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gone?” I ask.
    â€œWell, aren’t you a little ray of sunshine today?” She sits down on the chair next to my bed and takes out her manicure set.
    â€œI want to know what that thought means to you.” Annabel is an expert at keeping her pain covered up, even for me.
    â€œYes. I think about it.” She looks at me. “I might look tough, but I lie crying in Bart’s arms every single night. (Bart is her boyfriend). But as long as there is hope I refuse to think the worst.”
    â€œOh.” That’s Annabel. She just takes on and refuses life the way it suits her. A feeling of sympathy creeps up on me, but frankly I love hearing her say those words. The more she cries, the more she loves me. “We’ve always been together,” I say.
    â€œAnd we always will be.”
    Without Annabel I wouldn’t know what it feels like to have a true friend, the kind who lies in her bed in Amsterdam and knows I’m feeling lonely in India. The kind of friend who is only a glance away from knowing what is really going on in my head. The kind who knew before my diagnosis that something was really wrong. The kind who braves a rush-hour tram with huge purple orchids to make my depressing white room feel a little bit more like home.
    â€œTwo more weeks. Scary, huh?”
    â€œUntil the scan?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, then there’s no reason to ask ourselves silly questions today, is there?” She bends over and continues her manicure.

 
    THURSDAY, MARCH 24
    T HE BARTENDERS AT MY LOCAL hangout Café Finch gave me a box set of Sex and the City as a present. In the latest episodes, Samantha has been wearing a different wig every night, each one more fabulous than the last. My theory is simple: If she can look fabulous and have cancer, I can too. Mostly, I just want to look and feel like a girl again rather than someone I don’t want to be.
    I head with Annabel to a theater-supply store on the other side of town. The place is literally filled with wigs from the floor to the ceiling. Annabel inspects them all intently, while a salesperson stands behind me tugging at Stella. It reminds me of when we were little girls at the grocery store and would stare wide-eyed at the raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries before mixing them up.
    This is the first time Annabel will see my bald head. I’m worried that it will scare her. I swallow nervously, not daring to take off my wig. She must have noticed, as she gives me a smile and nods. I take it as an encouragement. If I can’t be naked around her, with whom can I? When the wig comes off she looks at me intensely and then strokes my pink scalp a few times. “Nice and soft,” she says. I choke back my tears.
    The salesperson plunks a number of different wigs on my head, and then suddenly there she is: Daisy. All three of us see it straightaway; Daisy is a keeper. With long blond curls falling over my shoulders, I look at the strange girl in the mirror. It feels amazing to run my fingers through the kind of thick long curls I’ve only ever dreamed of. My face is completely different; suddenly I’m mischievous and playful instead of old and stiff. I feel like a whole other person wearing Daisy. Someone concerned with summer dresses and Glastonbury rather than chemo and other life and death matters.
    Annabel ties a pink scarf around my new do and then continues studying the rest of the wigs on display. She returns with a short and spicy red number. She looks even better on me. The red locks bring my pale cheeks to life. And the edgy cut brings out my boldness. On the spot, we decide to call her “Sue.” I don’t know why I find the name fitting; it just comes to me. Maybe because it’s so short: Sue. Strong and decisive.
    I leave the store with two new wigs, two new characters. Which suits Annabel’s theory about Geminis all the better: Apparently my type can’t seem to