Clary had once lived in a nice brownstone apartment that was her childhood home, where she could remember playing hide-and-seek in the stairwell and being shooed away by the downstairs tenants. One had been a witch, or so Clary had thought at the age of seven, because she read fortunes and her place always smelled like burning sage and other unknown herbs. She had loved the Brownstone, but now Jocelyn and Clary lived in a shabby apartment on the fifth floor of a building that sat above a butcher shop. The walls had not been washed in years, creating a permanent yellow tinge to every hallway. The people next door had loud sex, and the people above them had loud parties.
Of course, they had to downsize when she got sick. Jocelyn's job as a art therapist paid enough for the bills, but never enough for the other bills. The insurance and hospital bills that had accumulated to a nice, organized, but evil pile that she kept under her bed. Clary was never to ask her mother about money- that was a rule. She could remember asking her mother how much money they had when she was released after her first round of chemo. Jocelyn, who had been pushing her daughter's wheelchair out of the hospital, stopped and bent down to her level.
"You don't ever, ever, ever, worry yourself about that, you hear me?"
And Clary had heard her, so she nodded.
"And if you want something, if you want anything, tell me and I will get it for you, okay? I don't care how much it is."
Even at the age of thirteen, Clary had seen the fear in her mother's eyes. The desperation behind everything she did for her, the need to spoil Clary because she was still alive and she deserved it. Jocelyn could never hide her emotions very well. Needless to say, that was the last time she asked about money, and though her mother had told her she'd get whatever she wanted, she never asked her for a thing.
Clary made her way up the long flights of stairs until 14E came into view. Her mother had painted the door bright blue, like a sky, and it stood out against all the pale yellow and wood paneling. She didn't even have time to twist the key into the lock before the blue door lurched open.
"Where the hell were you? You should have called me, do you even know what time it is?"
Her mother was dressed in her work clothes still, which told Clary that she still hadn't wound down, poured a glass of wine, put on her silk pajamas and her records, and unfurled herself on the couch like she usually did.
"I'm sorry, I lost track," Clary said, sounding feeble. She kicked off her sneakers and left them at the front door, welcoming the worn carpet against her feet.
Jocelyn hovered around her daughter as she went to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water and some leftovers. She brushed down Clary's hair with her fingers and sighed.
"It's just that we have to get up early tomorrow."
"I know, Mom."
"And I don't want Dr. Franz thinking that you're staying out all night. You've been so healthy the past couple of- what is this?" her mother had grabbed her wrist rather hard, broke off mid sentence and pointed to her sleeve.
A bit of purple paint had sprayed on the edge of the long T-shirt, unmistakably splattered like spray paint. Clary mentally kicked herself for leaving evidence. She tried to play it off.
"It's just a shirt, Mom, all of them are covered in paint."
Jocelyn gave her a fierce look, cocking an eyebrow up. She rubbed the purple spot again and a bit of powder came off it. She was so busted.
"This is spray paint, isn't it?" When Clary said nothing, her mother let go of the sleeve and let her hand drop back to her side. Clary pulled on the sleeve nervously, trying to bunch the stained fabric into her hand, as if that would erase what just happened.
"It's not such a big deal. Why does it have to be such a big deal?" she asked in a very quiet voice. She knew the lecture that her mother was about to explode with by heart. How many times had she found Clary and Simon's secret stash of paint cans in her room? How many times did Jocelyn come home livid because she'd walked past an old brick wall on the way home and recognized her daughter's handiwork?
"It's a big deal, Clary, Jesus! How many times do I have to tell you, how many times do the doctors have to tell you, how toxic that shit is?"
"I know, I-"
"You know, do you? Then why do you keep doing it, huh? Not even to mention that you could get arrested!"
"Mom, I'm not going to get ar-"
"Do you really want to have destruction of property on your record? What about school? How is that going to look?"
Clary started to walk away. She didn't want to get into this, not the school thing, not tonight. Every time she thought of college, her stomach knotted and began to ache from the weight of her emotions. College was futuristic and Clary wanted nothing to do with planning for her future. Of course, she couldn't tell her mother this, it would only hurt her. Really, she just wanted to lock herself in her room and think about Jace some more. She kept picturing his hand in hers for that brief moment, how easily the ink of her number had tattooed his skin.
But Jocelyn followed her to her room.
"Clary, please do not walk away when I'm trying to have a discussion with you."
Clary sat on her bed and rested the leftovers on her lap. Since she'd gone into remission, all they ever ate was leeks and bok choy and kale in some sort of a salad, stir fry, or smoothie. Of course, Jocelyn didn't know about the burger joints that Simon and her often visited, whenever Simon could get an appetite.
"It's discussed, okay? I get it." She tried to sound finite, but she was always weaker at speech than her mother, who told great stories and articulated herself properly.
"What is it with you tonight?" she asked. Then, Jocelyn seemed to understand, seemed to remember that tomorrow was in fact a big, big day. "Is it because you're scared about the results tomorrow?" she asked tentatively. It was amazing how her mother could go from vicious momma bear to warm and soft like that, and Clary would still crawl into her arms, even if she had been yelling at her a minute ago.
"I just…" she began, not knowing how to word it. "I had a lot of fun tonight. I know you hate it when I paint-" she started, but her mother tried to stop her and specify that she didn't hate it when she painted, just that she used buildings as canvases. Clary went on overtop of her anyway. "But it was the most fun I've had in a while."
"Were you with Simon?" Jocelyn asked. She could hear the concern in that, too, since Simon was going through another round of chemo and certainly wasn't in the position to be tagging buildings in the middle of the night. She shook her head.
"No, just…a new friend." She didn't really want to tell her mother about Jace, she didn't want her to assume that Jace was a bad influence, and she didn't want to have to explain that she'd met him in a pub, that he was a musician.
"From the concert? Who?"
"I just…I hung out with the band." It wasn't exactly false, but it sounded only slightly better than I hung out with this guy from a band.
"Clary, you're not-"
"Mom, please. We just tagged a wall and walked around. Don't worry, okay? I'm fine. Everything's fine."
Her mother crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. She was leaning against the banister, eyeing Clary up and down like she was a strange, new enigma. It wasn't really like Clary to go hanging around with bands. Simon used to be in a band, but they never left the confines of Eric's basement. Clary was getting exhausted, trying to lie her way around this night and trying to prepared herself for tomorrow. As much as she told herself that she would take the results the same way she always did, she couldn't help but feel the little pulse of fear deep inside her as it jumped to life like a secondary heartbeat. It was the same feeling before every appointment, of anticipation and pessimism.
She'd been in and out of remission before, but somehow, this time was different. She almost didn't want to know if the cancer was back or not. Ignorance is bliss.
"I just want to go to bed now. I'll see you in the morning. Sorry for keeping you up," she said without looking her mother in the eyes. Jocelyn could see through any mask Clary put on, so she tucked into her leftover veggies and tried to will her mother away. After a moment, Jocelyn said,
"Goodnight, baby," and shut the door.
Clary stood up in her empty room and began to take her shirt off. When she was in front of the mirror, she inspected her arms closely. There was a map of small scars, the endless needles that had been inserted in every place where veins lay. She twisted her body and looked at her lower back, where a few even bigger scars sat. Places where they had collected bone marrow to sample. She shuddered just remembering it. They have to keep you awake for the procedure, and it hurt like nothing else from the pressure and the piercing. Clary stepped away from the mirror and stripped of her pants as well.
The first diagnosis was when she was twelve. They tested and tested, all of them a blur of appointments in her head. Child psychologists helped Jocelyn explain to her what Leukemia was and how it effected Clary's body, and the types of things they were going to have to do to her. All the poking and prodding and waiting and her mother crying and the visits from grandparents and the school sending the card that everyone in her 7th grade class signed- all of those things built up in her mind and really formed into one day that Clary could remember perfectly. It was the day she realized that she had cancer, that she was dying. It was the day they told her that chemo would be the best option. Clary remembered that because she remembered how Luke's friend Mrs. Alcave had cancer and had chemo, and all her hair had fallen out and then she'd died.
And losing her hair, for some silly reason, had been the worst.
Looking in the mirror now, Clary's flaming red hair was longer than she'd seen it in a while, showing almost two years of growth. She ran her fingers through it to where it ended, a bit past her shoulders. A year and a half of remission. If she kept it going for five years, they would call her cured. Just five years.
She sat on the edge of her bed half naked, slowly filling with panic. She wanted to talk to Simon.
Taking out her phone, she quickly dialled his number. It didn't matter that it was late, he would probably be up with nausea all night, and even so he would always answer her calls. It was a thing between them, since they'd become friends in the children's hospital, that they always answered each other's calls, knocks, and carrier pigeons, even if they were literally dying. They both had Leukemia, they both had single mothers, and they both skipped in and out of remission.
"Good morning," he answered. Simon's voice was shaky, he was probably exhausted, but he tried to make it sound like he was chipper.
"How you feeling?"
"Like I am walking on sunshine, how about you?" His humour never wavered.
"Honestly?"
"No, lie to me."
She sighed. It was hard for her to talk about being sick. It was hard for her to even say the words, I have cancer, though it's what all the damn psychologists kept telling her to do. Maybe it was because she was always convincing herself that she was fine. She would wake up in the morning and feel hungry, happy, normal, with a pulse, little under eye baggage, and she felt healthy. It was a sham, thought, because somewhere deep in her veins, the cancer could be hiding like a curse.
"I'm scared. Like a little baby."
Simon didn't say anything for a minute. She heard the toilet flush, but it wasn't a big deal. They both had seen each other's bodily fluids come up in every which way possible over the past four years, and privacy was no longer a privilege when she was diagnosed.
"I'm not scared. I've got faith that your steadfast dwarf genes will pull through."
She laughed at that, and it was nice. This is why she loved Simon.
"I know you wouldn't lie to me," she started.
"Not exactly true. I did tell you that I watched Spice World when you lent it to me. But lets face it, Scary Spice is a bit too scary."
She decided to ignore him on that one.
"Do you think I could make it to five?" she asked, nearly a whisper. Her heart began to thump a little wildly in her chest. She didn't like the way it sounded- five years. It felt too long, like her body was in this heavyweight race against time and it was only just past the quarter mark.
"I think you're gonna make it to eighty-seven, like my Bubba. And you'll be just as wrinkly and miserable," Simon said.
Clary laughed, but didn't let Simon know that she had started to cry. She wiped at her wet cheeks a little furiously. Before she could say anything else, she heard Simon retch a bit, and the sound of what could only be puke falling into the toilet.
"I'll let you go. Get well soon, Simon." It was their little joke, their bit of childhood cynicism and disdain for those stupid balloons people always gave them.
"Get well soon," he managed before signing off.
Clary tucked herself into bed and pulled the sheets tightly around her. Talking to Simon always made her feel better, but like a drug, it wore off eventually and she was left with the same feelings as before. Her mother was probably stirring in the next room, hardly able to sleep as well. The anticipation throbbed inside her, restless and real. She needed another distraction.
She looked down at her wrist, the one they'd poke at some more soon, and saw a bit of that purple paint. It had leaked through from the flower to her shirt and to her skin, relentlessly. More than anything, she wished that she would get the chance to go tagging with Jace again, maybe show him the ropes, the good places to go. She wondered if he would ever call. Was it even possible for someone like her to get to know him? He looked like he belonged in clubs with careless cool people, writing music and falling in love with supermodels, not with the weird cancer girl who couldn't even order a beer properly.
She looked out of her window which led to the fire escape. It was easy to sneak out, but she only ever felt the need to hide tagging from Jocelyn. She used to stick all her cans in her backpack and slip out of the window silently. It might have been a strange hobby, but Clary loved it. She was leaving a print on the city, a real one that people walked past on their way to work, not just some sketchbook full of drawings no one would ever see.
She didn't know why, but she wanted Jace to be a part of that. She had only met him tonight, but already he'd been seeded inside her thoughts, as deep rooted as her blood cancer. She wanted to paint the town red with him, she wanted the two of them to make some kind of mark on the city that said I was here, and I was here with him.
If I make it to five years, she thought, I will fall in love with him. I'll do everything.