What's Left of Me
Page 3
Just as I’m pulling the dress back up, I hear a shocked gasp.
“What?” I ask, slowly turning to face her.
Jean’s hand is covering her open mouth and her eyes are wide like an owl. “What happened to you?” she finally asks.
“Looking down at myself I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Your back!”
I turn my head so that I’m looking down at my right hip. There is a large, dark purple bruise covering the entire lower right side of my back.
“It’s nothing.”
“That doesn’t look like nothing … Is that from your appointment?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“Oh, my God, Dre. Are you okay? Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s okay. I hardly even notice it.” I give her a warm smile before pulling the dress all the way up.
Truth be told, it is noticeable. I was told I’d hardly feel a thing—maybe a little pressure—and that afterward I might have a small bruise and a bit of an ache. Nothing Tylenol couldn’t take care of. Well, my luck, I get the newbie who has maybe done a total of one bone marrow procedure—mine.
I run my hands over the dress, making sure it’s pulled all the way down, and everything is in its rightful place. It hugs me, perfectly molding to my body and showcasing the small curves I have. Over the last four years, my body has gone through so many changes due to chemo that my curves are no longer present. I’ve been slowly putting on the weight I lost and, lucky for me, it’s going back to the right places—my ass, hips, and chest. The strapless push-up bra gives me just enough cle**age to accentuate my assets. As long as I don’t bend over, my butt shouldn’t be exposed. Which could make dancing tonight a little difficult.
Grabbing her purse, Jean asks, “You ready?” as she takes one last look at herself in the full-length mirror by the bedroom door.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I turn off the bedroom light, letting the room go dark.
The drive to Max’s Bar is a lot shorter than I expected. When Genna said it was downtown, I hadn’t realized she’d meant it was less than ten minutes away from her house. It’s a beautiful, early September evening. We don’t get many nights like this in Minnesota. Walking here could have taken us twenty minutes, but that’s nineteen minutes longer than I want to be walking in heels, let alone walking in heels when my hip is already bugging me. I don’t need to add to the strain on my body.
The hostess who greets us at the door has short blonde hair spiked in back and flat ironed straight in front, a lip piercing, and the tightest black leather pants I have ever seen. Jean tells her we’re meeting someone and, after describing Shannon, asks if she’s seen her here yet. The hostess points us in the direction where Shannon is waiting.
We make our way around bodies, tables, and chairs to reach the small corner booth where Shannon is sitting. She stands up, waving and smiling at us. She’s changed her hair since the last time I saw her. It’s a little longer, and what was once light brown is now black like Genna’s, with dark purple streaks. When we reach her, she pulls Jean into a hug, then me. I pull away from her embrace and notice her violet tank top is so low I can see her br**sts, and they’re pushed up so high I’m afraid they’ll pop out with the slightest movement.
Averting my eyes back to her face, I smile as I take the seat across from her. Jean bounces into the booth next to her.
Shouting loudly over the music, I greet her, “It’s great to see you again! You look fantastic. I love the new hair!”
“Thanks! Same goes to you.” She pauses pointing at my hair. “How have you been feeling?”
It always comes back to that. It would be nice if my cancer weren’t always the main topic of discussion, or the first thing to be mentioned. How are you feeling? Well, for starters, my hip is f**king killing me. I have a bruise the size of a cantaloupe covering the lower right side of my back. And I’m so tired I feel as if I could sleep for a year straight.
I don’t tell her all that. I want to, but I don’t. Instead, I say with a smile, “I’m doing great!”
A waitress stops at our table, setting down a tray full of drinks. With wide eyes, I take in the three martini glasses: sugar around the edges, filled with yellow liquor, a pineapple perfectly wedged on each of the rims, and a toothpick attaching a cherry on top. Three shot glasses filled with a pink mixture are placed directly in front of me, followed by three glasses of water with lemons. Dear Lord, help me.
“I ordered the first round,” Shannon says as she starts distributing the drinks. First round? I am f**ked. Royally f**ked. I don’t drink. Ever. When I have gone out with Jean, or the few times with Genna, I only have a glass or two of wine. There were a few high school parties where I got drunk, but that feels like ages ago.
I feel a hard kick to my shin from under the table, taking me away from the shock of all the alcohol sitting in front of me. When I meet Jean’s bright blue eyes she nods toward the shot glass in front of me.
Shannon shouts over the music, “To making new friends!”
Jean beams in her chair; locking eyes with me, “To letting go!”
What the hell. Bottoms up!
I clink my glass with the others. “To letting go, new beginnings, and new friendships.”
Bringing the shot glass to my lips, I tilt my head back and take the shot in one swallow. The sweet taste hits my tongue before it moves smoothly down my throat. It’s sweet, like raspberries, but strong, like tequila.
“What?” I ask, slowly turning to face her.
Jean’s hand is covering her open mouth and her eyes are wide like an owl. “What happened to you?” she finally asks.
“Looking down at myself I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Your back!”
I turn my head so that I’m looking down at my right hip. There is a large, dark purple bruise covering the entire lower right side of my back.
“It’s nothing.”
“That doesn’t look like nothing … Is that from your appointment?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“Oh, my God, Dre. Are you okay? Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s okay. I hardly even notice it.” I give her a warm smile before pulling the dress all the way up.
Truth be told, it is noticeable. I was told I’d hardly feel a thing—maybe a little pressure—and that afterward I might have a small bruise and a bit of an ache. Nothing Tylenol couldn’t take care of. Well, my luck, I get the newbie who has maybe done a total of one bone marrow procedure—mine.
I run my hands over the dress, making sure it’s pulled all the way down, and everything is in its rightful place. It hugs me, perfectly molding to my body and showcasing the small curves I have. Over the last four years, my body has gone through so many changes due to chemo that my curves are no longer present. I’ve been slowly putting on the weight I lost and, lucky for me, it’s going back to the right places—my ass, hips, and chest. The strapless push-up bra gives me just enough cle**age to accentuate my assets. As long as I don’t bend over, my butt shouldn’t be exposed. Which could make dancing tonight a little difficult.
Grabbing her purse, Jean asks, “You ready?” as she takes one last look at herself in the full-length mirror by the bedroom door.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I turn off the bedroom light, letting the room go dark.
The drive to Max’s Bar is a lot shorter than I expected. When Genna said it was downtown, I hadn’t realized she’d meant it was less than ten minutes away from her house. It’s a beautiful, early September evening. We don’t get many nights like this in Minnesota. Walking here could have taken us twenty minutes, but that’s nineteen minutes longer than I want to be walking in heels, let alone walking in heels when my hip is already bugging me. I don’t need to add to the strain on my body.
The hostess who greets us at the door has short blonde hair spiked in back and flat ironed straight in front, a lip piercing, and the tightest black leather pants I have ever seen. Jean tells her we’re meeting someone and, after describing Shannon, asks if she’s seen her here yet. The hostess points us in the direction where Shannon is waiting.
We make our way around bodies, tables, and chairs to reach the small corner booth where Shannon is sitting. She stands up, waving and smiling at us. She’s changed her hair since the last time I saw her. It’s a little longer, and what was once light brown is now black like Genna’s, with dark purple streaks. When we reach her, she pulls Jean into a hug, then me. I pull away from her embrace and notice her violet tank top is so low I can see her br**sts, and they’re pushed up so high I’m afraid they’ll pop out with the slightest movement.
Averting my eyes back to her face, I smile as I take the seat across from her. Jean bounces into the booth next to her.
Shouting loudly over the music, I greet her, “It’s great to see you again! You look fantastic. I love the new hair!”
“Thanks! Same goes to you.” She pauses pointing at my hair. “How have you been feeling?”
It always comes back to that. It would be nice if my cancer weren’t always the main topic of discussion, or the first thing to be mentioned. How are you feeling? Well, for starters, my hip is f**king killing me. I have a bruise the size of a cantaloupe covering the lower right side of my back. And I’m so tired I feel as if I could sleep for a year straight.
I don’t tell her all that. I want to, but I don’t. Instead, I say with a smile, “I’m doing great!”
A waitress stops at our table, setting down a tray full of drinks. With wide eyes, I take in the three martini glasses: sugar around the edges, filled with yellow liquor, a pineapple perfectly wedged on each of the rims, and a toothpick attaching a cherry on top. Three shot glasses filled with a pink mixture are placed directly in front of me, followed by three glasses of water with lemons. Dear Lord, help me.
“I ordered the first round,” Shannon says as she starts distributing the drinks. First round? I am f**ked. Royally f**ked. I don’t drink. Ever. When I have gone out with Jean, or the few times with Genna, I only have a glass or two of wine. There were a few high school parties where I got drunk, but that feels like ages ago.
I feel a hard kick to my shin from under the table, taking me away from the shock of all the alcohol sitting in front of me. When I meet Jean’s bright blue eyes she nods toward the shot glass in front of me.
Shannon shouts over the music, “To making new friends!”
Jean beams in her chair; locking eyes with me, “To letting go!”
What the hell. Bottoms up!
I clink my glass with the others. “To letting go, new beginnings, and new friendships.”
Bringing the shot glass to my lips, I tilt my head back and take the shot in one swallow. The sweet taste hits my tongue before it moves smoothly down my throat. It’s sweet, like raspberries, but strong, like tequila.
