-excerpt from my sister’s keeper by jodi picoult.
this book’s in my top two books, kept me reading for hours straight. been ages since i read a book so nice. (:
At home, we all wear masks so that Kate doesn’t have to. I find myself checking her fingernails while she brushes her teeth or pours cereal, to see if the dark ridges made by the chemo have disappeared-a sure sign of the bone marrow transplant’s success. Twice a day I give Kate growth factor shots in the thigh, a necessity until her neutrophil count tops one thousand. At that point the marrow will be reseeding itself.
She can’t go back to school yet, so we get her lessons sent home. Once or twice she has come with me to pick up Anna up from the kindergarten, but refuses to get out of the car. She will troop to the hospital for her routine CBC, but i suggested a side trip to the video store or Dunkin’ Donuts afterwards, she begs off.
One Saturday morning, the door to the girls’ bedroom is ajar; I knock gently. “want to go to the mall?”
Kate shrugs. “Not now.”
I lean against the door frame. It’ll be good to get out of the house.”
“I don’t want to.” Although I am sure she does not even realize she is doing it, she skims her palm over her head before tucking her hand into her back pocket.
“Kate,” I begin,
“Don’t say it. Don’t tell me that nobody’s going to stare at me, because they will. Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter, because it does. And don’t tell me I look fine because that’s a lie.” Her eyes, lash bare, fill with tears. “I’m a freak, Mom. Look at me.”
I do, and I see the spots where her brows have gone missing, and the slope of her endless brow, and the small divots and bums that are usually hidden under a cover of hair. “Well,” I say evenly. “We can fix this.”
Without another word, I walk out of her room, knowing Kate will follow. I pass Anna, who abandons her coloring book to trail behind her sister. In the basement, I pull out a pair of ancient electric grooming clippers we found when we bought the house, and plug them in. Then I cut a swat right down the middle of my scalp.
“Mom!” Kate gasps.
“What?” A tumble of brown waves falls onto Anna’s shoulder; she picks them up delicately. “Its only hair.”
With another swipe of the razor, Kate starts to smile. She points out a spot that I’ve missed, where a small thatch stands like a forest. I sit down on an overturned milk crate and let her shave the other side of my head herself. Anna crawls onto my lap. “Me next,” she begs.
An hour later, we walk through the mall holding hands, a trio of bald girls. We stay for hours. Everywhere we go, heads turn and whisper.
We are beautiful, times three.
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