The Holiday Man

Part One - Peppermint Pink

 

 

       Staring out my window in a daze, I slowly drag my fingernails across the cheap wooden frame. It's snowing again. The kind of snow that tricks you. The flakes are so small, so soft, they make the sky look so beautiful. Then they hit the ground and the world becomes chaotic as salt trucks and snow plows jam the streets.

 

       For the third time this week, I curse the weather in eastern Canada. Winters here are always difficult, but during the lucious hazy months of summer, I forget how hard they can be. I realize that I'm going to have to go out and shovel the snow eventually. I try to push this thought from my mind, as the driveway of our Cape Cod is long and winding and can take up to two hours to shovel. Turning away from the window, I climb into bed and bury myself under the red flannel sheets.

 

    The red fluorescent numbers on my clock read 6:28. This means I can't go downstairs yet, because Daddy is taking his pills. My stomache rumbles, but I ignore it. I will not go into the kitchen until Daddy goes back to bed. For the past month, I've been trying to get used to eating supper at 7 o'clock instead of 6:30. It hasn't been easy to deal with. I starve by the time 7 o'clock rolls around, and usually end up tearing through the cupboards in a ravenous frenzy.

Mom says eating this way isn't healthy,but I'm never hungry until 6:30, and that's a time when the kitchen is forbidden to me. In fact, I avoid going downstairs completely at this time everyday.

 

   More than often, Mom disapproves of what I do. Daddy's the one who always understood. He says I have charisma. I love it when he says this, because I like the way the word sounds. Daddy always knows the best words for everything.

 

As the clock turns, painfully slowly, to 6:39, I haul myself out of bed to head downstairs. I hear a series of slow steady thumps, and the sound of the spare bedroom door closing, which means Daddy has limped back to bed. He's usually dizzy when he gets up because of lying down so long. Deciding it's safe, I head to the kitchen.

 

   Mom is still in the kitchen when I arrive. She's sitting in her regular seat at the table, drinking one of her usual fruit drinks and wearing a forced smile.

 

"Hi, Honey. Did you get some supper? Let me make you a sandwich. Would you like some Fruitopia?" She pours me a glass even though I don't respond.

 

Mom has turned on her "look-what-a-good-mother-I-am" act. I usually ignore her when she gets like this, and eventually she realizes what she's doing and cuts it out. I don't object to her making a sandwich for me though, and I am thankful, even if it is peanut butter and jelly for the third night in a row.

 

As I slowly munch on the dry sandwich, I almost choke as I spy something in the room that makes me cringe.

 

 "Mom...you forgot to throw out your gloves again," I say, taking a big sugary gulp of my Fruitopia.

 

"Oh, Kathleen, I'm sorry. I know how that bothers you." Mommy gets up and tosses the pair of pink latex gloves into the bin. I turn away and finish my sandwich in silence.

 

I hate that colour pink. The stupid latex gloves that Mom buys always come in the one colour. Deep pink. Pink like the peppermints that sit next to Daddy's bed. Pink like the sky was before the snowstorm this morning. Everything about pink makes me unhappy.

 

"Listen Kat, I know you don't like the gloves. But it's just for safety. Chemotherapy involves strong drugs and people who aren't sick have to be very- "

 

"I know, Mom, you've told me this a million times. It's ok." I finish my Fruitopia, which makes my stomache turn a little bit. Another lame supper, eaten in less than ten minutes. The kitchen is not a place I enjoy being. Just before heading upstairs, I grab a bag of pretzels and a handful of oreos before booking it back to my room. I turn to look back at Mom, daring her to say something about my weight. She doesn't. She never does anymore.