Live a Little (38 page)

“We’ve only had one other guest on more than twice— Sarah Singer—and she’s a Ph.D. who’s written twelve international bestsellers, including the definitive text on infant mortality among Christian Scientists of the Pacific Northwest.” Laurie’s face is redder than I’ve ever seen it, except perhaps the moment I confessed to sleeping with Ren. Then again, she was upside down at the time.

I looked down at my nails, feigning distress and humility. Sure, I hadn’t penned the definitive book on
The Christian Science Monitor
or whatever. But I had something important to say, and I obviously wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Boss of Shiny Pony frowned. “Well, Alicia thinks we need to take another look at
LWL
’s key metrics. There’s some concern about the third-quarter share decrease.”

Everyone knows that Alicia, the station director and Boss of Boss of Shiny Pony, is being cultivated for great things by the network. No one disagrees with Alicia about anything, because everyone wants to go with her when she takes her gigantic pulsing brain and her iced organic no-fat soy chai latté addiction and her framed photo of herself and Oprah at a walkathon for some disease or another and buries herself into the power structure at NBC like a tick in the haunches of a particularly succulent Welsh corgi.

Laurie showed the Schultz aplomb. “Wait a minute. Before we start operating on erroneous assumptions, does anyone have the numbers handy? If I remember correctly, last week we won our time period among adults eighteen to forty-nine
and
twenty-five to fifty-four.”

I was vicariously proud of my sister’s number-crunching abilities, the gene for which clearly bypassed me, since I can’t balance a checkbook or calculate the calories in a triple serving of anything, let alone help the kids with their trig and calculus homework.

“That’s one way to spin it,” Boss of Shiny Pony said gently, lowering his bifocals toward his notes. “Let’s see. We averaged a four-point-one out of ten in adults in the eighteen-to-forty-nine demo . . . a four-point-nine on top of eleven in adults twenty-five to fifty-four . . . and a three-point-one out of nine in the eighteen-to-thirty-fours, with a six-point-six in ten households. So yeah, technically we ‘won’ the slot, but we came in second behind Laqueta in the ten
A.M.
, and KPIW does an infomercial in the ten-thirty,
so
. . . Alicia wants us to come up with some ideas that will give us a ratings boost.” BOSP looked embarrassed, as if Laurie had just turned up at the weekly strategy meeting in a lace thong. At the mention of Laqueta—Laurie’s dashiki-wearing, Kahlil Gibran–quoting, increasingly popular archrival—the room sank into nauseated silence. Laurie had two rules that reign supreme on the set: Remove your outdoor shoes before entering and never mention Laqueta Hacker’s name until after Laurie has done her morning asanas.

My sister’s quick brain reassessed her power quotient and searched for gold. “I’m sure we can come up with something fresh and exciting that will please Alicia and the viewers. Something fresh but also familiar, so the
viewers,
who rely on the
quality
health information they get here from a
trusted
source, won’t think we’re abandoning our insistence on
accuracy
for the sake of a few ratings points. Maybe something on how to recharge your marriage? Or stay healthy while traveling? I’ve come up with some great concepts for a show on homeopathic treatments for attention-deficit disorder that would . . .”

I tuned out while Laurie grandstanded. Why did she always have to hog the limelight? I wasn’t asking for much—only a bit of redress for forty-odd years of unequal footing, sanctioned by God, Ren White, and our sainted mother.

Almost immediately after I thought this, my stalwart friend Guilt piped up:
Laurie’s having a bad year, you know. First, all those adoptions falling through. Then the collapse of confidence and the stuff with Ren. And her job being on shaky ground. Maybe you could give her a break this time and back off a little?

Luckily, my other compadre, Self-preservation, threw a hard-hitting left hook.

What’s a bad year compared to a lifetime of anonymity? Okay, so maybe it’s gonna hurt a little when the fans clap me out of my seat and she has to maintain the TV-host smile-mask until the commercial break. But let’s remember who we’re talking about here, folks. This is the girl who was once rejected for a Victoria’s Secret job because Tyra felt threatened. This is the girl who stole Ren from me that Thanksgiving without a backward glance, who convinced him to transfer to Amherst so he could be near her at Smith. This is the girl who let me take the fall for the Dexatrim and a thousand other blunders.

Boss of Shiny Pony stroked his wispy goatee. “Alicia’s liking Raquel for an ongoing guest slot. Inspiration, recovery, healing, sisterhood, all that jazz.”

“Ongoing,” Laurie repeated.

“Raquel,” BOSP said, acknowledging me for the first time that meeting, “do you have any fresh thoughts on show topics?”

First I panicked. Everyone was looking at me, some defensively, some relieved that the laser beam of accusation had bypassed them, some hopeful, as if, by (supposedly) surviving an oft-fatal disease, I had some sort of revelation at hand. A fresh one. The Massengill douche of ideas, in fact.

Fresh. Fresh like flowers. Like strawberries in summer. Like water from a mountain stream
. . .

At that moment, like an intact memory of the best sex you ever had in your life, a delicious nugget of inspiration sprang to the forefront of my fuzzy cranium.

Disease.

Then the voices piped up.

Guilt:
Hasn’t this gone too far already? You aiming for

The Guinness Book of World Records
in sack-of-shit lying or something?

Self-preservation:
Hon, you’re in a position to speak for thousands of women who need real help. You’ve raised $245,325. What’s a little fib for the cause?

Guilt:
Little like her gazoombas are little.

Self-preservation:
You need this. Without this, you’re nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Guilt:
Try living with yourself after this.

Self-preservation:
Try living with yourself the way you were before.

Touché.

“How to do cancer,” I said, drawing it out as if plumbing this trough for the first time.

“What do you mean, how to
do
it?” BOSP was handing out no free favors.

“Just . . . how to do it. I don’t mean to sound flip, it’s just . . . Look, when I was diagnosed, I had no idea what to do. I mean, like what to do in the next five minutes, let alone the next few days, weeks, months. I was completely panicked, completely alone. There’s no user manual for this stuff. Everybody expects you to deal with it, to accept it and move on, to get a handle on the process and the jargon—but not too much. The doctors hate when you know what you’re talking about, you know?” Shiny Pony and Dreadlocked Caucasian Mail Clerk, who had stopped pushing his cart and was eavesdropping outside the door, nodded sympathetically. And enthusiastically.

If I milk this teat any harder, I’ll get calluses.

“Consider it a user’s guide. The User’s Guide to Cancer.
Surviving
Cancer,” I added, mindful of Boss of Shiny’s emphasis on inspiration. “We could do it like a series. The diagnosis: how to cope. Or how to help someone cope. The treatment phase. What to expect. What are your options? How to talk to doctors. How to talk to
patients.
What to do if you fall in love with your doctor”—around me, the glowing faces dim—“just kidding, people! C’mon, let’s have a sense of humor about this stuff, okay? What else? Uh, how to navigate the managed-care and insurance systems. How to find support. What to anticipate when you get better. It’s like the primer you need that nobody gives you.”

For the next three minutes, I expounded on my fabulous brainchild one crucial point at a time. I was afraid to look at my sister, so I didn’t. I was afraid that I’d see a middle-aged woman with crow’s-feet and fertility problems, with grown-out roots and a pitying smile that said,
I may be hitting the skids, but at least I don’t have to play the cancer card every time I want someone to take me seriously.
Overhead, the clock ticked its way toward lunch. Finally, I ran out of wind and waited for my sentence.
Oh well, at least I have my upcoming show at SFMOMA.
And my television wardrobe, including that teal silk blouse by Chloé that Cleo swore was all the rage and happened to make my chest look almost alert.

“Huh,” BOSP said.

“Tacky.” Laurie.

“Nobody else has done it.” Marketing Lady in White Suit.
White.

“How?” Extremely Gay Advertising Sales Guy wailed.

“I see a panel.” Shiny Pony’s pony trembled. With excitement?

“Tacky,” Laurie said again.

As if scenting a predator, we all turned toward the door as Alicia, ferret-tongued, statement-sloppy, shark-featured Alicia, entered. Alicia was reputed to have reproduced, but no one at the station had ever seen her children, either in person or captured in laudatory cuteness by digital photography. Perhaps she suspected—justifiably—that she would be taken less seriously if her focus was perceived as split (between the joys of corporate warfare and the rewards of nanny-assisted parenthood). Maybe she ate them at birth. Who knows? We all watched in terror as she flicked back a loose piece of lank graying-brown hair and draw a long slurp from her iced chai. She was fearsome, awesome, loathsome, raw power in a cheap, ill-fitting black suit.

“Brilliant,” she said. She was looking directly at me.

I have a song.

No, I mean:
I. Have. A. Song.

A theme song. That was written for me by real musicians.

Their names are Ned and Arturo. One is short and skinny, and the other one is tall and skinny, and they have a synthesizer with a poster of Gwen Stefani in hot pants over it on which they tap out melodies. They say things like “That so captures her essential optimism, dude” and “Dude, what’s with the reverb?”

My song is called “Raquel.” Ned, the tall, ruddy, easily embarrassed one, argued for the flashier “Raquel’s Song,” but stubborn, oversexed little Arturo won out, as is usually the case; he cited the tearjerking film
Brian’s Song
as a reference we wanted to avoid (thus my “essential” optimism). Ned explained to me that “Raquel” is contrapuntal, which means it has more than one melody line. Typically—as I’m doing right now—I step through the backstage curtains at the exact moment when the first melody segues into the snazzier second line. Ta-da!

I wave at the studio audience as I stride across the klieg-warm stage to the overstuffed chairs, where Laurie sits half smiling, as if bearing up nobly under the strain of prolonged constipation.

“Hi, everyone! Hi!” I call as I blow kisses. My microphone is wireless. It is attached to the back of my slacks, which are, happily, not mom-ish at all but rather trendy, with a snug high waist and a flattering flare that gives me, for once, a proper waist-to-hip ratio.

Laurie greets me warmly, as if we weren’t backstage ten minutes ago, fighting about what to get Ma for her birthday now that Eliot the Snake has sabotaged our plan by buying her season symphony tickets himself.

“For those of you just tuning in, we’re thrilled to have my very own sister, Raquel Rose, back with us today for another guest-host appearance. Raquel is an artist, wife, and mother of two teenagers—my delightful niece and nephew, Taylor and Micah—as well as a survivor of breast cancer, which she was diagnosed with earlier this year.” She turns to me. “Raquel, can you tell our viewers what we’ll be discussing today?”

“I sure can, Laurie. And I have to say, that color looks fabulous on you!” Laurie is wearing a pumpkin turtleneck. A tiny gold cross twinkles on her chest. Ma’s going to
plotz
when she sees it. It is part of Alicia’s strategy to win back the Christian Conserva-twats (her words, not mine).

“Why, thank you,” Laurie says icily.

“You’re welcome.” Ever gracious! I arrange my features into a mask of solemnity. “Today, Laurie, with segment four of our ongoing
How to Do Cancer
series, I’m going to moderate a panel on patient-doctor communication. Now, this is a matter that’s demanded our attention for many, many years, and it has been sorely neglected by the medical establishment. It’s no surprise that patients-rights groups are frustrated; poor communication between physician and patient is the number one cause of patient noncompliance and the second-leading cause of clinical depression among the recently diagnosed. Did you know that, Laurie?”

“No, I didn’t, Raquel. But it’s utterly fascinating. And certainly revealing.” Laurie’s swinging heel narrowly misses the leg of my chair.

This is a lot more fun than watching Laurie on TV while manhandling the lettuce spinner in my sweatpants and waiting for Carla’s UPS guy to deliver.

I make eye contact with a fiftysomething gay couple in the wings. Alicia says gay men loved me in the focus groups. “It’s bad enough getting diagnosed with a dangerous or life-threatening disease. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s even worse when communication between patient and physician is strained or lacking. Today we’ll be speaking with some of the Bay Area’s leading oncologists and several courageous survivors about how we can improve patient-doctor communication, how we can take a stale or stressed relationship and turn it into a vibrant, healing one. At the end of the show, we’ll add our findings to the Cancer Patients’ Bill of Rights and petition that we’re submitting to the AMA.”