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His smile is bright. This, the two of us eating and watching TV together, brings him joy.
It feels good, seeing him happy.
But, honestly, I don't understand it. How can he be happy after losing so much?
How did he drag himself out of that misery?
How does anyone?
I finish the show and the pizza. Hug him good night. Shower. Climb into my pajamas.
I pore myself into my sketchbook, but it doesn't grab my thoughts.
They drift back to the beginning. The horror that streaked across my mind as I felt a lump.
Just like Mom.
It happened so fast. Exam. MRI. Needle biopsy. Scary words like malignant and gene mutation and preventative double mastectomy.
I knew the drill. I'd watched modern medicine fail my mother.
I was sure my fate was the same.
It was terrifying. I thought I had my life figured out—I was about to graduate UCLA. I was ready to start doing martial arts competitions. I was madly in love with my boyfriend.
But I misjudged him the way I misjudged Dean. To Alex, I was a fun way to fill time. We were never going to be serious. He left at the first sign of trouble.
My friends at college, the ones who drank with me, laughed with me, organized documentary screenings and bake sales with me…
They left too.
Gia and Dad are the only people who stuck around. And, yeah, maybe that wore on me.
Maybe it convinced me that people abandon you the second shit gets hard.
That men always fall back on their promises.
That no one wants the girl with a clock on her head.
But I…
Well, I guess I'm not over it.
I'm not filled with the survivor pride.
I'm not dancing over how lucky I am to be alive.
I'm alive, and I'm glad, but it sucks being alone.
Losing so much.
Mom was unlucky. The gene mutation that killed her wasn't easy to test then. She caught it late. She suffered.
But I knew early. Well, early enough for treatment. The doctors assured me I'd be fine so long as I lopped off my breasts then injected poison into my veins for a few months.
It was an easy choice.
I look the same. Better even. My boobs are bigger. Perkier. Nicer.
