before helping Jean gather her things together.
With the last of her things tucked into her suitcase, she gives me a sad smile. “Aww. Come here, I need a hug!” She wraps her arms tightly around my lower back, pulling me into her. The sudden impact turns the dull ache in my hip into a sharp pain.
Thankful for the space once she releases me, I lean back against my dresser for support. The pain takes my breath away, so I just stand there motionless for a minute, waiting for the tingling sensation to go away.
“Are you okay?”
Blowing off her words, I make my way to the bed where I can sit down for a second. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Giving her a hopeful smile, I nod.
“I had a lot of fun, Dre.”
“Me too. Make sure to text me when you get to your place.”
“Of course.”
“Love you.”
“Ditto.”
I walk her down to the front door. Standing in the open doorway, I wait until she gets into her car and drives away before I head into the kitchen. I can smell the fresh pot of coffee and pour myself a large mug. Genna is just as obsessed with coffee as I am. I swear her coffee pot is always on. I add cream and sugar. I like my coffee white.
With my mug in hand, I make my way back up the stairs to take a shower. I hate the smell of sex, and it’s all I smell on me, with a hint of Parker lingering. His smell is good. Really good.
Setting my hot cup of coffee down, I strip off my clothes, then clip my hair back to wash off the remainder of my makeup. I hate that no matter how I try to pin it back, pieces always seem to find their way out when I wash my face. With my head still leaning over the sink, I reach blindly for a bobby pin to pin back the long pieces that keep falling into my eyes.
I stop.
Instead, I bring my hand up, brushing the top of my hairline and gently undoing the clips in my hair. I remove my chin length wig, letting my scalp breathe. I set my wig on the mannequin head I have sitting out, taking a quick glance at myself in the mirror as I do so.
Sighing, I take in my disheveled, thin strawberry blonde pixie cut. It’s short, just reaching the tops of my ears. I hate it.
I miss my hair. A lot. It used to be long, thick, and naturally curly. I never thought it would be a big deal to lose it. I mean, it’s just hair, right? It’ll grow back. Wrong. I haven’t seen my long hair in four years.
When I first found a clump of my hair on my bed after one of my chemo treatments, I panicked. Like, really panicked. I don’t know why, but I thought, after the first couple treatments when my hair was still present, that maybe it wouldn’t fall out.
I cried the entire time my mom shaved my head. She wanted to cut it shorter and wait, but I wanted to be in control. I needed to be in control. I was going to make the decision of when my hair got to leave my body. Not someone else or my cancer.
People don’t realize how much their hair is a part of who they are. I didn’t realize how much my hair was a part of me. A part of my identity. How I’d wear it up when I wanted to look and feel sophisticated, or wear it down to hide behind when I’d have a bad day and didn’t want to face anyone. Flip it when I’d try to flirt with a cute boy, or have big, bouncy curls when I’d feel as if I could take on the world.
Over the last four years, I’ve gotten used to seeing my hair come and go. It got easier with time, if you can even imagine that, but no matter how many times I try, I still can’t go out in public with a bald head, a wrap, or short like it is now. People stare. They don’t say anything, but I know what they’re thinking.
“Oh, that poor girl. She must be sick. Maybe she has cancer.”
I don’t want anyone’s pity. I get enough of that from my family. They’re constantly watching my every move. Making sure I’m eating right, taking my medications, or resting frequently. When I go out in public, I just want to feel like and be seen as me. That’s why it’s so hard to go without my wig: because then I’d have to face the world as a woman who has cancer rather than a woman who is just trying to fit in.
I clip my wig back on after my shower and spend the remainder of the afternoon napping and reading. I hear the soft knock on the door before my sister's words come through the small crack, breaking my concentration from the pages I’m reading. “Dre, can I come in?”
“Of course,” I reply, not looking up from my Kindle.
I see movement out of the corner of my eyes as she makes her way around the boxes of my things. Scooting over, I make room on the bed for her, setting the Kindle down next to me.
I can tell by the expression on her porcelain face that she wants to have one of those heartfelt talks. Like the ones from an episode of Full House that end in happy tears, soft music, and hugs after discussing a life lesson. My sister means well, but in this moment the last thing on my mind is talking, especially about whatever she has in mind.
“Did you have fun last night?”
“Yeah, we had a really good time.”
“I gathered.” She laughs. “You two stayed out all night.”