Like Family by Paolo Giordano Read Free Book Online

an adult who is not like them, you may not succeed at it.
    The night we were wearing the wigs, I made her laugh by imitating the Russian guy, Alexei, with whom I shared an office on the ground floor. For a month he’d been living in the room where we worked, to save on rent. He’d equipped it with an electric burner on which he heated the nasty contents of various canned food products, and at night he laid a sleeping bag on top of our joined desks, evading the guards. He put everything away before I arrived, except when he didn’t hear the alarm go off. Unexpectedly, Nora kissed me. Since we were wearing wigs and I was imitating the broken English of a Russian, in a sense we were and weren’t ourselves, but maybe that’s always the way it is when you kiss someone new on the lips.
    I tell all this to Mrs. A. as we wait, to distract her more than anything else, but she must already knowthe story, or isn’t too interested, because when a young woman appears with a head-shaped wooden stand on which her new hair is resting, she leaps to her feet.
    The fake hair is remarkably similar in color and style to hers, but I’d be willing to bet that the texture is quite different. Mrs. A. sits down in front of a mirror and lets the girl place it on her head ceremoniously, like a crown. She stares raptly at her reflection, turning to one side and the other, and asks the young woman for a handheld mirror to check the back.
    â€œI look almost better with than without it,” she says, and I can’t decide if it’s to cheer herself up or if she really thinks that. With that synthetic hair, she is certainly different from before: different yet also the same.
    We are briefed on how to care for the wig: it can be combed and also washed with a mild shampoo, but not often; there’s no need to, the wig’s hair does not get dirty the way ours does (the young woman has the linguistic prudence to say “ours” instead of “real”). “And now you can choose a nightcap. It’s complimentary, and we have them in different colors. Mintgreen, do you like this one? What do you think? It goes well with your eyes, too. Here, wait, I’ll help you take it off.”
    Mrs. A. holds on to the wig with both hands. “No! I want to keep it on. If I can. So I can get used to it at least.”
    The young woman can’t keep a sad expression from crossing her face. “Oh. Of course you can. It’s yours now.”
    We leave the shop arm in arm. Mrs. A. is wearing her new hair, looking proud. “Let’s not say anything to Nora. Let’s see if she notices,” she suggests. I promise to go along—it sounds like fun. Meantime I text a message to my wife, explaining that Babette will be wearing the wig and that she should pretend not to notice.
    In the frenzy we forgot to take the wooden dummy. I go back to retrieve it a few days later, by myself. I tell the same girl, “Excuse me, but the lady lost her head.” She, however, does not smile; perhaps the joke is in bad taste.
    I leave the dummy in the car, on the passenger seat,until the next time I see Mrs. A. I even exchange a few words with it. One afternoon I offer a young colleague a ride home. As he gets into the car, he looks up, puzzled. “And just what are you doing with this?” he asks. Then, giving me no time to explain, he bows to kiss her lipless face.

The Hall of Memorabilia

    M rs. A. does not lose her hair during the first cycle of chemotherapy, nor during the second either. Instead she vomits continually, which is perhaps worse. She’s placed three basins in strategic locations—beside the couch, under the bed and in the bathroom—and is not reluctant to talk about how she uses them regularly. Reticence about bodily functions has never been part of her nature. She’s a woman who goes straight to the point: one of those people—as she would describe herself—who choose