by Ana Good
“Very different!” gasped Ellie.
“I’ve undergone plastic surgery. That’s what I do, Mom. I’m a plastic surgeon.”
“We know that,” griped Daniel.
“Yes, we saw an article on you last Christmas. In People magazine. The photo in that article didn’t look like you, either.”
“I told you, I had some work done.”
Her father cocked his head. “Whose face is that you’re wearing?”
“Mine, Dad. It’s mine. I created it. It’s all mine.”
“What happened to the face God gave you? The one we gave you?”
“I didn’t care for it. I thought I could improve on it.”
“Improve on the work of God? That’s blasphemous. Disgusting,” he growled.
“It’s not disgusting. It’s what I do for a living. I make people feel better about themselves.” Candice turned toward Babe. “You see now why I don’t speak to them? It’s useless. They hate me. Always have.”
“That’s not true, Candice!” objected her mother.
“Speak for yourself, Ellie. She’s a demon as far as I’m concerned.”
Babe decided to intervene. “Why is that, Mr. Antwerp? Why is Candice a demon?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You and your kind can ‘mister’ me and smile at me all you want. I’m no idiot. I know full well what kind of place this is. What you all are.”
“Excuse me?” asked Babe.
“Daniel!” cautioned Ellie, but it was too late.
“Homo-sex-u-alls!” raged Daniel. “That’s what this place is. A place for sick homo-sex-u-alls. Our daughter there” — he raised his cane — “is a homo-sex-u-all. We caught her in our own house. In bed with her college roommate. Big bull dyke from Tennessee by the name of Harley. Disgusting.”
Babe turned to Candice. “Is this true?”
“Of course it’s true. I tried to talk to them about it, but he” — she pointed at her father — “locked me up. Sent me to one of those Christian clinics in Arizona that is supposed to cure homo-sex-u-alls.”
“You told us you were cured.” Daniel was foaming at the mouth now.
“I was a teenager,” Candice spat out. “I lied. Teenagers do that, Dad. I didn’t want to lose your love. I lied.”
Ellie raised both hands. “Candice, we’re not here to hurt you.”
“You’re not?”
“No. We’re here to apologize. To help. You have to let us.”
“Mom, the last time you helped me, you put me in that awful place. Do you know what they did to me? Do you have any idea?” Candice was sobbing now.
Her mother stood and draped her arms around her. “Honey, that was a long time ago. I didn’t know. None of us did. I thought it was a sickness. I realize now we were wrong.”
“We were not wrong!” boomed Daniel. “It is a sickness.”
“Actually,” interjected Babe, “it is definitely not a sickness. The American Psychological Association decided that it definitely was not a sickness of any kind back in the ’70s.”
Daniel narrowed his eyes. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“You mean gay?”
“No. I mean homo-sex-u-all. Nothing gay about it.”
“Yes, I am a lesbian, Mr. Antwerp. And this is a treatment center for lesbians who have addiction problems.”
“A drug addict, too, is she?” The Reverend raised his chin in defiance. “Doesn’t surprise me one bit. How else could she live with herself?”
39. Tele-Daddy
Babe took a long break between the Antwerps’ family session and Bunny Van Randolph’s family session. During her break, she burned a pot of sage in her office in an effort to cleanse the hatred Candice’s father had spewed. Raging familial homophobia was not new to Babe. But it was unpleasant. And it always left a stink.
Still, Babe had a feeling that Candice’s confrontation with her parents after all these years might help the surgeon stop running from her own sexuality. Queer was queer. Any attempt to make a compromise on that issue could easily lead to erasure. The world was very straight. Give it an inch and it would happily assume the same of everyone.
In Babe’s opinion, at some time or another every self-respecting lesbian had to look her parents in the eye and say, “I’m queer.” If that confrontation never happened, a woman risked spending her life being gay, but only behind closed doors. Straight in the streets; gay in the sheets. Candice, in her estimation, was that kind of lesbian.
Babe could see why Candice was reluctant to call herself gay. Her upbringing had clearly not been conducive to self-acceptance as a sexual person, let alone as a gay person. Babe wondered if the effort the surgeon had thrown into perfecting her external appearance was a cosmetic cover for the ways in which her parents had made her feel imperfect, loathsome even.
Babe’s skin crawled at the thought of a young Candice sentenced to a queer deconditioning camp. Only God knew what tortures Candice had endured in that camp two decades ago. No wonder the woman exhausted herself trying to achieve perfection; and no wonder she’d turned to prescription drugs for release. She wondered what lasting effect today’s open confrontation might have on Candice. In session, Candice had come out of her closet of denial. In fact, she’d embraced a gay identity fervently. That, decided Babe, was a good omen.
Candice’s mother, Ellie, seemed truly sorry for her past behavior, eager to try and understand her daughter going forward. The father, Daniel, on the other hand, was not budging an inch. Babe was eager to know what Candice would do with her mother’s attempt at reconciliation and her father’s continuing scorn.
By the time Babe’s office was cleansed, she was ready to face her next session. It was dark now. Most of the residents were saying good-bye to their guests for the night. They’d all return in the morning for more therapy as well as free time with their family members.
Bunny Van Randolph was sitting, legs crossed at the ankles, on the couch in the therapy room as they clock struck seven, time for her therapy session. Problem was, Bunny’s family was nowhere to be seen. Justin, Bunny’s personal valet, sat stiffly upright in a ladder-back chair across from Bunny. He nodded as Babe took her seat behind the desk.
“What’s this?” asked Babe. “Where is Senator Van Randolph?”
“D.C.,” said Justin. “He sent me.”
“Sent you?” Babe could not hide the incredulity in her voice. “He can’t send you. You’re not family.”
“He sent me,” Justin said, determined to carry out his duty.
“Justin, no disrespect, but you can’t have a therapy session with Bunny. You’re an employee. Not family.”
“Can’t you just give me a report?”
“A report?”
“Yes, on Bunny’s progress.” He faced Bunny. “You are progressing, aren’t you, dear?”
Bunny smiled as she recrossed her legs. “Of course.”
“No more drugs?”
“Not even an aspirin.”
“Hold on here!” cried Babe. “I need to talk to the senator.”
“I told you, he’s in D.C. Meeting of the foreign affairs committee. About Syria. He could not come.”
“Get him on the phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“The phone.” Babe made a dialing motion with the fingers on her right hand. “We’ll have the therapy session on speakerphone.”
Uncertain what to do, Justin flipped open his cell and dialed the senator. “Sir,” he said, “I’m here at the rehab center, and this woman wants to talk to you. Bunny’s therapist. She insists she has to report to you.”
“Not report,” corrected Babe. “His daughter needs him. She has some things to say to him. We need him to participate in this rehab.”
Shrugging, Justin handed the phone to Babe. In less than a minute the senator had agreed to call back on Babe’s speakerphone so they could conduct a family session.
Babe nodded toward the door. “You can leave,” she said to Justin. �
��We’ll call when it’s over.”
Before the senator had dialed in, Bunny tried to dissuade Babe from continuing with the session. “I’m fine. I’m cured. I’ll tell Daddy that, then we’re done.”
“You’re cured?”
“Totally.”
“You are such a liar,” said Babe, as she pushed the speaker bar on the phone and welcomed the senator.
“Hello, Senator.”
“Hello, Ms. Swenderson. Happy we could meet today.”
“Me too, and call me Babe, please.”
“Fine. Where do we start, Babe? How’s my daughter?”
“I’m fine, Daddy,” Bunny shouted from across the room.
Babe motioned for Bunny to pull a chair up to the desk so she’d not have to shout.
Sulking, Bunny complied.
Babe stepped into the silence. “Senator, your daughter has some things to say to you.”
“What is it, Bunny?”
“Hi Daddy,” Bunny repeated to the phone.
“Bunny, are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sound funny.”
“I’m fine.”
“What did you want to tell me, honey?”
“I’m cured, Daddy.”
“Already?”
Silence.
Babe stepped in. “Your daughter would like to apologize.”
“Apologize? For what?”
Bunny also looked puzzled.
Babe began. “For her behavior. How she has disappointed you and the family.”
“Oh, not disappointed. Bunny could never disappoint us.”
Babe tried again. “It’s all right, Senator. You can tell the truth here. No press is listening.”
Babe and Bunny listened as the senator shuffled papers on his end. An aide come into the room and asked some muffled questions. “Sorry,” said the senator at long last. “Now, where were we?”
Bunny jumped in. “I’m cured, Daddy. No more drugs. I promise.”
“Bunny, that’s wonderful!”
“Thank you, Daddy.”
Babe raked her hands across her face, exasperated. To achieve therapy someone in the room had to have true feelings. This father-daughter team seemed expert at sticking to the script. They’d talk in meaningless circles unless Babe could find a way to crack their compact of meaningless chitchat.
And that would not happen tonight. Babe was simply too tired.
40. Queen of the Carpet Munchers
Roger Winthrop was ecstatic to see Dylan Redford. Casting aside his guitar, in the TV room, where he’d been waiting for hours for Dylan to arrive, he opened his arms and scooped her up. A tall man, he pulled her off the floor. He kissed her first on one cheek, then the other. He aimed for her lips, hoping for a grand finale, but missed.
For her part, Dylan struggled to get loose from his grip. His white fur coat made hugging him feel like gripping a bear, and Dylan had never been a hugger (of men or bears). Free at last, she jammed her hands into her back jean pockets and mumbled a weak hello.
Stripping his coat off and tossing it aside, Roger continued. “Glad to get the call, baby. Like, happy you want me.” He beamed. His open velvet shirt revealed a smooth chest that had been waxed and bronzed to star perfection. Roger wasn’t yet a star, but he was a contender, the hottest new male musical talent in Hollywood, a real catch.
“Calling you was not my idea,” grumbled Dylan. “Definitely not my idea.”
“Hmm, guess not. Still, I was hoping you’d be happy to see me.” Roger ran a hand through his long, silky blond hair. Up close he was very pretty. His nose was fine and delicate and he wore eyeliner as well as a light mauve eye shadow. Seeing him again up close relieved Dylan. Mistaking him for a woman wouldn’t have been that difficult. Not in the dim light of a concert hall.
Maybe she wasn’t such a hopeless drug addict after all.
“Happy to see you, too,” Dylan lied.
Betty Frump erupted into the TV room, dragging along Alice Everwright, her partner. The tall, thin woman had long gray hair and wore a simple tie-dye cotton shift. Eyeglasses slid heavily from her hawkish nose. She did not look happy, but that might have been because of all the children she had in tow, thirteen of them to be exact. Several of them screaming.
“Whoa! What’s that about?” Roger asked Dylan, with a shoulder throw in Betty’s direction. “Looks like some sort of third-world PBS parade.” None of the children were Caucasian. Few spoke English. The TV room was immediately flooded with multi-lingual chatter and confusion.
“God, don’t ask!” groaned Dylan. Taking Roger by the hand, she led him out of the TV room, upstairs to her room. At least it would be quiet there. She didn’t have any idea what to do with Roger. Their “family” session wasn’t until tomorrow but here he was, eager to be of assistance. His presence made Dylan nervous. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he was a graphic reminder that no matter how loud she protested, drugs had begun to get the better of her.
Roger strolled around the bedroom. “Cool. Like a nun’s place or something. Very spiritual, babe.”
“I think it’s supposed to be simple. There’s a saying here: Keep It Simple, Stupid. K.I.S.S.”
“What’s that mean?” Roger slid his guitar down onto his chest and plucked out a tune.
“Not sure, really,” Dylan lied again.
“My agent has me booked on an Asian tour.”
“Cool, I guess.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Dylan was starting to sweat. She wished Roger gone. Whoever he was, he was not family.
Roger strummed another few lines then put aside the guitar. “I was hoping … well, I was hoping that your calling me here meant something. That maybe you had decided to give us a go.”
“Give us a go?”
“The marriage. Us. You know.” Roger grinned in a way that made Dylan feel bad for what she knew she had to do.
She sat on the bed next to him. But not too close.
He took that as an invitation and slid his hand suggestively across her thigh.
She removed his hand. “Roger, I’m gay. Big old lezzy girl. Queen of the Carpet Munchers.”
“That’s cool.”
“Stop effing saying that. It isn’t cool. It’s who I am. I like girls. Not boys.”
“You like me.” He grinned again.
“I thought you were a girl.”
“Oh, come on!”
“No, really. Roger, the night we met I was wasted. Fucked in the head big time. I’d smoked, like, three fry sticks and dropped a double load of E and drank a pint of tequila. And that’s just what I remember doing. I had no idea you were a guy.”
“What about my penis?”
“I thought it was strap-on, dude.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, for real.”
They sat in the growing darkness together. For the first time, Dylan was starting to understand everything Babe had screamed at her about her life being unmanageable because of drugs. It was absurd, this whole scene with Roger. And he was a nice guy. Genuinely in love with her, it seemed. The guilt was starting to eat at her.
Dylan turned to face her husband. “Roger?”
“Yes?”
“I am an addict. Sleeping with you is something I never would have done if I’d been sober.”
Roger’s eyes grew dewy. “What about our marriage?”
“Definitely a result of drugs. I told you, I’m an addict. I need help.”
Roger considered that statement for a moment. “Maybe we should try again. Now that you’re sober.”
“Try what?”
“Sex.”
Dylan recoiled. “Not on your life.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m sober now. Sane. This is me. And I don’t do guys.” As if to punctuate her comments, Dylan trounced to the bathroom. With Roger watching, she fished the remaining Ecstasy tablets out of her watch pocket and flushed them down the toilet. As a precaution, she flushed twice mor
e before leaving the bathroom.
41. Jelly Doughnut, I Love You
Wee Gee was awake at sunup on Sunday. Not unusual for her, as she often wrote reams before sunlight spilled over the horizon. As a young mother, the only time she’d been able to write were the wee hours while her children slept. A grandmother now, and rich enough to afford several nannies, she still enjoyed pounding the keyboard while others slept.
This morning she was sitting at her desk dressed in a flannel robe, staring at the blinking blue cursor. She couldn’t think of one word to write. She tried several sentences but they all read like pale rewrites of her previous dialogue. With more than fifty romance novels under her belt, Wee Gee Judd, known the world over as Foxy Hot Pants, was going stale.
Frustration with her work was a large part of what fueled her overeating. Most people glamorized a novelist’s life. They imagined writers as a clever, attractive, rich lot who did smart things like pilot airplanes and speak French and engage in duels. Born dirt poor, Foxy Hot Pants knew little of these things, other than what she had imagined.
The problem, as near as Wee Gee could figure, was that she wasn’t very confident romance existed these days. Or ever had. The older she got, the more love seemed like a marketing ploy. An irrational, mercurial outburst: the least reliable thing in the world to build a relationship upon.
Or is that sex?
Pushing back from her desk, Wee Gee heaved a sigh. She needed to concentrate on her new romance trilogy, for which she’d already been advanced half a million, but all her mind could conjure were visions of jelly doughnuts. Writing was the most boring, tedious, damn hard work in the world. Jelly doughnuts understood this. People did not.
Poppy stirred in the bed across the way. Wee Gee watched as Poppy’s head emerged from under the covers, like a wee turtle reluctant to come out.
“Girl, you look whipped!” Wee Gee greeted.
Poppy groaned as she threw aside the covers. “It’s my mum.”
“Hmmm.”
“Did you see her?”
“I think. After lunch. Either her or Mary, Queen of Scots. In the kitchen.”
Poppy snickered. “That would have been my mum.”
“She giving you a hard time?”