Side Effects May Vary

I pulled the car to the front of the lot, giving the heater a chance to warm up. With her back turned to me, I could see Alice had no intention of getting into the vehicle anytime soon. She was talking to Eric Guy. She couldn’t talk to me, but she could talk to this asshole. So I honked. For thirty seconds straight. And then one more honk for good measure. Alice turned, and narrowed her eyes at me.

Normally, I would have given her an apologetic smile, but not today. I rolled down my window and breathed in the cold fresh air. I gave her a grin so big I was sure she could see all thirty-two of my teeth. She rolled her eyes and continued on with Eric Guy.

“Alice, come on!”

She held a finger up to me while Eric Guy grabbed her hand and pulled a permanent marker out of his back pocket. As he was about to press the marker to her palm, she pulled her hand back like she’d changed her mind.

I exhaled.

But then she took the marker from his hand and pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, scribbling her name and number down the length of his forearm. She tossed the marker to him and sauntered over to my car with a prowling grin on her face.

She slammed the passenger door shut. “Hey, guy!” I yelled through my still-open window. “The hat!” I said motioning to my head. “Hand it over.” Alice punched me in the thigh. “Now.” He took his time walking to the car, trying to make a sad display of James Dean cool, and tossed the hat into my lap.

“I’ll be calling you, Allie.”

“Her name’s Alice, you turd,” I said and sped off.

“Jesus, Harvey. What’s your problem?”

“You’re my problem!” The words were out of my mouth before I could calculate them. “You are so obviously my problem.” I paused. “Why are you acting like nothing happened between us when something did?”

She didn’t answer. So we acted like adults and gave each other the silent treatment. Her eyes followed the blur of trees and buildings outside her window as her fingers traced patterns on her seat. It felt good—standing up to her, like I’d won something. But that didn’t last for long.

When I dropped her off, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, a small gesture that she knew would appease me. I hated myself for letting it be this way, and I hated her for making it this way. But, really, I loved her, and that hurt the worst of all because I was tired of being her debris.

Alice. Then.

Most everyone who’s undergone chemotherapy has a hair story.

Plenty of people had told me that when my hair grew back, after all the chemo was said and done, it would look and feel a little different, a new texture or maybe even a whole other color altogether. The first person to tell me this was a stranger, a random woman at the Grocery Emporium. I was in the juice and soda aisle when she came up behind me, touching my elbow lightly, like I might break. She had had breast cancer and rebelliously curly hair, but after remission it all grew back straight as a board. Then she gave me a reassuring smile and hugged me, which honestly creeped the shit out of me.

Harvey stood a few feet away, stocking apple juice in his Grocery Emporium apron with his name tag hanging upside down, witnessing this exchange. With my chin resting in the dip of this stranger’s shoulder, I watched him concentrating on his task, avoiding my gaze.

I had lost my hair a few weeks before. Most people let their hair fall out slowly—clogged in a bathtub drain or clumped in a hairbrush—until it was time to let go and shave it all off. But I guess I’ve never been very patient.

It was Christmas Eve, and I had finished up my first round of induction chemo the week before. I’d seen enough Lifetime movies to know it was coming—plus it was a major bullet point in the “So, you’re going through chemo” pamphlet. The pamphlet also said that the process of losing hair can feel more manageable if the patient cuts her hair first. I’d stood in the bathroom the night before starting chemo with the scissors in my hand. Before I’d made the first cut, I noticed my pile of hair ties next to the sink. I couldn’t do it. The pamphlet also said I should be attending a support group, but I didn’t take that advice either. Nothing would have made me feel dead faster than sitting in a room full of dying people talking about their feelings.

At treatments, I’d see girls with scarves wrapped around their heads, and they looked at me like they knew all my secrets. And they probably did.

We usually spent Christmas Eve at home. Natalie and Harvey would come over and we’d have a big dinner and take family pictures, blending the six of us together for various combinations. Natalie would make lots of traditional Romanian desserts, like amandine—which translated to insanely delicious chocolate cake. When we were kids, Natalie and Harvey used to stay the night and we’d all open presents together in the morning.