Читать книгу Last Flight Out - Jennifer Psy.D. Vaughn - Страница 9

I began to hate my computer. Against my doctor’s advice I Googled my diagnosis, read blogs, and soon discovered that as far as my laptop was concerned I would be dead soon. The lump that I had found buried under my sports bra several months ago had now begun to throb. Dr. Sturgis warned me it might, because it was sitting directly under my muscle near my chest wall. He was optimistic we could remove the affected tissue and get enough of a clear margin that a full mastectomy might be avoided. Here’s the kick in the ass, however. He also warned me to be prepared that once they got in they might find more affected or suspect tissue and the breast would have to come off.

As in, say goodbye to your boob, Ella.

How vulgar!

I started verbally attacking my cancer. I told it how much I hated it. I yelled at it, and tried to summon all those antibodies that are supposed to seek out and destroy foreign cells in our bodies. The ones we hear so much about on the cartons of green tea, and vitamins, and fortified sports drinks. Why did they let me down when I needed them most?

I have explored the cancer blogosphere full of stories from millions of patients all over the world. Some of them are funny, and they make me laugh. Others give me a knot in my throat I can’t swallow down for days. Now that cancer has invaded my own space, I find myself pissed off and totally amazed that we are still treated much like lab rats when it comes to conventional medicine. Sure, I get the end game, but why do they have to brutalize our hair follicles, make our teeth gray, and send us to the bathroom with wracking chills and violently heaving intestines? Why do they make us too weak to talk, shatter our hopes for children by crippling our ovaries, and drip poison directly into our veins? Just when they think we can’t possibly take another moment of the torture, oops, I mean treatment, they lay us down and zap us with skin-searing radiation that we can only hope doesn’t get too close to our lungs. If that happens, we could have an even bigger problem on our hands.

“But we’re trying to save your life,” they will tell me. “Be thankful you are young and strong and more importantly, are able to pay for what we are about to charge you because as we all know, cancer is a cash cow and if you want to live to see Christmas you better be prepared to feed the whole farm.”

I hate them already, the doctors, nurses, and receptionists who will look at me with downcast eyes and sickeningly sweet smiles as they watch me deteriorate into a bald, shriveled, radiated, and potentially boob-less corpse.

Am I feeling sorry for myself?

Maybe at this very moment I am.

It does not last long. I switch out the why me, and consider why not me? It’s true I guess, to a certain practical extent. At least I can afford cancer. At least I will get the best torture/treatment available. At least I have some hope that I’ll survive this. At least I have a good plastic surgeon on standby just in case I need him. Don’t think I won’t have the last laugh. I will design the perfect breasts, and they won’t budge an inch for the rest of my life.

How many women can say that?

Once I’ve had enough of the online cancer world, I switch sites to look for flights out to Los Angeles. My mother freaks out when I book my own flights, so I never use my real name when I buy tickets. She’s convinced potential terrorists regularly hack into airline manifests to scan for high profile passengers. I have learned the best way to avoid a national security event is to be as inconspicuous as possible. I don’t travel all that much; most of my trips are out to the West Coast to hang with Lauren. I never get away with it and always promise not to do it again. I do it again, only because I have to. I mean really, do I honestly need White House clearance to board a plane? I appreciate her concern but I think my mother is giving me more credit that I deserve. No one in the real world gives a shit about my travel plans.

I have cleared my schedule at work for the next couple of weeks so I can head out anytime. My job at a publishing house is a bit of a joke. Sure, I’m diligent and qualified and give it my full attention, but I could come in drunk off my ass, throw up on my boss’s desk and still be employee of the month. I had my pick of jobs out of college and floated around Manhattan for a couple of years before settling into Hyde House. The company’s president is my dad’s former frat brother and runs a tight ship. When it comes to everybody else, that is.

I was hired around the same time my mother was inaugurated so name recognition was at a crescendo. Alan Shiro was already a giant in the industry so I was caught off guard when he offered to give me the key to a back door entrance so I didn’t have to slink by the paparazzi staked out at the front door every day after hearing of my hire. He even offered to send his personal driver to my apartment each morning so I could skip the subway. I remember thinking at the time that he didn’t have a clue what he was suggesting. Did he really think shuttling the ass of the twenty-four-year-old newbie in the company limo would go over well?

I kindly, but firmly rejected all his offers and even had my dad call him personally to ask him to back off. Alan is a good man, but I know he was angling to watch his stock rise by employing the daughter of the vice president. In the end, he had the most successful business in town, with the most exciting up and coming writers to preview, and it just worked. I’m always granted first glance at the new manuscripts that come in and usually have the final say before Alan or one of his partners signs off on a contract. It’s a small but satisfying sense of purpose that I have grown to really appreciate. It makes me so proud when a nondescript author surfaces on my watch and becomes a star. It’s almost like I had a hand in molding the future of a perfect stranger.

I really do love my job. It’s just me and my manuscript, and when it’s a story worth telling I can kick back and read it all day long. And, of course, get paid for my bliss.

Does it get better than that?

When I left a voicemail for Alan, I explained I’d be away from the office for awhile, but I’d finish proofing and editing and email in any changes directly to the authors. He quickly texted me back saying no problem, take as long as I need, and call him if I need anything from him.

See? Job stress is definitely something I don’t pretend to deal with.

It’s almost like God said, “Let’s give her the office with the view and the famous family, but make her path cross directly into a giant pile of dog shit.”

Best of all, let’s name that dog Cancer.

I have a small window to book my flight before my mother becomes aware of my airline transaction. We are supposed to alert Secret Service whenever we travel on commercial planes, trains, etc. My brother gets a pass on this because he generally flies charter to and from his games. Kelby follows the rules, but does so grudgingly because it’s just another step in the process and any extra work pisses her off. When I book my ticket, I’ll use a fake name but I’ll have to charge it to my real credit card and it will only be a matter of time before the numbers ping the watchers in Washington. I’ve learned that it can take up to twenty-four hours for the transaction to process so I will wait until the absolute last minute to pull the trigger. That way, I’ll already be in the air when my mother gets the alert that one of her chicks has flown the coop. As soon as we land and we’re allowed to turn on our electronic devices, mine will be screaming at me all the way from the White House.

The whole notification of movement thing can be such a bitch. I’ve left a message for Lauren letting her know I’m on my way.

She puts in super long days on the set so I know she won’t get back to me for several hours, factoring in the time difference. I will be on my own getting to her house; she can’t just skip out of work to meet me at the airport.

I arrange to rent a car at LAX, again using my fake name but my real credit card, another security alert that will take my mother from zero to ten in a heartbeat. I do believe, however, that once I drop the C-word, my travel transgressions will be forgiven.

Part of me feels a twinge of guilt that I’m about to disrupt Lauren’s world with my big announcement. I can almost see her happy grin slowly slip downward until her chin trembles and she struggles to keep it together because she will want to be strong for me. I absolutely despise having to do this to the people who love me. Watching their faces go from concern to dread to fear and then struggle to climb back up to the surface. What I would really like to do is keep this little secret all tied up inside and put the next year on fast forward just like my TiVo. Skip right through the battle scene and pick it back up at the victory party.

I punch in my credit card information, hit confirm, then print out my itinerary and shut down my laptop. Flight is booked for Friday morning leaving JFK at 9:45. I will only fly direct flights, especially anything over two hours. I also splurged and booked myself into first class, where the seats are bigger and I can help myself to some sweet bubbly to pass the time and quell my nerves.

Honestly, I can’t stand flying. I feel every little bump, every drop in altitude, every punch of power when the engines accelerate. I can never fall asleep, can’t focus on a book, and anxiously await the pilot’s voice booming through the cabin when we reach our cruising altitude. I need to hear his voice telling me he’s doing just fine, we’re not going down, and he’s got it all under control.

Even on those rare occasions when I’ve been onboard Air Force One with my mother, I still need to have confirmation from the pilot that all is well at the front of the plane. If I don’t hear from the pilot, I swivel frantically in my seat looking for the flight attendants to pop up and begin hoisting their drink carts down the aisle. That’s another signal to me that everything’s okay.

Of course, these days I also find myself scanning the faces of my fellow passengers. I’m looking for potential terrorists and for the thick-muscled men who will jump up and take back our plane if they dare pull out a box cutter or begin muttering under their breath about impending jihad.

It takes a lot of energy for me to get through a flight, and I always end up with a raging migraine once I finally get off the plane. I remind myself to pack some aspirin. As I head to my closet to pull out my suitcase, my cell buzzes from my kitchen counter. It’s my “government issued” phone, so I hustle over without hesitation to see who is calling. Just like Pavlov’s dog, this is how well we’ve been trained. I feel a moment of relief when I notice it’s not my mother’s line or my father’s, but then tense right back up when I recognize the number as Kelby’s. Because she’s calling on this line I feel like I have to pick up, even though she’s burned me before with phony private line calls that are supposed to be strictly reserved for family emergencies. Kelby’s “emergencies” have included a broken zipper on her favorite jeans, and a less than flattering write-up on Perez Hilton’s website.

Why do I trust this time will be any different? I pick up the phone and give her a quick hello.

“El-La, where in the frickin’ world have you been?” she shrieks at me. “You’ve left me with no choice but to call you on this stupid line because I knew you’d pick up.”

I think I hear panic in her voice, but I can’t quite tell yet if it’s real panic, or just Kelby panic.

“Hey, Kel, been busy, what’s up?” I keep my tone light but firm to discourage any dramatic prelude leading up to the purpose of her call.

“Seriously?” she begins. “Seriously, El-La?” Kelby tends to separate my name into two syllables when she’s got a bone to pick. “You are sooooo inconsiderate to not even think for a moment that I might neeeeed you,” she whines, stretching out every other word like an immature brat who thinks the world has just let her down again. My fault for indulging her for far too long, yet I step right back into the role of her personal enabler. I curse myself for having a weak moment and actually answering her call. I try to maintain my patience as I ask her what’s wrong.

“Well, Jesus Christ, El-La, what do you think is wrong?” I shuffle through a mental list of the possible disasters that have just unfolded and I zero in on something I suspect might be spinning her out of control.

“Uh,” I start, “is it your dress for the state dinner?”

I hope I got it in one guess because I think I can disentangle from this conversation fairly easily. The dinner is still over two months away but Kelby’s wardrobe selection process is already well underway.

I lose focus for a moment, figuring by then I’ll be totally bald. What color dress goes best with bald?

My mind snaps back when Kelby’s voice wails on.

“El-La, don’t you get it?” she brays. “They will never let me bring Harris to the White House, and he’ll be pissed at me if he can’t come. Like, what the fuck am I supposed to tell him that won’t feel like I’m pulling off his dick with my tweezers?”

Hmm, the image of that certainly gives me a chuckle. Harris is Kelby’s professor-slash-lover, and it’s not going over very well with my parents. They consider it highly undesirable for Kelby to be dating someone related to the university, and they refuse to acknowledge the relationship. In fact, the university has already censured Harris for taking up with a student. They both insist that because Kelby is of legal age of consent, there is no conflict of university policy but that’s not completely true. Harris is crossing the line and no one is fooled that the attraction is strictly due to Kelby’s charming personality and intellectual prowess.

Hardly!

He thinks she’s hot, and she’s the daughter of the vice president and he’s ready for his fifteen minutes to start ticking.

Unfortunately for all of us, Kelby doesn’t quite get this yet and she’s doing all she can to insert him into our family landscape like a thorny rose bush.

Sweet Jesus. Like I need this now.

The call turns out to be much more complicated than I had hoped, leaving me no easy way to get out of this without tackling it head on. I remind Kelby that we are advised not to bring guests to White House events and she can easily blame it on protocol.

Kelby is usually able to weed through the wannabes who sniff around her like horny giggling hyenas, but for some reason Harris has her fooled. Even Kass hasn’t been able to unlock the strange hold he has over her, not that she’s more apt to listen to him over me. We both know Kass likes just about everyone. You have to be a serial killer, child molester, or a left tackle that can’t block for him not to give you the benefit of the doubt. My parents are no help either. By not approving, they’ve pretty much given her a green light to enter the rabbit hole that is paved with velvet. She just can’t help but slide right down into the abyss.

Kelby is giving me good practice for the day, if it ever comes, when I have to deal with a petulant child who is always one “no” away from a meltdown. Chances are my uterus will be nuked dry by my impending radiation. My kids could come out with one eye and three arms. Truth is, they probably won’t come out at all.

I move on to try a new tactic with my persistent sister. I remind her that Harris is under administrative watch and he really shouldn’t be flaunting their relationship. I spin it to make the point that it is for Harris’ own professional good to stay away. Not that Kelby gives too much thought to what’s best for someone else, but at least she may take a bit of responsibility for helping him keep his job. If Harris went from simply being unsavory in the eyes of my family, to downright unemployable, well then she’d have no choice but to cut him loose.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It just sucks that this has to be so hard for me. I mean seriously, El-La. Kass can show up with whatever skank he’s banging at the time. Tell me how that’s fair? Not that you can relate, when was the last time you even had a date?”

Kelby flows into personal insult territory as swiftly as she glides into her white Mercedes. There is virtually no change in the tone of her voice, so you almost have no way to prepare for the hit. I deflect the question to which there is no easy answer and bring the conversation back around to her, which is how we both prefer it, really.

“Kel, if Harris is really the great guy you think he is, he’ll understand. Otherwise, I just don’t see how you could pull it off. Maybe if you guys stay together for awhile, Mom and Dad will come around. Look, I gotta go. I’m flying out…”

Oh shit, I think, as I pull back the words that almost tumble right out of my mouth. Maybe it’s a stray cancer cell infiltrating itself into the part of my brain that controls verbal stupidity.

Sure as a cold sore on your wedding day, Kelby pounces.

“What did you just say?” she barks. “Flying out of what? Where do you think you’re going, El-La, and why don’t I know about it?” Then she goes in for the TKO. “Does Mother know you’re going somewhere? Are you taking a commercial airline?” She says it like she has rotten mustard on her tongue. I quickly scan my options, realizing there are few that can level out this mountain of crap I’ve just stacked up for myself. I just don’t have access to a bulldozer at the moment. I’m on my own.

“Look, Kelby,” I begin, “it’s no big deal. I’m heading to L.A. for a couple of days to visit Lauren.” I pray silently in my head she’ll accept this and shut up. The less she knows about this trip the better. She goes fishing for more.

“El-La, really…AGAIN? Haven’t you pushed her far enough, and shouldn’t you tell someone when you’ll be leaving? You know Mom will have to inform the flight crew if you’re going commercial. El-La, you can’t not tell her.”

Technically, Kelby’s right and I’ve violated the rule the most. We’ve all been reminded time and time again to clear our commercial itineraries with our mother’s office. The fact that Kelby is now sitting on this golden nugget of a secret could be a disaster. All it will take is a phone call to our mother for the whole trip to sink, and I’ll be given yet another lecture about presidential protocol, and my personal responsibility to myself and my nation. My mother is forever worried about us being used to inflict greater damage on the country. That’s why our flights must be cleared individually from the gate, and then monitored on White House radar from takeoff to landing. That’s also why we are forced to use these ridiculous encrypted cell phones to call each other. She has no patience with us when we attempt to skirt our way around the rules.

As much as they have told us our whole lives that we are just like everybody else, no special treatment, in reality we are not like anybody else and special treatment now dictates our every move.

Without even trying, I add yet another dilemma to my quickly crumbling life.

How in the world can I get to L.A. without my mother alerting the National Guard?