by Cathy Lamb
I thought about my own individualism. I had to make sure that it was me, Charlotte, wanting this, liking this, and that I wasn’t metamorphosing myself so that I could please Toran.
Was I insecure, down deep, and wanted to be prettier to hold on to him, to make sure no other woman would sweep his tight butt away from me? Was I catering to a man? Was I buying into the shallowness of relationships based on outer expressions of beauty and vanity? Was I allowing myself to be dragged into valuing my external physical relationship with myself over the qualities of my personality and character?
I stared into my mirror that afternoon, hung beneath the wood beam my mother loved. I was wearing a red lacy shirt with a V neckline and a white skirt. My clothes were cooler, more airy.
I had on earrings shaped like gold leaves and a matching gold necklace.
I loved my new contacts. I kept trying to push my glasses up on my nose, but there were no glasses to push, no tape to fight with, no weight.
I loved my hair, too. It wasn’t limp or tangled, but silky, smooth. My head felt lighter. My nose didn’t stick out like a long toe, emphasized by my heavy-framed glasses. I liked that when I peered at the mirror I didn’t see a mix of a brown-haired Cruella de Vil, a spaniel, and genetic material gone awry.
I have never bought into the notion of a woman parading around like an in-heat peacock to lasso a man.
But, no kidding, I looked better. So much better.
I liked seeing my face. I had cheekbones. My eyes weren’t hidden by my glasses. I didn’t appear so blah and tired, like solidified lab experiments. I felt . . . happier.
I am still a liberal feminist, but I decided that improving my appearance wasn’t against my ideals, as the ideal for a woman is to feel strong and proud and happy and to be doing what she damn well wants to be doing.
That would be me. I am doing what I damn well want to do, except for the writer’s block.
I smiled. What would Toran think?
I took a peek at my brassiere.
Red.
I bet he’d like it.
I called Toran and invited him to dinner.
“You’re calling me and asking me for a date, luv?”
“Yes, I am.” I was nervous about what he would think of the new Charlotte. Was that anti-feminist? I should be proud of the new Charlotte and not need a man’s approval. I decided I didn’t need a man’s approval unless he was my Scottish Warrior.
“This makes my day.”
“So, will you come?” Will you like what you see? Too much? Too soon? Too much makeup? Fluffy hair?
“It will be my pleasure, luv. What time?”
No one talked about being gay when I was growing up. I didn’t even think about it. It didn’t occur to me that Drew was gay when we were dating. I respected his decision to wait to have sex.
Drew told me, tearfully one night, the truth. I had begged for sex, for the umpteenth time, thrown a lamp, and burst into a snivelly round of tears because I felt so rejected, my self-esteem swirling around a swamp. It had been over a year of near abstinence.
I told him how I felt, crying, furious, frustrated. “If I had known I was going to live like a nun, I would not have married you, Drew.”
His face crumpled and he said, “I am so sorry, Charlotte. I love you, I do. But I’m not . . .” He waved a hand. “I can’t . . .” He bent his head, shoulders shaking, “I think I’m . . . I think I’m . . . gay.”
It had been in front of my face all that time. I was in denial. I didn’t want to see it. I was still in shock, though, as if he’d tossed me a bomb and yelled, “Here, Charlotte, catch this! Don’t drop it!”
When I could move my mouth again I said, “You should have figured this out before we were married, you asshole.”
“I know, I know!” Drew threw his hands in the air and broke down. “Please forgive me, Charlotte.”
I’d rarely seen anyone that upset. He apologized endlessly.
I thought I would lose my mind. I loved Drew. He was the best husband, except for the sex. He paid attention to me. He listened. We talked all the time and did things together. That part, I knew, was going to leave a huge hole in my life.
But the marriage was over, my husband gay. He loved men, not me. Not Charlotte. It was like getting hit in the teeth with a hundred science beakers, each filled with rock-hard reality. I threw a lamp, then I threw all of his research papers out the window. He didn’t even try to stop me.
The divorce was simple. Drew insisted I take the nicer car, his, which had seventy thousand fewer miles on it than mine. I moved out; the apartment had been his. He offered to move, but I told him I didn’t want to stay there. He helped me move and bought me a new beige couch, a two-person denim chair, and a bed, which arrived the day I moved in. We shared an account. He closed the account and came home with a check for me. He gave me sixty percent of what we had. He insisted.
Drew made me a welcome home basket with honey, cheeses, jams, crackers, wine, and a pink bow. He cried more. Apologized again. I drank the wine pretty quick. I wanted to hate him for what he’d done, for what he’d put me through. The lies he told to himself that ended up affecting me.
I couldn’t hate him.
I still liked him. There was still love left over.
We cried together. I was an emotional, mangled mess, my brain a tangled trap of despair and depression.
Eventually, I moved on.
What else was there to do? It was what it was.
A year later I met his boyfriend, Joey. Joey was as sweet as Drew and as handsome.
It sounds ridiculous to say it, but after I recovered from my hurt and fury, we all became friends. They come and see me on the island and stay for several days. Drew and Joey and my mother are the only ones I allow. They’re funny and fun, and we play chess and backgammon, watch crime shows and romance movies, listen to Tina Turner, practice the foxtrot, and hike around the island.
Drew and I talk genes and gene therapy. He still buys me clothes. When he’s on the island, I wear them. When he’s gone, it’s back to my comfy clothes.
In fact, Drew and Joey are taking care of my cats in their home in Seattle, where Joey works for some start-up computer company. They’ll take warm care of Teddy J, Daffodil, Dr. Jekyll, and Princess Marie. I know this because they are cat lovers, like me. They have already bought each of the cats their Halloween costumes and have agreed with me that Dr. Jekyll has some sort of mood disorder, to which they are sympathetic.
Toran, for sure, is not gay.
Always a plus in a husband if you are a woman.
Toran didn’t notice my metamorphosis.
I couldn’t believe it.
I waited. He headed into the kitchen with a raspberry pie. “I made a pie for us. Had to take a break from work. Brought vanilla ice cream, too.”
“That is a work of pie art, Toran.” A pie-making man. Romantic! Seductive! Burn my tidbit panties now so I can show him nude flips on my bed!
“Thank you.” He dropped a kiss on my lips, gave me a hug. “Want to eat it in bed?”
I smiled. “Sure do.”
Toran started talking while I put our dinner on plates. I had made Mexican food. Enchiladas, chips, guacamole, salsa, fruit salad, and strawberry margaritas in honor of Louisa, miracle worker. I put candles and daisies in vases on the table.
We talked about a science article he read about further space exploration and shuttles. Then we talked about his potatoes, which he expected to reach the twenty-five-foot-tall roof of his tunnels this year. “I think it will be an excellent year for us, Charlotte.”
“Have you noticed anything different about me, Toran?” The candles on the table flickered between us.
His brow furrowed, worried. “Uh. Well. Uh. Yes.” He was perplexed, I could tell, poor man. “You . . . oh!” His face lit up. He had gotten it! He had not failed! “Did you . . . did you cut your hair?”
“I didn’t. Louisa did.”
“Louisa?” He was befuddl
ed once again. Surely he couldn’t be. Louisa was one of those hip-swinging, leggy, eyeball-attracting, bosom-bouncing women whom no man missed.
“Yes. Louisa. She owns Louisa’s Hair and Curl, the hair salon?”
“Does she have blond hair?”
“No. Black. It’s longish. Brown eyes. Mexican.”
His face was clouded, then cleared. Recognition! “Oh yes. That lady. She’s nice.”
“Yes, she is.”
“She cut your hair?”
“Yes, do you like it?”
“I do.” He leaned closer and wrapped a lock around his fingers. “It’s all wavy. Soft. Did she make it thicker somehow? I liked it the other way, I like it this way. However you wear it, sweet Charlotte, I like it.” He dropped the curl and his head suddenly drew back as if I’d hit him. “Wait.” He leaned forward again and examined my face. “There’s something else.” He snapped his fingers. He was passing the test I’d thrown at him! “Where are your glasses?”
“I have contacts now.”
“Oh. No glasses? How do your eyes feel?”
“Relaxed.”
“I love your eyes, Charlotte.”
“Thank you. Yours too. Anything else?”
“You’re wearing something on your lips.” He peered at my mouth. I could tell he was searching for the word. “Lipostick.”
“Not lipostick.” I laughed. “Lipstick. Yep. Anything else?”
“Earrings!” He smiled, proud of himself. He was on a roll!
“And?” I glanced down at my shirt to give the man a break.
“And what?” His eyebrows shot up. “Am I not getting the lady thing here?”
“Toran!” I shook my head, pointed my fork at him, and stood up. “New clothes. New shirt, new skirt.”
He blinked. Twice. “Wow.” His voice rumbled. “You’re right. You do have new clothes and hair. I like the red. It’s pretty. Very pretty.”
“Of course I’m right. Did you think I wouldn’t notice that I bought my own self new clothes and got a haircut and contacts?” We both laughed. “I’m wearing makeup. Mascara. Lipstick.” What else? “Blush. See?”
“I see it now!” He was victorious, a man in the know, per-plexion gone!
“Toran Ramsay.” I spread my arms out wide, making my statement. “I’ve had a makeover.”
“A what?” Dang. Baffled once again.
“A makeover. It’s when you get your hair all done up and you get rid of glasses that slide down your nose and you buy new clothes.”
“Ah. I get it now.”
“Yes. But how do you like it?”
“How do I like it?” He smiled, gentle, smooth, easy. He sat back in his chair. “I like it. I think you’re gorgeous. I’ve always thought you were gorgeous. How do you like it?”
“I like it.”
“Me too. You’ve had an overmake. Wait. What did you call it?”
“A makeover.”
“A makeover.”
He stood up, came to my side of the table, and kissed me. He ran a hand through my hair and his eyebrows shot up. “Feels smooth.”
“You bet it does. It’s been hair tortured. She took tweezers to my eyebrows and plucked me silly. Like a chicken.”
“Ah, but you are not a chicken. You’re my Charlotte. You’re still you. You’re beautiful. You were beautiful yesterday, you’re beautiful today. You’ll always be beautiful. I like your new haircut. I like the skirt. You have pretty legs. Very shapely. You’re thin, too.” He said it as if he hadn’t noticed it before. “Any woman who can talk about quantum physics and how important Scottish kilts and tartans are, all in one conversation, is the sexiest thing on the planet, with an overmake or not and lipostick.”
“Thank you.”
He kissed me, then held me close. “I’m not an eloquent man, Char, and I’m not a romantic one, but I love you. However you are, I love you.”
My heart thumped, my body tingled, and my brain synapses popped back and forth with skippy exuberance. I hugged him, laid my head on his chest. I could hear his heart thudding away, quick. “I love you, too.”
“I’m so glad, Charlotte.” His voice wobbled. “Every day, I am grateful for it.”
“Me too.” My voice wobbled, too. “You are one handsome stud muffin Scot. And I’m glad you like my overmake.”
We laughed and kissed again. My “lipostick” was immediately gone. It was easy to slither out of my new skirt. My other skirts had lots of fabric, but this one didn’t. My sandals slipped right off instead of having to be unbuckled. He admired my red bra. “I’m going to lose my head, luv.”
We decided to bounce on my new bed. We liked it. Twice we liked it.
Afterward he went to get the raspberry pie and we ate it in bed. He kissed raspberry juice off my cheek.
Pretty soon he was kissing tears off my cheeks, too.
I was happy.
Happy, happy, happy.
It was a moment in life I knew I would not forget, even when I was 101.
I was so in love with Toran, if an alien spacecraft crashed near the cathedral in town and Toran was standing next to me, I don’t think I’d spend two seconds staring at the craft. Toran would get all of my attention.
He put vanilla ice cream on my stomach and licked it off. I put vanilla ice cream on his missile and licked it off. The missile shot off.
I thought of the letters, stories, and drawings that Bridget and I exchanged when we were little girls. If I knew where Bridget was now I would write her a letter and tell her I was madly in love with her brother. Still.
March 10 or 11 or 14 in 1973. I don’t know the date.
Dear Charlotte,
They said that because I can’t stop screaming and yelling at them to get me my daughter get me my daughter get me my daughter and because I keep fighting with them that now I have to go to a special place to get better.
I was hoping my father would come for me. Or my mum. They didn’t. I’m alone, alone. I know that Toran doesn’t know where I am. They lied to him. Toran would leave university and come get me if he knew what they did to me.
Father Cruickshank came to see me at Our Lady of Peace, and I screamed at him and said he was a rapist and he pretended to get all sad, and said prayers over me, and told the nuns I was mentally disturbed and when they were out of the room he grabbed me by the throat and told me to shut up or else. He told me not to say a word about how he stuck his thing up me. He told me I was going to a place for crazy people and no one would believe what a crazy girl like me ever said. He told me he had talked to Toran recently. He told me that to scare me.
I hit him, twice, and screamed, and the nuns rushed in and he said the Our Father prayer, loudly, and made the sign of the cross. I told him he was a bastard and the nuns said I am lucky that Father Cruickshank is a forgiving man. They had only met him that day so they didn’t know. They don’t know.
I kept screaming at him and they had two men come in and tie me down and when I was down and the nuns left so he could “pray over this mentally disturbed child, may God bless her,” he put his hand on my left breast and squeezed it tight, then he stuck his hand on my privates and told me he couldn’t wait to see me back at St. Cecilia’s.
No one knows the truth. No one would believe the truth.
Now you know, Charlotte. You know.
Love,
Bridget
April in 1973 I think but I am not sure of the month
Dear Charlotte,
Insane asylum.
That’s where I am. I’m not crazy. My father and mum came to see me and say I have to stay here until I quit screaming and crying. I told them
I wanted to go home, that I want my daughter, I want my daughter, I want her, they said no, you can’t have your daughter, and I begged, then I hit my father and screamed at my mum and they came and gave me a shot.
A shot. Hold me down. Strap me down. Hurts! And another shot. Pills.
I want my daughter. Legend.
Toran can
’t find me here. Can you find me, Charlotte?
Love,
Bridget
Maybe May is the date
Dear Charlotte,
My roommate talks to herself and yells at voices that I can’t hear and there are other people here who do the same thing and rock back and forth and spit and pee on the floor and hit each other and it is always noisy and the nurses in the white coats and the doctors yell too and tell us we can’t leave our rooms and I have been here so long so long so long and I want my baby and I don’t know where Legend is and I have not seen my mum or dad and I don’t care but I want Toran and you and Pherson.
They make everyone swallow pills and I feel nauseated and sick and weak. I told them I wanted out, out, out, out! And two men said the doctor said I can’t leave and I tried to get out five times or six or seven and they put me in a room that’s padded. Padded. So I wouldn’t hurt myself. Padded.
Can you find me, Charlotte?
Straitjacket. Straitjacket.
Come get me, friend. I have to search for my daughter. She’s gone. She’s with another mother. I want her. I want my daughter even though her father is a rapist.
Rape. Rape. That was a new word for me. Rape.
Baby.
Can you find me?
Love,
Bridget
June or July 1973 (I don’t know the date)
Dear Charlotte,
They won’t let me send this letter to you, Charlotte.
They search everything.
I will hide it.
I save them. You are my friend, Charlotte, my best friend, but I can’t tell you this. I am dirty. I feel so dirty.
I am shameful, that is what my father says, shameful. I have shamed the family. He said I’m a slut like his mother was a slut. She’s a whore, I’m a whore.