“From this day forward,” he started. “If any of you dishonor me I will bring forth my own justice. I will remove the tongues that you speak with, I will take the hands you wish to work with, and I will cut out your disloyal hearts.” That was the day my mother began to plan her escape.
Very late one night when the skies were particularly dark, she quietly pulled out the small bag she had stashed beneath her mattress, kissed her sisters lightly on the foreheads, and crept downstairs. The house was silent, and she told me her footsteps had felt leaden. Every muscle was tensed, every sound felt like an explosion inside her own head. Opening the door was like Russian roulette, at any moment the chamber would fire and she would be hauled back inside. The door only mustered a lame creak before swinging wide enough for her to slip right out.
As the darkness closed in around her, my mother ran. Her heart pounded in her ears, her breath came in short, sharp spurts that burned her lungs. She ran until her house faded into the black of night. She ran down the deserted city streets, counting off buildings and alleys, until she thought she had reached the right one. She turned into the small space that fell between a store with iron bars on the windows, and another that had once housed a butcher shop her father took her to on weekends. She flew down a flight of steep stairs, rolling her ankles, tripping on the impossibly narrow steps, and losing stray fibers of her hastily packed bag to the shards of concrete sticking out from the water-stained walls.
Finally, she stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Turning toward a gray door with rust eating away at the knob, she told me she had knocked upon it three times. She closed her eyes tightly and whispered a prayer that what she had been told was true. She prayed she had chosen the right alley, and salvation was waiting as a reward for her bravery. She opened her eyes as she heard heavy footsteps approaching on the other side. As she exhaled the air she hadn’t realized she had been holding, the door opened and dim light spilled out into the alley. My mother was whisked inside. As she looked around, she saw faces just like hers. Females of all ages swathed in black, standing together and looking back at her from inside a small, windowless apartment.
One by one they opened their arms and moved in together to welcome her into their solemn sisterhood. My mother noticed many of them were visibly scarred. One young girl had a vicious red slash under her right eye. My mother later learned she had been gang raped and beaten by her brother’s schoolmates then left to die by the side of the road. Another woman was missing her left hand. She explained how her father had forced her into prostitution at sixteen. One day, a client had paid extra for the pleasure of tying her to the bedpost. As she lay there, he burned her with his cigarette, backhanded her when she cried out in pain, and left her there helpless to free her arms and doctors had no choice but to remove it from the elbow down.
The stories were horrific, and vivid, and full of disgusting abuses that permeated their culture like putrid air. In some way or another, they had all been given a second chance. By trusting in rumor and a secret network of survivors known only through word of mouth, each woman had put enough faith and hope into the possibility of freedom that they risked certain death in search of the dark door at the bottom of the concrete steps. This modern-day Underground Railroad had existed for generations to lead women brave enough to trust in it down a new road.
In this coven, there was no rape, no fists of rage or dishonor in denouncing evil tradition. Each woman buried her past and re-emerged as a strong, purposeful, and proud human being. From the moment my mother stepped into that room lit by nothing more than candles and the spirit of love and generosity, she never looked back.
Right up until the day she died, she held a permanent place in the circle of women who opened the door as often as a knock came upon it, seeking to rescue new souls that otherwise would have been left to wither away and die.
She was saved that night, but another wicked presence would find her soon enough.
My mother’s time on earth would still be brief.
Chapter 4: Ella
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,