Skin (9 page)

In other words, nuts make you nuts.

I’m joking. What am I doing, joking?

I lean back and pick at a spot on the base of my thumb. It’s brown, not white. A hint of blood shows instantly. Rosy. On an impulse I Google “scrape off skin” and find a site about pumice stones. They are a gentle way of removing skin, especially rough, stained skin, like on feet and
elbows. My lip skin is not rough and the problem is, there’s no stain to remove.

I could buy a pumice stone and rub and rub and rub like a maniac, until my skin was gone and my lips bled. But they’d only scab up, and when the scab fell off, they’d be white again. Plus I hate the idea. When Devin and I were little and she wanted to be blood sisters, she pricked herself with the pin, handed it to me, and held up her bloody thumb, waiting. But I threw the pin in the trash and ran home. I couldn’t mutilate myself.

I kiss the tiny hurt on my thumb.

I should have kissed everyone in the world while my lips still had color.

MAMMA’S WAITING FOR ME in the car as I come out of school. She beeps, but I’ve already seen her. She drives a baby blue VW bug, the old kind, so it’s easy to spot her even when you’re not looking for her. It’s in mint condition, which means everyone admires it.

I get in and look down so I won’t see the eyes of car aficionados. “What’s up?”

“We can use the medical library at UPenn. I thought we might go now.”

“Who did you have to sleep with to work that out?”

“Very funny. The husband of one of the English professors teaches there.”

“I thought you hated all English professors.”

“I do. But they don’t know that. Besides, I only hate them when they talk. How was your day?”

I wonder if my dislike of literary-criticism talk comes from Mamma. And here I thought she hardly influenced me at all. “We learned about limits.”

“Limits? Well, I should hope everyone in eleventh grade already knows about limits.” She puts on a fake schoolmarm voice.

“This is math, Mamma. Limits are an interesting idea. You can talk about the value of something as it approaches something else. Like if you put a triangle inside a circle, with the three points touching the circle, well the triangle covers less area than the circle. But if you put a square inside the circle, it still covers less area than the circle, but more than the triangle did. And you could keep going. You know, putting in a pentagon and then a hexagon and whatever, on to an infinite number of equal-length sides. You get closer and closer to the area of the circle, but you never quite get there.”

Mamma doesn’t say anything.

She’s like everyone else; I bore her. “You’re not listening.”

“I am, too. You said, ‘You never quite get there.’ But, you know, Pina, it sounds close enough.”

I look at her surprised. Is my mother brilliant? “I bet you’re right.”

“Right? Me? I thought I was your mother, and that meant I’m never right.”

“This time you might be. I bet we’re going to be looking at cases where close is all you can get, but close is enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t gotten there yet.”

She laughs, and I wasn’t even trying to be funny.

We park in a parking garage. I let out a yelp. “You mean we’re not going to circle the area nine hundred times to try to find a meter?”

“I thought you had a babysitting job tonight. Time is limited.” She smiles. “Limits, you see.”

No, I don’t see. That’s not the same idea at all. My mother is not brilliant. Well, that’s a relief. She’s pretty—at least I can be the smart one.

We go through many doors and Mamma explains to three librarians, each one more important than the last, before the name of Professor Diaz makes magic happen. The fact that Diaz is his last name explains why Mamma can talk to his wife, the English professor. Mamma can overlook a lot about people if they speak a Romance language.

This librarian sits us at a table and actually brings us books himself.

We read. And look at hideous photos. One book says some vitiligo victims feel like freaks and withdraw from social situations. I close it. It’s the biology I want to read, not some depressing psychology junk.

I open another book. Dr. Ratner was right. No one knows what brings on vitiligo. No one knows how to cure it. But they try. They try really hard.

There’s the blunt and painful method: skin grafting. But you keep getting new spots. And the grafted skin can get spots.

There’s an ultraviolet light therapy to darken the spots. You put a photosensitive medication on the spots first, then sit under a lamp that shoots UV light. Two to four times a week, for fifteen to thirty minutes, for a year or more. And then sometimes it doesn’t work at all.

After each treatment you have to wear UV protection over your eyes for a few days or you might get cataracts. So you’re wearing the protection nearly all the time. And you have to wash the drug off your skin before you go outside or else cover up really good, because you can get a terrible sunburn.

I am not interested in UV therapy. Laser therapy sounds even worse—the burns are apparently super painful, they can’t be exposed to the sun, and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.

But I have to find a cure. Okay, here’s more.

If a person has severe vitiligo, where over fifty percent of the body is white patches, then doctors can use a skin bleach, so the person becomes whiter all over. Then you look more uniform. The trouble is, the bleaching is permanent. But sometimes vitiligo clears up on its own, so you’ve become a ghost for no reason.

Sometimes vitiligo clears up on its own
. I’m trembling inside.

Mamma obsesses on bad things pretty often and Dad always tells her that statistically it just isn’t going to happen to us. And Mamma always answers that if it happens even to a tiny fraction of people, why shouldn’t we be in that tiny fraction. But it can’t just be the doomed tiny fraction that our family should be part of. We could be part of the lucky tiny fraction, too. Why not?

I keep reading.

Ointments can be used—Vitamin D, cortisone, tacrolimus. They don’t have a lot of side effects. And sometimes they help. But mostly they don’t.

The one thing that has no side effect is cosmetic concealers. Covermark, Dermablend, Chromelin Complexion Blender. It turns out most people with vitiligo cover it up; they go into hiding. All these white-speckled people,
hiding away like fugitives. That strikes me as ridiculous. I’d never do that. I am who I am.

Except lipstick is a cover-up.

I’m getting dizzy.

And, hey, it turns out I need vitamins now. I should take a B complex, and E, and folic acid, and ascorbic acid, every day.

And I shouldn’t develop film. Exposure to phenols can accelerate vitiligo. Well, there goes that future hobby—as though anyone develops film anymore. I bet I can’t become a horse jockey, either. Or a dentist. Or the president of a small banana republic.

“I want to go home.”

“Sure.” Mamma closes the book she’s reading.

We drive home with the radio on. I stare at the back of my hand. Is there a white spot there? I cover it with the tip of my index finger, then lift and look again. It’s still there. It wasn’t there this morning. It wasn’t there at lunch.

Vitiligo happens gradually for most people. But for others it comes in a bang. White lips one morning. Unrecognizable three months later.

When we pull into the driveway, I turn the radio off. “I’m not doing anything with UV therapy or lasers. And no skin grafts. And no bleach.”

“Let’s see what Dr. Ratner says.”

“I’m not doing it, Mamma.”

“It’s your decision, Pina. Anyway, maybe it will just clear up on its own.” Her chin is lifted high. In profile like this, she looks more than pretty. Her cheeks are a little bit apple-y, but that keeps her looking young. Her nose is small, her lips are full. I bet she always expected to have a good-looking daughter. Not a patchy, blotchy one.

I check the back of my hand. That’s a white spot for sure. I put the tip of my index finger on it—it doesn’t cover it anymore.

I don’t have the heart to show Mamma.

I CLOSE THE DOOR behind Mr. and Mrs. Harrison and turn around to face Sarah. “So, are you still in trouble?”

“That was yesterday.”

I smile. “What do you want to do?”

“Legos.”

That makes me smile even wider. Mrs. Harrison is not a stupid woman or a bad mother. But somehow she got the idea that building blocks were boys’ toys. So I gave Sarah Legos for her third birthday. Now it’s her favorite thing. And the Harrisons have done their good-parent thing and filled a gigantic basket with them. There must be nine hundred in this basket. Maybe more. Of course
more. Extravagance is the name of the good-parent game.

We dump out a bunch and build, side by side on the floor. I like this.

“So, how’s nursery school?”

“Bill can roll under the radiator.”

“There isn’t enough room under radiators.”

“There is for Bill.”

“Even if Bill has a body like Flat Stanley’s, his head would never fit.”

Sarah looks up at me, a Lego in each hand. “I mash his head.”

“Oh.” I chew at a hangnail. “Is Bill a person?”

“No, dummy. A person can’t roll under the radiator.” She laughs.

I wonder if Bill is lurking under the radiator here, or if he’s still at nursery school. And what is he anyway? But I might as well go with the flow. I add a Lego in a precarious spot.

“Want to watch
Jeopardy
?”

I blink in surprise. “Is it on now?”

“It’s always on. Daddy loves to watch.”

“Do you like it?”

“No.”

“Why do you want to watch it?”

“I thought you would want to.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Sarah.”

“Then I can do what I want.”

“I thought you wanted to build with Legos.”

“Want to cook?”

Did my stomach growl? I will raid the refrigerator after Sarah gets in bed. “No, thank you.”

“I’ll turn on
Jeopardy
for you.”

I put my cell on the coffee table and set it to flash green if there’s a message, so it won’t be as likely to disturb Sarah. This is wishful thinking. No one will text me. Everyone I know is at Becca’s party. Except maybe Owen.

But there is the slight chance that Devin might decide to text me before she leaves the house. I didn’t get to apologize to her today. I was going to, after school—but then Mamma showed up and we spent all that time at the medical library. I didn’t even get to have dinner before I had to come over here to babysit.

Sarah touches the cell. “Are you going to send messages?”

I nod. “You’re right. I’m the one who should send a message.”

“To Devin?”

“Yes.”

“She’s still your best friend?”

“Yes.”

“Rucka is my best friend.”

“That’s an unusual name.”

“I made it up.”

“Oh. Does she like it when you call her Rucka?”

“She runs away.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t call her Rucka.”

“Can I send a message?”

“It’s hard.”

“Daddy lets me type on his computer.”

“It’s harder with a cell phone, Sarah.”

She screws up her mouth and I think she’s going to throw a fit. Instead, she says, “I’ll do Legos. You do
Jeopardy
.”

“Can’t I do Legos with you?”

“I guess.”

So we’re back on the floor building with Legos. We work in silence. It’s a relief. We build houses and vehicles and a wall all around. It’s turning into a little town.

I look at my watch. “Yikes, it’s late. Want a bath?”

Sarah gets up and runs to the bathroom, stripping as she goes.

I pick up the clothes and throw them in the hamper and run her a tub.

She dumps the net bag of sea creatures into the water and I tell her about the frenetic life of tunas. I don’t know if she’s listening. She’s half-singing to herself.

She finishes and I dry her off. She puts on her pj’s and races off while I drain the tub. Then she chooses three books and we sit on her bed and I read all three.

I kiss her good night.

“Let’s go see if you have a message.”