Jan, the waitress, came with a tray full of other people’s orders: pancakes, chicken breasts, steak, milk and coffee. “You’re gonna have to move, hon,” she told Skip.
“Sure thing.” Skip jumped up, put the chair back, and bowed to the waitress as she passed. “Bet you’re training at Gold’s,” he said to Aurora, and sat in Hendrik’s chair.
Aurora bent to pick up her bag. Ignore him.
“Maybe I’ll get myself a membership,” Skip said.
She signaled Jan for the check. Skip removed Hendrik’s napkin from the plate and cut himself another bite of steak.
Aurora stood. She’d wait for the check and Hendrik at the cashier.
“Good seeing you, Jeanine.” Skip stayed seated. He smiled and there was crud on his one yellow front tooth. “Bet we’ll run into each other again.” He laughed as Aurora hurried away from the table.
Intruder in the House
Charles was in his bedroom when he heard the noise, the creaking of a board. He hurried over to the alarm panel by the light switch and the printout read, “Door Ajar, Door Ajar, Door Ajar.” Frantically he rushed to his bathroom and grabbed the large red metal flashlight by the toilet. It was eighteen inches long, a good weapon. He tightened the sash of his green silk bathrobe, checked his hair in the mirror and, in his black cashmere socks, crept down the hall to the balcony that overlooked the living room. He peered over the rail. It was quiet. The late afternoon sun cast long dusty shadows. Was that someone behind the curtain? Had someone darted around the corner? He pulled back, crouched down on the floor, and forced himself to take slow deep breaths. It was vital that he stay calm. Charles crawled on all fours to the front stair. Somehow it felt safer close to the ground. He tiptoed down the steps, his heart pounding fast, flashlight in hand. At the base of the stair he braced himself on the banister and poked his head out to look around; all clear in the entry hall. He got to his feet. Maybe this was a false alarm.
Charles slid along the wall to the guest bathroom. He ducked in and stood by the toilet, listening and watching himself listen, in the mirror. There was the sound of doves cooing outside. It was a sound that always made him feel lonely, like that little boy alone on Sunday afternoon with nothing to do and no one to be with. He remembered turning on the old black-and-white TV and watching a horror movie about a man stuck in a monstrous swamp of quicksand and being so scared he couldn’t move to turn off the set, frozen there, alone, while his mother took her Sunday afternoon nap.
A car honked in the distance and Charles was about to relax, sure it had been a false alarm, when he heard the creaky door hinge in the butler’s pantry and he knew there was definitely someone in his house. On impulse, he raised his flashlight over his head, burst out of hiding and down the hallway of finely polished hardwood floor. It was tricky in his socks but he would not stand for intruders. He slid around the corner, ready to attack, and saw that the swinging door was closed. He knew that the assailant must be hidden within. Charles would wait and assault the scoundrel when he emerged. He stood so that the door would hide his presence and raised the flashlight over his head. He held it with both hands and his robe opened partially. Charles made a quick adjustment, tying the sash in a knot, then resumed the position. He wondered if the force of his blow would be fatal. It thrilled him to think so.
Slowly the door opened and the trespassing rogue stuck his stockinged head out the door.
“Aurora, you didn’t wear a ski cap.” Charles felt angry. He slapped the flashlight in the palm of his hand. “I can see your ponytail. It’s obviously you.”
“You didn’t say ski cap.” Aurora came out of the pantry. Her nose and features were flattened to her face by the nylon stocking. She wore a black turtleneck, black slacks and black sneakers.
“I did.” Charles walked away, toward the kitchen. “I said black ski cap.” He was very disappointed.
“I’ll get one.” She followed him down the hall. “We’ll start again.”
“No, it’s ruined.” He turned to face her. “We’ll have to make do with a massage.”
Nineteen Weeks and Counting
Aurora stood, in her too-small posing suit, up on the platform, while Charles and Hendrik examined her. The jiggle and shake were completely gone now. She was simply bloated, her skin pulled fiercely tight, like a dead sow, swollen with water, left to rot in a scum-filled pond. Her skin had a redness to it, like an angry sunburn, the result of her soaring blood pressure. Hendrik had been more careful with her lately, especially after squats. He made her rest longer between sets and encouraged her to put her head between her legs and take deep breaths. He probably worried she would pass out—or, worse, have a heart attack. Often Aurora could hear her own blood pounding through her body and at night that booming pulse would keep her awake.
“She needs more weight,” Hendrik said. “We’ve got to increase calories.”
“Forget it.” Aurora didn’t bother with eye contact. She wasn’t interested in Hendrik’s face. He was an idiot, a fool.
“Aurora, honey, you can’t talk to him like that.” Charles tried to take her hand but she pulled away.
Hendrik took out his pocket-sized notebook with the monogrammed H on the sterling silver cover and made some notes with the matching pinkie-sized silver pen. “We take her up to four thousand calories for next ten days.” He closed the book and put it back into his pocket.
“No.” Aurora walked off the platform and over to her clothes. She took off her top, not caring that Hendrik was there in the room to see, and put on her sweatshirt. She hated this body and she hated what they’d done to her. “I feel sick all the time. I’m never hungry. I’m always tired. Forget it.” She pulled off her bottoms. She hadn’t bothered to shave her bikini area in over a week and the dark, sprouting hairs were poking her skin, causing quite a rash, like a patch of angry redwood splinters.
“What is this?” Hendrik said to Charles.
“She’ll be all right,” Charles answered him.
Aurora shouted at Hendrik, “No,” forgetting about her clothes. “I’m done.”
“So this is who you are?” Hendrik walked over to Aurora and stood close, so that she had to smell his onion-tinged breath. “A loser? Can’t take it?” He held his fist up in her face. “You waste my time?”
Aurora backed away and quickly pulled on her underpants and sweats. “Look what you’ve done to me,” she said to Hendrik, her voice hard and even. She could kill him now if she had a weapon. “You’re turning me into a freak.” She looked at Charles. “NOBODY else does this.”
Charles hurried to her side and put his arm around her shoulder. “No one else has the privilege of working with Hendrik.” He gave her a little squeeze and she had a strong urge to rip that small head off its skinny neck and throw it in Hendrik’s moronic face. Instead she pulled away. Hendrik stood with his arms crossed, glaring at her with frank hatred.
“There’s only ten more days of this cycle.” Charles sounded panicked. “I told you this would be the hardest one.” He attempted to hug her but Aurora stayed rigid. “You can do this for ten more days.”
Hendrik picked up his gym bag. “Forget it. I don’t work with losers. Use that smelly trainer from Georgia.” He started toward the door.
Charles commanded, “Wait, Hendrik.”
Hendrik stopped in the doorway but didn’t turn.
Charles put his hands on Aurora’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “If you stop this now your metabolism will be ruined, maybe for the rest of your life. You can’t just walk away.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “This is a twenty-four week program and you’re too far into it now. You can’t stop.”
Aurora started to cry. She wiped at the tears with her pudgy, swollen fingers and tried to control herself, but soon the sobbing racked her body and she stood shaking in her misery. Hendrik watched her with a smirk.
Hendrik came into the room and got back in her face. “If you ever say no again, that’s it.” He pointed at her. �
�You will eat an additional eight ounces of red meat and two more potatoes daily. And keep your scummy friends away from me.” Hendrik turned and left.
Aurora sank down to the floor, put her head in her hands, and let herself cry. She heard herself moan and she rocked back and forth. It felt good. The louder she got the more she wanted. Why had she done this? For what? Snot ran from her nose into her mouth and the salty taste encouraged her to explore this misery further. Maybe she would never stop. She could stay in this warm room and cry forever.
After a while, Charles put his hands under her arms and prodded her to stand. She continued her rocking but he wouldn’t go away.
“Come on,” he said, and pulled her up. “That’s enough.”
He led her to the sink and Aurora washed her face. Her eyes were even more swollen now, and pink. Her nose looked small with its red-rimmed nostrils. “Charles, admit I look like a pig.”
“Nonsense.” He handed her a towel. “Remember that, hormonally, you are quite imbalanced.” He rubbed her back while she dried her face. “That’s why you’re having this irrational breakdown. Only ten more days, then we get off all steroids for two whole weeks.”
Aurora was calmer now. “What about the growth and the insulin?”
“You’ll stay on those until the end. But wait till you see what happens when we stop the androgens.” He reached up and kissed her on the forehead. “You’re going to love it.”
Aurora looked at herself in the mirror. Her chest and face were covered with pimples, her hair looked dull, her skin a dead ugly yellow. This wasn’t her. Where was she? She turned to Charles and said, “God, I hope you’re right.”
Phone Work
Charles sat on his bed with the pictures of Aurora arranged chronologically on the bedspread. There was one for each day of the cycle. In each picture he’d had her stand on the platform in the same pose wearing the same suit. Her elegant body had changed dramatically, just as they’d planned, and Charles was happy with the results right up until this last week. He dialed Hendrik’s number.
“Ja,” Hendrik answered. There was loud music in the background, a march of some kind with horns and the loud clanging of cymbals.
Charles picked up the most recent picture and looked at it. “I’m worried about Aurora.”
“Wait a minute.” Hendrik turned down the music. “All right.”
“She’s jaundiced.”
“Ja, the liver is very busy.”
“Her eyes are yellow. I think we should cut back.”
“Now you?” Hendrik paused. “Maybe you should write her program. I go home.”
“She’s so toxic. May never looked like this.”
“May did.” Hendrik sounded angry. “Anyway, there’s only ten days left.”
“What if there was permanent liver damage?”
“Nonsense.” Hendrik’s voice was loud and harsh. “Either you trust me or forget it. I’m a busy man.”
“Maybe if we increase her water?” Charles didn’t want to upset Hendrik.
Hendrik laughed. “Ja. Tell her a gallon and a half a day.” He laughed more. “Tell her two.”
Charles got off the phone, gathered the pictures, and put them back in the maroon leather photo album entitled “Aurora One.” She’d be fine for ten more days. If she started to get sick, they could cut back. Relieved, he picked up the phone to call her.
Eighteen Weeks and Counting
Aurora’s voice got hoarse the afternoon she argued with Hendrik. Crying had made her throat scratchy and dry. When she’d gone home from Charles’ house she’d made chamomile tea and cheated on her diet by adding honey, but it hadn’t helped. Her voice stayed laryngitis-rough for five days and then began to settle into a deeper, more manly version of itself. It cracked its pitch at times like the voice of some pimply adolescent boy on the edge of manhood. Aurora’s change had come. Soon people would stop asking if she had a cold and would become accustomed to her new sound.
Aurora stood on the posing platform in her old nylon, stretched-out, zebra G-string underwear and gray sports bra. The posing suits were too small and uncomfortable now. She weighed one hundred seventy-seven. Twenty-three pounds in six weeks. She looked at her feet, her long toenails untrimmed and slightly yellowed, while Charles and Hendrik examined her.
“She held her shape,” Charles said. “All that weight and she’s still got nice symmetry.”
Hendrik spoke directly to Aurora for the first time since their fight. “You did excellent job.” All week, at the gym, he’d pointed to machines or weight racks and Aurora did the exercises without speaking. He held up fingers for reps, flashing five fingers three or four times when he wanted high repetition and tapped her shoulder if he wanted her to stop. He walked away when they were finished.
Aurora looked up at Hendrik’s face in the mirror. He was smiling wide, the gray-black gum line above his poorly capped teeth obvious and sickening. He wore a beige nylon do-rag that matched his orange-brown Derma-dyed skin, a silver loop earring the size of a quarter from which hung a thimble-sized silver bell that made a soft ringing sound every time he moved his fat head, and a beige and white striped boat neck T-shirt. Hendrik-the-pirate was kissing ass.
“I’m proud of you,” Hendrik said.
Aurora felt sticky. Her upper thighs touched and rubbed now when she walked and often she had hot flashes, a result of her hormonal imbalance. She was sweating under her arms and the thin strip of cloth that rode between her butt cheeks felt damp and dirty. Her waist looked shortened and thick, as if the weight of all that muscle on her chest, back and shoulders had compressed her midsection into a stumpy, flesh trunk. Her body resembled a mutant-gnarled and stunted tree.
“Don’t you get bored?” she said to Hendrik. “Aren’t you tired of looking at my sorry fat ass?” She stepped off the platform and pulled on her grimy black sweatpants and XXL Gold’s sweatshirt. She wasn’t listening for an answer. She didn’t care what they thought.
“She needs a break,” Hendrik said to Charles. “A few days away from the gym.”
“We’ll go to a resort,” Charles squealed in delight. He grabbed Aurora’s arm. “Agua Pura. Would you like that? We’ll leave tonight.”
Aurora pulled her arm away and sat in the chair to put on her shoes. Charles talked about Agua Pura all the time, the wraps and the scrubs and the milk baths. Massages. The grated cucumber and vinegar soaks. Mud stuff.
“I can’t.” Aurora tied her shoe. Her white sneakers were yellowed and dirty. “There’s no one to watch Amy.”
“They have a liver detox program.” Charles’ voice shook with excitement. “Bet you’d drop about six pounds of water.”
“Ja. Go.” Hendrik patted her softly on the back.
Aurora stood and shook her head.
“You could eat fruit all weekend,” Hendrik said. “No protein.”
“I can do that at home.” She looked in the mirror and made an attempt to smooth her dirty hair. She hadn’t had her roots done since she started the drugs and her hair had grown a lot. The blond looked dry and harsh next to her natural brown color. She looked like a slut.
“You can get your hair done,” Charles said, hovering. “Facials. Tanning. You’ll feel great.”
“It sounds good,” Aurora admitted. The idea of being cared for made her want to cry. She was tired of being responsible, sick of everything she had to do. It would be great to get away. And Amy was almost thirteen.
“Aren’t there baby-sitting agencies?” Hendrik said in a soft voice. He was being too nice and it made Aurora uncomfortable; it was easier to hate him.
“No.” Aurora picked up her gym bag. She couldn’t leave Amy with a complete stranger. “I’ll just relax around the house this weekend.”
“I’ll do it.” Hendrik nodded rapidly, ringing his bell. “Kids love me. Go to spa. Get cleaned out. Amy will be perfectly safe.” He bent to pick up his bag as if everything was settled. He turned to Charles. “Stay till Tuesday. Extra time will do her go
od.”
“Done.” Charles gave Aurora’s tricep a squeeze. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
Both men left the room. Aurora sat on the step of the posing platform, relieved to have the decision made for her. She deserved this. Amy would be fine for a few days.
Skip
Skip DeBilda sat in his car across the street from Amy’s school and watched as she climbed onto the blue public bus. It wasn’t safe and Skip couldn’t understand why Jeanine allowed it. Kids got taken all the time, especially fine ones like Amy. The bus pulled away from the curb. Skip made a U-turn and followed. He stayed close, didn’t let any other car get between him and the bus, and when it stopped to let passengers off he made sure Amy wasn’t being dragged off to be raped or killed.
Amy got off at Ocean and Main, crossed with the light, and went into the Duck Blind Liquor Store. Normally, Skip would wait across the street and watch from there but today he pulled into the lot and parked in a space right by the front door. He saw her standing there in front of the candy display, taking her time, memorizing the selection.
Jeanine used to stand like that in front of the anatomy chart at the Y. Every morning she’d study and he’d point out the different muscle groups that, if she worked very hard, she’d be able to see someday. Throughout those first workouts he’d test her. What’s the name of this exercise? What muscle does it work? She worked hard and hugged him that morning when he showed her that her cute, pudgy, little-girl legs had hardened and changed and when she flexed the quad just right she could see a little separation in the muscle.
Amy selected four different candies but Skip couldn’t make out what kind they were. She paid and as she headed for the door Skip slid way down in his seat. He wasn’t ready to meet her just yet. While she waited at the crosswalk, Skip pulled his car out of the lot, drove three blocks to her street, and parked a few houses up from hers. He watched in the rearview mirror until he could see Amy walking safely toward him.
Chemical Pink Page 10