Dancing Through the Flames

Trigger: Cancer

My head rocks back, long hair sticks to sweaty shoulders, and my tank top barely holds my small chest as I dance. I'm that "Girl on Fire," a single mom moving to Ms. Keys. I fling out one arm, my hips swing and dip, fingers snap, eyes close. In my rock and roll fantasy, my apartment’s mess cleans itself up with a snap. I burn bright, heart thumping, shoulders shimmying, sweat dripping into my pierced belly button. Fuchsia, yellow, and neon blue lights flash fast, highlighting my crush’s moves. Her slim hips bounce, and her rear wiggles. Her gaze swings, her eyes glitter, and my heart beats with music and desire. We laugh with open mouths, our tongues tasting the hot air.

The last beats of the song vibrate as it transitions to the next, and we stumble, high on music, our hips hitting the bar.

“What do you girls want to keep those smiles shining?” The bartender asks. She's not my type, rough with thick hips. But she always gives a flirty smile when she serves drinks.

“Brooklyn Lager,” I say, holding up two fingers, “and a glass of ice cubes. Hot girls here.” I lean, raising on tiptoes to make sure she hears.

My current interest, Celia, has been dating me for forty-seven days. She's a shy surgical nurse with amazing toned hips. We take turns rubbing ice cubes on each other, around our collarbones and down to our wrists, then chug our beers and giggle. I just turned thirty-five but feel like I'm in my twenties again. I see women with new eyes, the life I was meant for. A kind, generous love, no more competing with men. Celia is sensitive, with a natural understanding; there’s room for both of us. Her sweet voice melts me. I've been hurt by men twice before. Celia can sit cross-legged and always makes time to play; she really likes Kelse, my six-year-old daughter. It's after eleven, and I'm sure Kelse is asleep while her babysitter is on her phone like a typical teenager.

Celia says, “You’re a stunning, blue-eyed mama!” as she runs the ice cube around my neck. It feels great, and I am drunk on beer, music, and maybe, love. She traces the ice over my breasts.

“Hey babe, the top of my tank is catching all the runoff!” I laugh and move my shoulders forward to press into her melting cube as it dips near my sweaty armpit. Her fingers graze the skin where my breast meets my underarm. She frowns and looks puzzled.

“What’s wrong? Let’s finish these drinks and get back to dancing! ‘If it doesn’t kill us, we’ll be stronger!’” I sing as I finish my drink and head to the dance floor.

I grab Celia’s hand as the tempo slows, and the DJ announces with a raw voice, “Y’all slow it down now with Bruno Mars, ‘It Will Rain.’”

Celia and I stand close, breathing deeply, emotionally. Our palms clasp at shoulder level, our chests brush. The song intensifies, and I feel the power of our closeness. We sway and whisper the lyrics. “There’d be no sun shining if I lost you, girl!” Celia’s right hand presses against my heart, and I almost cry with joy. Then, on a quick downbeat, she pulls me off the floor. Ignoring my questions, she drags me into the restroom and into a stall. We stand in silence with the door latched.

Is this it? Is she breaking up with me? The stress of dating a single mom? Something so good can't be real. My mind swirls with fear, not beer, and my knees shake. I croak, “What, Celia, what?”

Her lips press tight, then a tooth catches her lower lip. She frowns. Her left hand still holds mine. She lifts it gently, slowly, in the dim bathroom light. Her thumb and palm move to the top of my hand, pressing my fingers flat against my own chest, high where my arm starts. I feel my heartbeat.

The bathroom door swings open, music streams in, then muffles as the door thumps closed. Someone exclaims, “Ah! Missing Jeremih, girl.” Another chants, “No, missing Usher for your lipstick redo and a pee!” Celia holds my hand tight. My eyebrows peak, eyes wide with confusion.

Then my hand and fingers start to search and find something hard under my skin. A spider bite? Infected? My fingers move cautiously over the damp skin, exploring. I think, whatever, it’s nothing. My fingers push, then retreat, then push again until the pebble slides away. I see my mother’s face and think, hell no! Not me! I whisper, but maybe I’m already hysterical, maybe I even shout, “I feel it.”

Celia holds my head in her hands, kisses my forehead, and whispers, “It’s alright, girl. I’m here. It’ll be alright.”

**

Celia and I go through the next three months like a roller-coaster. Slow on the climbs, fast on the descents, and repeating like torture. We have intense moments, group hugs with Kelse, lots of tears, and gentle touches between biopsies and MRIs. Celia’s fingers massage slowly, always curious. Her eyes ask, does this soothe? Is this alright? It’s my journey, but she’s with me. I cut my hair after the diagnosis. Why wait for it to fall out?

We play loud music to drown out my thoughts. Our favorite is Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger.” We use our fists as microphones, jump and sing, “Much taller,” reaching high on tiptoes, then wiggle and throw our bodies around my tiny living room. We fall like ring-around-the-rosie. Kelse laughs from her belly, rubs my short hair, and it’s all wonderful. Celia laughs and hiccups at the same time, hugging us both. But my laugh is pitiful. I tremble inside, hoping Kelse doesn’t see, hoping my forehead isn’t wrinkled with worry.

Julie, my mother, has piercing green eyes and one breast. She’s far from shy and wants me strong, but her face shows a mother’s worry. She calls herself a survivor; she’s made it five years.

Celia moved into my messy apartment, giving me love and doting on Kelse, drawing with her or braiding her hair. Celia tells me daily, “You are a survivor too! We got this!” I haven’t told Celia that Mother’s cancer might come back one day. She and I got tested. We don’t share eye color or politics, but we do share the BRCA gene.

Mother still wears a wig, a secret between Dad, Mother, and me. Her hair never fully recovered. I wonder if I die, who will take care of Kelse? Her dad is a cocaine addict and only cares about his job. He forgets his child, like he’s on another planet. In my second month of chemo, I feel like I’m on another planet too, but Kelse is always on my mind, and it’s too hot to wear a wig.

In the morning, Celia makes power-shakes with ginger. When I’m too sick or have doctor’s appointments, she packs Kelse’s lunch and takes her to school. That ‘maybe’ love feels more certain these days, even as I get weaker. Doctors have scheduled my double mastectomy. Chemo did what it could for now.

**

The saying “bald as a bat” isn’t quite right – brown bats have furry heads, or so Celia says as she wraps and flaps around our living room in a brown towel. Kelse and I laugh, and it feels good. Her small hands rub the tiny fuzz on my head, and she hugs me tight and says, I love you, Mommy. Tomorrow is the day, a 7 AM hospital check-in. Celia turns up the music and sings her own words to me, “Babe, if you’re feeling weak like you’re falling, I’m always here and will carry you home.” My daughter joins in, waving her arms, “We’ll be so bright, Mommy! We’re gonna light the world on fire!” They keep me laughing.

I pad in sterile blue booties and a chilly gown that ties in the front into my own surgery room. The heavy door closes. Hospital staff in green scrubs and masks look me up and down; one could have been Celia. My doctors in white nod. I shuffle towards the narrow bed, sit, lay down, and feel the familiar slide of a needle, followed by the burn of drugs. A speaker suddenly crackles as the IV’s liquid flows. Everyone’s eyes light up. It’s Ms. Keys, echoing against the green walls. I’m that girl on fire.