I took my mother’s arm and we steamed as fast as we could go to the parking lot, home, and my own bed. Antonio flashed into my mind. I banished the thought of him. He did not belong in this part of my life. I did not want him there. Good thing I had not told my mother. Together we followed the corridor around the courtyard, where the sculptures made of painted wood were visible from all angles. One had arms and legs jointed like a beetle’s. One had a head like a giant pumpkin, under a hat from which a black feather protruded in the shape of fingers. The third character was seizing his skull with both hands, having been clobbered by a brick. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was roaring with laughter. Whenever I passed these sculptures, if you want to call them that, my question was: Is this supposed to be funny? Is this supposed to cheer people up? But today I was drawn to their dark goofiness. I stopped to examine the one hit by a brick. His head was nearly caved in, but he was laughing anyway, in this weird triumphant way, as if to say, Ha ha, you hit me, but you can’t really get me! It almost made me want to laugh.

•  •  •

Each time, it takes a little longer to recover. That treatment was the worst yet. My port got infected and I went back to the hospital for two days of antibiotics. They had to call the IV team to get the needle in my arm. Even then it hurt like crazy. When I came home I was running to the bathroom all night long. My mouth was on fire from the ulcers, and I could only eat mashed bananas and smoothies. Food fit for babies. My feet were so numb, I couldn’t even keep flip-flops on. Chemo does things to your nerves. Dr. O says once the treatments are over, that should go away.

I lay facedown on my rug so I wouldn’t come to hate my bed too much, pushing Cloud away whenever she came near; then I felt bad and tried to coax her back, but she’d had enough of me. All I wanted was my mother, and she was there, kneeling beside me on the rug, her singsong voice flowing all around the place, strong for me.

“Poor baby.” Even before I got sick, she used to call me that if I was miserable for some trivial reason. All reasons before now were trivial.

“I want to be,” I said to the rug.

“What?”

“A baby.”

“Well, you started out that way, and you can be again. Whenever you need to.”

“I don’t mean a crybaby.”

“You get that from me.” I heard the smile in her voice. “I get it from your grandmother. Runs in the family.”