Whatever It Takes, page 13
19
Sienna
I’m out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself, when Tyson taps on the bathroom door from the guest room. I finish covering myself in time for him to open the door. He looks me over, long and slow, and I use every bit of strength to push away how his look makes me feel. He’s leaving in two hours. Maybe forever. This is what I want.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
I can’t tuck the towel in on my right side, and it’s awkward to tuck on my left. I end up just holding the towel in place by keeping my arms wrapped around myself. “Pretty good,” I don’t feel tired as soon as I wake up the way I have since the surgery, and I dare to hope I’ve turned the corner. “You?”
“Like rubbish,” he says, and runs a hand through his hair. He comes into the room and sits on the tub like he did last night when I told him the pathology results. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, and I wonder if he wore them to bed or put them on over his boxers before coming to talk to me. “What if we tell your dad before I leave?”
My heart speeds up at the unexpected suggestion. “You’re the one who said I should wait.”
He shakes his head and braces his elbows on his knees. “I know, but last night all I could think about is that you’re going to have to tell him by yourself and manage these treatments and . . . all of it.” He looks up at me with sympathy in his expression. “It’s a lot.”
“It won’t be less today than it will be in a week or a month.”
“You’ll probably be starting radiation treatments in a month.”
The thought of everything lying ahead of me will make me dizzy if I think about it too much. “I’ll tell him when I’m ready.”
“And you’ll be alone.”
I want to say, “I’ve been alone for months.” But that was more my decision than his. What I actually say is, “If we tell him right now, two hours before you leave, then I’ll still be alone to deal with the fallout.” I shake my head. “I’m not ready to tell him, and I really need to get dressed.”
He lets out a sound that’s part groan and part sigh—frustration seeping out around the edges.
I go into my room, closing the bathroom door behind me. I’ve managed to put on my sports bra—in under three minutes this time—and pull on a pair of jeans for the first time since the surgery before Tyson taps on my bathroom door and lets himself in again.
“What if you come to London with me.”
I blink at him and my hands stop in the process of doing up the button of my jeans. “What?”
He nods. “Tell Dad you’re coming with me for a couple of weeks and take that time to relax and recover and get your bearings.”
“I have a follow-up appointment next week.” Which I may or may not go to. “And . . . and there’s no way I can just go to London. My life is here. The ranch needs me.” I watch his face fall and let my mood soften with it. He really is worried about me. “But I appreciate your concern, Tyson. You’ve taken good care of me this last week, and I can’t thank you enough for that.”
He shakes his head and glances at the wall before he looks back. “Then I think you need to tell Beck.”
Did he make a list or something with A, B, C, and D options? “No,” I say, shaking my head and turning to my closet.
“Sienna, please.”
“No,” I say again, sharper. “I’m not ready.”
“If you tell her not to tell anyone, she won’t. You’re not in junior high anymore, and she’s your best friend.” In junior high, when I was in seventh grade and Beck was in ninth, I confided in her that I liked Reggie, and by the end of the day everyone knew it. Here I am more than ten years later and people still have this image of Reggie and me in their heads and I’m still holding Beck to blame, even though I had gone on to date him and dump him for Tyson. But I know what he means—this isn’t junior high. And Beck might not tell anyone, but confiding in her makes me queasy. I need more time, even if it’s only days. Besides, how much do I tell her? Just about the cancer, or do I include the divorce attorney? What about the letters and the empty files and the sixteen pictures?
I pull an old roping club T-shirt off a hanger and put it on by sliding my right arm through the sleeve first, then carefully putting my head through the neck and then putting my left arm through. It’s not graceful or fast but it works, and I want to celebrate the success. I turn to face him. “I know I can’t hide it forever, but I want to be fully recovered and know what I’ll be asking from everyone when I do tell them. I want to look for information about my mom for a little longer, too—maybe see if I can get the long-form version of my birth certificate. Telling anyone right now would interfere with all of that.”
“I don’t feel right about leaving you with no one who knows what you’re facing.”
“I’m done talking about this,” I say on my way to the door. “You better get packed. Time is short.”
“Sienna,” Tyson says, in almost a bark. I have my hand on the doorknob when I turn back to look at him, hardening in response to his hardness. “I think you’re going about this the wrong way. You’re trying to do it alone when you shouldn’t.”
“I am alone, Tyson, and this is my thing. My cancer. My dad. My story, in which you are no longer a key player, so let it go and pack your bags. You don’t want to miss your flight back to that rosy future you’re so excited about.”
I let myself out of my room and slam the door shut as the punctuation to what I’ve said. I stride down the hall and into the kitchen area. “I’m going to do the loop,” I tell Dad without stopping for conversation. I grab a coat from the rack with my left hand and let myself out into the cold morning air, which feels invigorating. The tingle in my nose and cheeks helps me leave the argument behind me as I gingerly put the coat on. Then I walk through the break in the poplar tree boughs tinkling in the wind and into the ranch space. I step into the side-by-side and take myself as far from the house as I can so I can count cows and calves and think about something else.
I’m avoiding going inside and seeing Tyson again by puttering around in the barn, trying to pretend I’m busy, when I hear tires on the gravel driveway and come out of the barn to see the black-and-white shuttle pull to a stop in front of the house. A quick check of my phone confirms that it’s early—twenty minutes early. I tell the driver to wait and then hurry inside to find that Tyson is just out of the shower. The morning’s argument is forgotten as I help make sure he hasn’t missed anything while he shoves things into the suitcase—a far cry from his usual meticulous packing. His hair is still wet when Dad and I walk him out to the van, our breath clouding in front of us thanks to the cold front. The driver takes Tyson’s carry-on, and Tyson turns back to us for the inevitable good-byes.
I put on my big pasty smile, ignoring the lump in my throat. “Safe travels,” I say.
“I wish I could stay.”
I just smile wider, faker.
“It’s sure been great having you, Tyson,” Dad says, stepping forward to share one of those handshake-leading-to-back-patting-hug exchanges men do.
“It was great to be here,” Tyson says. He comes to me and wraps me in a gentle hug that I could stay in all day if there was any wisdom in doing so. Because there isn’t any wisdom in it, I push away first and then give him a quick peck on the lips. For Dad’s sake, I tell myself. Tyson holds my eyes an extra second, then gets into the back of the shuttle, and thirty seconds later he’s disappeared down the drive. That’s that. I refuse to consider how I feel about his leaving, refuse to even identify the emotion welling up. I’ve been lucky to have him as long as I did.
Manny goes with Dad to check on the cows, and I move my puttering indoors. I do the noon rounds with Carlos in the side-by-side without any complications. When we do the two o’clock rounds, however, one of the last of the heifers is on her side, bellowing in pain. I do an outside the body assessment and quickly determine that the calf is turned, meaning its back is to the birth canal, which will never work. I can reach inside and turn a calf nine times out of ten, but not with my current limitations. I try to talk Carlos through it, instead, which frustrates both of us, since I don’t speak Spanish and he doesn’t speak much English. In the end I reach up with my left hand. I’m awkward with that arm and can’t make it work. I’m swearing when Carlos asks to have another try. This time it works, and the calf finally slithers onto the ground, breathing and strong. Mama takes over by licking the calf while Carlos and I stay on our knees and recover. I would pat him on the back except I’m covered in manure just like he is. Turning calves is not a pretty job.
“Well done, Carlos,” I tell him. He’s typically a picker, working farms, not livestock. For a novice with a language barrier, he did a great job, and I know I could not have done it without him.
“Gracias, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am,” I say as I struggle to my feet. “Call me Sienna.”
“Gracias, Sienna,” he says. He looks at my right arm, which I’m holding tight to my chest because, even though I’d reached in with my left arm, the stretch went all the way through me. “You hurt.”
“I overdid it, yes,” I say, particular about the distinction. He knows I hurt my shoulder last weekend. I gave up the sling only a few days ago.
“I do afternoon,” he says in his broken English, pointing me toward the house. “You rest. I come get you if I need help.”
I do not argue, but I thank him and make my way into the house. Getting up to my shoulder inside a cow is not in accordance with my recovery plan, and I hear Tyson’s voice saying that he’s worried I’ll overdo it. I didn’t even make it four hours.
Since no one’s home, I strip in the laundry room and throw everything I have on in the “ranch” washer, as opposed to the household washer located on the other side of the kitchen. The household washer is for clothing without manure, oil, or blood on it. The ranch washer is for the gross stuff. I take a good long shower, cleaning myself up as carefully as possible. My armpit is burning from the inside out, and I lift my arm slowly and cautiously, afraid I’ll see the incision has popped open. It looks the same as it did this morning, but it feels like my second-day post-op. I’m forced to take a pain pill, which forces me to take a nap—neither of which were on my agenda for the day. It’s after six when I wake up. I get dressed in a clean T-shirt and yoga pants, telling myself that my armpit isn’t as bad as I thought. I’m just tired, so it feels worse.
I am determined to further prove myself recovered by making dinner. There’s spaghetti and canned sauce in the cupboard—I can whip up dinner in half an hour, and I’ll make enough for Manny and Carlos so that I can put off one-on-one time with Dad a little bit longer. I bend down to get the stock pot out of the cupboard, moving other pans out of the way since it’s in the back. I knock another pan forward when I pull on the handle of the pot I want and automatically catch the dislodged pan with my right hand. I cry out as bright white pain shoots through my shoulder and down my side. Both pans clatter to the floor, and I hold my right side with my left hand while trying to take a full breath. I sit on the floor and curse my situation while leaning my back against the cabinet to recover. I resist the tears of frustration threatening—I can’t put energy into anything but getting better.
I finally stand and move more slowly and with more caution, my right arm in the broken wing position again. I can do this. I need to get dinner going. I just need to be more careful.
Half an hour later I’ve managed to set the table and am staring at the pan of boiling pasta on the stove—how am I going to drain the noodles with one arm? I am so frustrated I want to scream. I piss and moan to myself and then Grandma Dee the situation by just digging in. I fish the noodles from the pan with a fork, making an equal pile on each plate before I cover them with sauce so that the noodles won’t dry out. I text Dad that dinner is ready and to bring the hands with him, then realize I can’t eat spaghetti with one hand. Dammit!
I stand in the middle of the floor and take three deep breaths, knowing I need to be calm and clearheaded to work through this. I need to take some ibuprofen so that I’m not so distracted by the pain. Surely Carlos has told Dad about the birthing this afternoon; I can say I tweaked my shoulder again. I get myself a glass of water and am on my way to my room and the huge bottle of ibuprofen that Tyson bought me at the Cheyenne Walgreens when I hear the back door open. Dad must have already been on his way in when he got my text. I paste a smile on my face as I turn toward him. It will take two minutes to assure him I’m fine.
Instead of Dad stomping off his boots, however, I hear a female voice call out. “Knock, knock?”
Beck’s voice.
Oh, hell.
Beck appears from the boot room, her perfectly coifed blond hair glinting beneath the fluorescent light of the kitchen. “Hey there,” she says, chipper as a magpie. “Sure smells good in here.” But her eyes go to the arm held against my stomach, and the concern in her eyes is heavy when she meets my gaze again.
“Thanks,” I say, the false brightness of my tone chipping badly. I want to ask her what she’s doing here but instead settle on, “What’s up?” It’s dinner time, and Beck has two kids and a husband at home. Plus, the ranch is ten miles out of town; no one just drops in because they’re on their way to somewhere else.
“Oh, nothin’ much,” Beck says. She starts shrugging out of her jacket as she walks into the kitchen as though she’s going to stay awhile. What’s going on here? “I had hoped I could help with dinner.”
“It’s done already,” I say. “I just called Dad and the hands in to eat, but I’m going to go lie down. I, uh, tweaked my shoulder again helping with a calf this afternoon.”
Beck holds my eyes. “Yeah, Tyson told me something like that might happen.”
The room flips upside down and then back to right-side up. When would Tyson have said that? They hadn’t talked last night when the family was over as far as I saw. Beck speaks again before I have a chance to work out the significance of what she’s said.
“You go on and lay yerself down,” Beck says, gesturing me toward my room. “I’ll get some dinner in these boys and do the dishes. Then we’ll talk, okay?”
Not okay. Beck starts filling up the water glasses I’d already set on the counter. I watch for a few seconds, wondering what, exactly, Tyson said and if there’s any way I can undo it. Then Beck turns away from the sink and looks up at me, blinking quickly. “Don’t make me cry yet, CC,” she says in a throaty whisper. “I’m gonna try to hold it together for your dad just like you’ve been doing, but you better go lay yerself down before I lose my grip.”
20
Sienna Chadwick
September 16, 2007
Larson 4th Hour
7th grade
first memory in present tense essay
My cousin Beck and I are stacking cans on green carpet. I am wearing a pink nightgown even though I think it’s afternoon. I think I am three years old. Beck is two years older and bossing me around, so she must be five. It smells funny. We stack the cans and then knock them over and laugh at the sound they make. Beck is blaming me for the cans having dents and I don’t know what she means cause they all look the same to me. In real life Beck has brown eyes but in my memory she has blue eyes like mine and I kind of like that I remember it wrong because I have always wanted Beck to be my sister and in this memory it seems like she is. I don’t know where we are. Neither of our houses have green carpet back as far as I can remember. Beck keeps calling it grass. It’s cold so it must be winter and it must be a Saturday because when I was three Beck started all day kindergarten and I missed playing with her during the week. And this is two hundred words so I’m done.
21
Sienna
The ibuprofen takes the edge off the throbbing but not as much as I’d hoped. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling and curse Tyson for telling Beck. And Beck for . . . I don’t know, listening to Tyson, I guess. And cancer most of all for what it did to Mom and what it’s doing to me. And Dad because I can’t talk to him about anything right now. I can’t trust anyone.
There’s a knock at my door, and Beck comes in with a bowl of spaghetti, cut up like she does for her kids. I sit up, gritting my teeth through the pain of it and hoping she can’t tell. But she probably can because she’s Beck. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat anyway,” she says, and hands me the bowl before turning to get the chair from my desk. She brings the chair over to the bed while I set the bowl in my lap. I stare into the food as the silence stretches between us. I feel like a child expecting a reprimand.
Beck sniffles, and I look up to see tears running down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, CC,” she says, her voice wobbling as she tries to dab at her eyes with the napkin she brought with dinner. She sniffles again, then squares her shoulders and gives me a watery smile. “Now, what can I do to help, and if you say ‘nothing, ’ I swear I’m going to lose every bit of decency I’ve ever had all over you.”
So I tell her, taking a few bites of the now-cold spaghetti as a way to keep from looking into her face, which shows her fear way too much for my peace of mind. I only mean to tell her about the cancer, but I can’t explain why I’m keeping it from Dad without explaining everything I’ve found—or, rather, not found—about Mom. While I’m talking I try to imagine what it’s like to hear all of this. Beck loves Dad and tried real hard to make him part of her family when I was living in Chicago. He went to Sunday dinner at Aunt Lottie’s every week, and Beck would stop in at the ranch every few days with a casserole or something. Her surprise at Dad’s odd behavior and the missing information mirrors my own and warms me up to the topic. I end with the truth about the letters, and then silence descends like the collapse of the blanket forts we made as kids.
“I just can’t believe this,” she says, shock and something near to reverence in her voice. “I mean, why not answer your questions? Why wouldn’t there be anything in the files?”
