The Girl With Nine Wigs (22 page)

I look at the photos I took. They are a flurry of polka-dot scarves, striped sweaters, and tiger-print pantyhose. Allard, the fierce lesbians, Pumpkin Boy with Uma, and more all flash by me with the club in the background.

Before I fall asleep I check my e-mail. Chantal has written again. She says she's been extremely tired, sleeping more than twelve hours a night. She ends the e-mail saying that she will pop by my chemo next week. We made a point of knowing each other's schedules.

 

FRIDAY, JANUARY 20

“
S
O,”
E
STHER SAYS,
pricking into my synthetic boob for the last time. “Who is this Dr. K, anyway?”

I spill my secret crush to her with a grin on my face.

“I thought so!” she exclaims. “When you were on TV you got to kiss my two favorite men in life, you know. What's that actor like in real life? He seems like he'd be such a genuine guy. And then the host, Matthijs, of course—what a hunk.”

For a moment I feel bad for my nurse—here I am, fishing in her pond—but I don't feel bad for long: that's just my gray cloud's silver lining.

 

FRIDAY, JANUARY 27

I
'M TAGGING ALONG WITH
Chan to her chemo for the first time. The morgue is on the same floor as the parking garage at Chantal's hospital. There's no way to avoid it after parking the car.
How morbid.

“Scary, huh? That I'll be down here someday?”

It sure is. With that in mind we walk down the hall toward radiology. My mood is sour. Imagine what Chantal must be feeling.

“Chan are you scared of dying?”

“Very. Try not to think about it.”

“Yeah.”

“It's more a feeling. A constant feeling of panic.”

Still, she's amazingly relaxed. As if she's made peace with her terminal verdict. As long as I haven't been given that verdict, every new scan and test turns me into a bundle of nerves. Maybe that's because she has been given the final verdict already.

But we're not playing deaf. For all the securities that have been taken away from us, we have been given the greatest security of all in return, a second chance at
really
living our lives. On the Internet, there are so many people proclaiming how they feel happier and more complete as a cancer patient. Big words. I recognize some of that in myself and in Chantal, too, but it doesn't make the island we're stuck on much more fun.

*   *   *

Back home I change wigs and inspect my eyes in the mirror. My eyelashes have grown a few millimeters this week. I stick on my longest fake lashes with gold glitter and opt for Daisy. Her look is so fearless that I can't help but feel as confident as she looks. That should make an impression.

Sitting at Finch, I bat my lashes to get the attention of my favorite bartender. He joins me at the end of the bar and puts his arms around my shoulders.

“Mint tea?” he asks.

“Yes, please.” As Bartender moves his arm he accidentally takes Daisy along with him. My wig is hanging halfway down my back, revealing my baby hairs and bald spots. I blush. Bartender helps me to quickly get my wig back in place. We both move on with our drinks. I go back to my seat. I feel as if I've just been caught while putting something in my handbag that isn't mine. (This sometimes happens, I have a weak spot for espresso cups with a personalized restaurant logo on it). When I walk out the café thirty minutes later I'm still blushing.

 

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 10

T
ODAY
I
CROSSED OUT THE
fifty-fourth week in my agenda. After this I am officially done. It takes me forty minutes to get to the hospital. I'm alone. No Mom, no Oma, no Sis, no Chantal. I've brought some chocolate to give to Dr. L. The shops are full of hearts; it's almost Valentine's Day. I immediately thought about buying something heart-shaped for Dr. K, but I think I've annoyed his wife enough. And Dr. L wouldn't get the joke. No hearts this year, to give or receive.

Nurse Pauke hooks me up. Today I'm her assistant. I get to hold the needle and unscrew the pink casing. I mess it up immediately; I've already squirted the contents all over myself before she can get it into my port-a-cath. Not as easy as it looks, being a nurse.

Later on I take a walk downstairs with my IV. I don't like it here: people look at me. Whether it's my IV pole, my synthetic boob, or my wig, I attract their attention and it's not wanted.

I chat a little with my neighbor about hair loss and hair growth, and we end our conversation by saying we hope never to see each other again. That's probably the nicest and most common sentence uttered at the outpatient clinic.

Dr. L accepts my chocolates with a warm smile. Not only is his desk a mess, but the floor is covered in exploding dossiers, piled high into crooked towers. He apologizes for the chaos and gives me, as always, a firm handshake. We discuss my blood values and my next appointment. The atmosphere is different. I'm not here because I hope he will cure me. I'm here because I hope I am cured and will never have to come back here again. My blood values are on the rise, my next appointments purely routine. I happily tell him how much better I'm feeling. That I've gained some weight and can feel my energy coming back. That I know for sure that the cancer is gone.

“So my port-a-cath can be taken out already? Shouldn't I leave it in for a while just to be sure?”

Dr. L shakes his head. “You're better now, aren't you? You're done.”

We're quiet for a minute but then raise our heads to speak at the exact same time. His eyes are flashing with thoughts, as are mine. So many moments of uncertainties and awkwardness behind us. So many consults and handshakes to get us to this point.

He says what I'm afraid to say: “I'll miss you.”

I leave the room with a lump in my throat. I actually think I've come to really like him.

*   *   *

After being unhooked from the IV, I feel fine. Outside I take the tram instead of a taxi. On the way home I stop for some books and a coffee. I've wanted to read Ray Kluun's book,
Love Life
, ever since Chantal assured me it's more drama than sensation. Kluun has written the best cancer book ever, about losing his wife to cancer and how he loses himself in affairs and partying as a way to cope. It doesn't sound very loving but it actually is a beautiful love story. There are two shoes on the book cover. Women's sneakers. I don't know why, but I'm sure I'll find out. With Kluun under my arm I walk into Finch. It's almost five, the Noordermarkt is filling up, and I happily observe the hustle and bustle around me. It all looks and sounds so different to me now that my last chemo is over.

Sitting in the café until closing time, clothes smelling of smoke and beer. Getting dragged out of bed in the morning to go to Pilates with Annabel. Partying till late. Gossiping about guys.

I'm back.

 

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 13

N
OW THAT MY
fifty-fourth week is over and the last hand has been shaken with Dr. L, I'm no longer a patient. Today I am a “writer.” It sounds kind of poshy and I'd say it suits me better than studying economics on a blackboard anyway.

I'm starting to fit the writing picture. My laptop and I are adjusting quite nicely. I get up in the morning and write a little. I have breakfast and come up with some ideas. Go to bed and write some more. The words just keep on coming. I write all day long. It somehow seems meant to be.

 

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16

I
T'S SNOWING; THE SNOWFLAKES
shimmer past my large windows a thousand at a time. Dressed in a black dress and very sheer pantyhose, which will be more laddered than solid black after one wear, I climb into an unfamiliar car. Disco glitter and party wigs. The occasion is the launch of a new party boat in an industrial part of Amsterdam—a good reason to go reporting. And it's a wig-themed party, an even better reason for me to write about it. My date, Tie Boy, is wearing a velvet pinstripe suit for the occasion. My long blond hair hardly makes an impression tonight; all the crazy hairstyle creations surrounding me are an inspiration, and wigs are handed around laughingly. Pink curls, white flowing locks, a black Afro.

Onstage, among all the sweating partygoers, Tie Boy comes and stands close behind me. My body is covered in the dress's thin elastic material, pulled tightly over my hips. Bebé's hair is dancing wildly around my head and my lips sing to the music. I feel free, especially knowing Rob doesn't make up any part of Bebé's existence. Tie Boy's hand slowly slides down my back and then pulls away again. This happens a few times, until I turn around and look him straight in his big, blue eyes. This is our moment. He tightens his grip; his hand is low around my middle and moves playfully toward my belly button. One touch and I have goose bumps all over. One more touch and I'm filled with irresistible desire. We look at each other and want one thing. His warm hand slips into mine and we disappear. Away from the stage, away from the sweating partygoers. I started the evening as Bebé, but I finish the night as Cicciolina, a white-blond wig with more sex than style, given to me as a souvenir.

“Want to come up for a nightcap?” he asks. It's one
A.M.

“Will you make me a cup of tea?” I ask him, happy that I don't have to say good-bye to him just yet. We climb a long, steep stairway—me doing my best not to trip in my high heels—and pass a darkly painted bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen. I make a pit stop to adjust my unfamiliar hair.

“I only have rose hip.” Tie Boy is obviously not a tea drinker. As we wait for the water to boil, meaningful glances bounce back and forth through the kitchen. And then his lips are on my temple, my cheekbone, carefully moving down toward my mouth. After hours of built-up tension our lips have found each other and don't let go. I want more—more of his lips, his hands, and especially his arms. We disappear into the room next door.

His lips slowly move lower. His fingers slip carefully inside. My mouth makes heaving noises, my back curls up. We're making love and I want to completely let go but I can't.

I see white coats, needles, Dr. L, then Rob. A tear runs down my cheek, down my arm. I think about Rob and what I saw in his eyes.
I don't see that right now.

I think about how I got here. I want to let go, leave it all behind me, and make room for new things and people, but I can't. I feel trapped in my own story.

Crying softly I fall asleep, and crying softly I wake up. It's dark, and I blink a few times before I can make out the contours of the room. A feeling of loneliness creeps up on me. I'm on my right side, with my back to the other body in the bed with me; only our feet are touching. I turn around and creep up against the warm, sleeping body, wanting to cuddle away the sudden emptiness in me. But the closer I try to get, the further away I feel from myself.

 

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17

I
N THE MORNING
I
MEET
Jan for a coffee. Can he see that I cried? That this morning, when the city was still dark and sleeping, I washed off my sadness in the shower?

Probably not. How can he possibly see all that, when even I forget it by the time I wake up? So much goes unnoticed. Not just by those around me, but also by myself.

Here they are again. The unexpected moods. The sudden tears. The spontaneous sobs. I slice an onion and start to cry, a few stinging tears growing into a waterfall. First they roll down my cheeks. I catch them with my lips and lick them clean with my tongue.
Salty.
I keep chopping away on the cutting board to the rhythm of my breathing, trying to calm myself down. No easy task. The path from prognosis and consultations in the hospital to carefree glasses of wine and wig-themed parties is a long one. I run away from my fearful tears into the night.

 

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 23

“
I
MEAN, OBVIOUSLY
I
'M WORRIED
about your health. Are they absolutely sure you'll get better? And all the chemo doesn't do much for me physically. Slipping wigs, contraptions in your chest, all that stuff—they aren't exactly my fetishes. Sorry, I just don't think it's going to work out.”

“Yeah, definitely not,” I say, hanging up the phone. It's clear: dating is not for girls with wigs. I'm stunned.
Is that really what he thinks? Did he really dump me because I wear a wig?
So much for Tie Boy and Platina.
Wow, this hurts.

“A girl with cancer has to work harder for a bit of attention than a girl without, that's just the way it is!” These conversations are usually held in the pub, me holding a warm cup of tea and my friends exhaling their cigarette smoke and raising beers to their lips. It's ridiculous. As if I have some sort of handicap.

Even though it's not the same as it was, I still flirt. I still use all the same tricks: knees touching under the table, coy smiles. The only difference now is that I already know I won't be going home with that person. Not tonight, or tomorrow night either. It just doesn't feel right. A lot has to happen before the first drink turns into the first sleepover these days.

Nowadays when men look at me it means one of three things: Either they see something they like, they see a booger hanging from my nose, or they see that something is not quite right. I'm most afraid of that last one. It makes me feel so aware of my wig and the bare head hiding underneath. Or worried there might be some unexpected dark fuzz sticking out from under my blond curls.

I'm aware of the statement I make when I walk in with one of my wild wigs. But the attention also makes me uncomfortable. The TV host called my story “a life with a secret” when he interviewed me. He was intrigued by this girl who left her cancer behind as she stepped out into the city night in her best pumps. The girl who lets a stranger kiss her without revealing anything of her true reality.