by Cathy Lamb
His brow furrowed. “I don’t get math. It’s sooo hard. And science is hard and English Lit is hard and history has all these dates and the dates get scrambled up in my head like a bad puzzle. I have to study a lot and the other kids seem to understand everything. Cassidy and Hayden are so smart. They have to help me all the time and quiz me, and it doesn’t”—he pointed at the back of his head—“it doesn’t stick in my brain good. But this cat, I think if he lived here you would wake up with a smile on your face.”
“You think so, Regan?”
“Yes. I know it.”
It hissed.
“He doesn’t like me.”
“He does. I can tell by the way his ears are moving. He’s loyal and has a loving personality. Please, Aunt Meggie,” he whispered. He held the cat up so we were nose to nose. “Please?”
He hissed at me.
His name is Jeepers.
I am still waiting to see the loving personality.
The next day I saw a black Corvette. I knew it wasn’t Aaron’s, I knew he wasn’t in it, but I followed it anyhow, all the while acknowledging that this part of my brain was filled with mucky holes and pits of delusions.
I pulled up beside the Corvette and peered in. There was an Asian man driving. He looked at me and smiled.
I smiled back, shaky, sick, weak.
I knew that the Corvette was what triggered my nightmare that night.
Aaron wrapped a huge, human-sized Baggie around me. He filled it with detergent so I couldn’t breathe, then stuffed sponges down my throat. He dragged me to the closet by my hair, climbed to the top shelf, and threw that thing I was hiding from myself down at me. It turned into a knife and landed in my cheek.
I woke up in bed with my face covered in something wet. In the darkness, I thought it was blood.
In a semi panic I slipped down the ladder, landed hard, and ran to the bathroom, tripping once, sure my cheek was bleeding.
There was no blood on my face, only tears.
Only tears.
I have acknowledged that I am not completely mentally well.
By the end of the first year I was having serious doubts about my marriage, which I worked hard to smother. Aaron and I tried to work together on another film. It was on young prostitutes in Las Vegas. It did not go well. I could not do anything right, at least in Aaron’s eyes.
“Why did you shoot that scene at that angle? . . . Too close, Meggie . . . let me do it . . . you are not in charge of this production . . . your sound is off . . . bad choice of cameraman . . . I know far more about the art and the science of filmmaking . . . follow me, and learn what I teach you, so I don’t have to reteach you . . . damn it . . . this looks fake, ridiculous, boring.”
Halfway through the film he crashed and refused to get out of bed. He wore that black rat T-shirt for a week, straight through.
I finished the film. I worked all day, came home at night, and listened to him rant.
He said I was, “Taking over the production . . . let me see what you did today, that’s shitty footage . . . you can’t think that’s going to win awards . . . I’ll fix it in editing. Damn, that’s bad . . . there’s no honesty in your work . . . it looks like it’s been Photoshopped. It needs more grit, what is this, Sleeping Beauty meets Jack the Pimp?”
I would make dinner, and listen to him rave, as he pushed his long black curls out of his face. I used to think the curls and black feather were so avant-garde, so stylish; now I saw them as his desperate attempt to look avant-garde and stylish. He even bought new black feathers now and then, to “uphold the image.”
We argued endlessly, and after a while I gave up. There was no resolution. I was always wrong. He ended the arguments by shouting me down.
We went back to Los Angeles.
I hated it.
I craved Oregon like I craved air.
We lived in a dark, cheap apartment in an unsafe neighborhood. Aaron’s moods were unpredictable, like flash floods and tornadoes that came out of nowhere. Aaron alternately freaked out, fell into depression, or ran on optimum speed on a highway of energy and electricity. He would be fine one week, working and egomaniacal, and crying his heart out the next. He would self-medicate with alcohol, and then prescription pills, for a “back injury.”
“It’s either prescription pills for all my pain or pot. Take your pick, Meggie.” He flicked his black feather back over his shoulder. I grew to hate his black feather.
I was livid about the drinking and the pills. Aaron drank now and then when we dated. I never saw a pill.
He slammed his fist into walls one night after his mother, Rochelle, paid us a surprise visit.
She was drunk and obnoxious, a monster of a woman, shaped like a short pear. She had huge, pendulous boobs that stuck out to the side and jiggled. Her brown hair was cut like a dead beaver on her head. They launched into a screaming argument, and she threw three plates and called him a “bad, neglectful son who lies about things that never happened, you never told me anyhow, it was your sick imagination.” Aaron said, “You’re a lousy, drunken bitch. You sacrificed me for him. You put me on a platter and handed me over with a knife and fork . . .”
Their relationship was a cauldron of resentment, secrets, and rage. He did not want to talk about it, but I began to understand.
After her visit he became even more irrational. He was arrested for driving under the influence. He crashed his car in another incident. I insisted he go to a doctor, a psychiatrist. He refused. I started thinking about leaving him, but I couldn’t do it. Divorce was a failure. I could not fail.
I felt like I was living with my hands over my head. I worked as much as I could. When I arrived home, it was like entering a damp cave where black rats launched themselves at me, their claws scraping, an iron door locking me inside.
11
Hola, my name is Maritza Lopez. I work for Lace, Satin, and Baubles. I have worked for Mrs. O’Rourke for sixteen years. This is my favorite bra that we make. You see, it is white. Pure white. I like the color, no lace, no padding. That’s it. I have five of these. You want me to explain why I like this bra, Meggie? Tell my story first? Okay.
I came to America seventeen years ago. I came with my sisters, Juanita and Valeria, and my mother, Nola. My family saved for years to come to America. We wanted to work and go to school. We were so poor in Mexico, and it was dangerous where we lived with the drug wars. People disappeared, or they were shot. Men, women, little children, too. They killed so they could ship drugs that killed other people. Makes no sense.
My father went first, with his brother, to work in America and send money. We hadn’t heard from them in two months, but he had sent enough to pay a coyote to take us over. A coyote is a man, or men, you pay to sneak you over the border from Mexico. So the coyote, he packs us into a semi truck. You know those big metal trucks for hauling food? I still get scared when I see them. There are so many people squished in there with us. It is hot, it’s dark, and they lock the doors.
I’m sorry, Meggie, I cry when I think about it. Give me a momento. Un momento. I’ll start again. We travel and travel, it gets hotter and hotter, Mexico is so hot, then Texas. People start to cry, they pound on the walls, they yell and scream. Some of the people faint, we run out of water and food, they don’t stop to let us go to the bathroom, it is a terrible mess.
My mother, something is wrong with her, my sisters and I can see that. She has no water in her, and we keep driving in that heat. Almost everyone is screaming now, and crying, and there’s some people who are not moving, their families try to wake them but they don’t wake up.
I hold my mother in my arms and rock her back and forth as people keep pounding on the walls of the truck. It’s like a coffin. A long, metal, hot coffin and we are all in it and we are dying together.
Finally, the coyotes stop the truck and we all fall out except for ten people. They’re dead . . . I’m sorry, Meggie, for crying again. This part is hard to say. I try not to think about this. Our mother is oh . .
. she is dead, too. So close, so close we are to being in America. She worked so hard to get us there, Daddy worked so hard, but she doesn’t make it.
The coyotes make us get out of the truck, so we carry Mother, too. We’re in the desert. There are a lot of men with guns, men from Mexico. We are crying over our mother and they pull us away. My sisters and I . . . I cry hardest here, Meggie, I’m sorry. We are raped. On our backs in the sand, by a cactus. I’m screaming. I’m a virgin. My sisters are virgins, too. He hits me with his fist. It hurts so bad, oh, it hurts. I remember that I had on a pink bra, with lace.
When they are done, we snap our bras back on and we crawl over to our momma. We hug her. The truck pulls away with the coyotes, they shoot off their guns, they laugh, it is a funny joke to them, and we’re stuck in the desert.
We don’t know what to do. The border patrol comes and finds us. First, my sisters and I try to run, we feel so bad about leaving our momma in the sand, but we are afraid . . . oh, we are afraid the Americans will do to us what the Mexican men did. But they catch us, we hurt, we are crying, Juanita faints, I hold her. But they give us water and food. There is blood on our skirts from the rapes. So much blood. They put our momma in a bag, but we kiss her and hold her first. We say, “We love you, Momma, we love you.”
We take her wedding ring, her earrings, her necklace for us, memories of our momma. She had a pink bra on that day, too. My sisters, too. We all had pink bras. Bought cheap in Mexico, only new thing we ever bought.
Border Patrol feeds us again, and gives us more water, and because I am the oldest, at seventeen, we get special permission to come to America. They try to find our dad and police tell us our dad is dead, too, and his brother, too. Someone shot them. They don’t know who or why. So we go to Oregon because we met a woman who says she’ll take us. We come here and ask for jobs and your grandma, she is the best person in the world, she hires all of us. We finish high school, she makes us, and we work here.
We’re happy. First we were seamstresses, but now we work in marketing, operations, and the supply chain.
But, me, I never wear the lacy bras. Never a pink bra. Reminds me of too much. I like to be plain. Safe and plain.
White. That’s why I wear white bras only.
Yes? Is that what you wanted, Meggie? Me, my life, and my favorite bra? Did I do okay? I’m sorry I cried. Still, those bad memories make me cry. I’m sorry I made you cry, too. Oh, Meggie. You’re a good friend to my sisters and I.
Te quiero.
12
On my way back upstairs from the production floor, I ran into Hayden.
“Aunt Meggie!”
“Hayden. So good to see you. You’ve made my day.” He gave me a hug, then we walked back to my office, chatting, and sat down. He was wearing red pants, high-tops, and a striped shirt with flowers on the cuffs. His dark hair was back in a ponytail.
“How are you, Hayden?” Don’t kill yourself, honey, don’t. I knew that Lacey and Matt were sending him to a counselor. I hoped the counselor knew what she was doing.
“Good. I’ve decided that I’m going to go public.”
“Public?” I froze.
“Yes. You know how I’m the features editor for the school newspaper? I write articles on students and teachers doing cool things, and fashion, what all the kids are wearing, events that are coming up, like the plays and musicals and concerts. So, I’m going to write about myself.”
My first thought was that Hayden was going to get the crap beat out of him. “What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to say the truth.”
“And that is . . .”
“That I’m transgender. I’m a girl in my head, that I want to be a girl, that I was born a girl, and I’m going to start dressing like a girl and be my own girl self and start wearing makeup and take my hair out of the ponytail and I’ll be wearing skirts and heels.”
I leaned back, stunned. He would be teased mercilessly. Harassed. Isolated. Whispered about. I tried to clear the fuzz of buzzing stress out of my head. “You’re going to write about this?”
“When I get the nerve, and I think my nerve is almost here. I’m going to post photos of myself now, and then what I’m going to wear the first day that I come to school as a girl.”
“Did you talk to your parents about this?”
“Not yet. I’m talking to you first because you’re cool. So. What do you think?”
What did I think? I thought he was going to be chop suey. “I think, Hayden, that you need to think about this.”
“You mean, like, because of the teasing and stuff? They already tease me sometimes, but I have my friends.”
He did have friends. Hayden was actually pretty popular. The kids thought he was gay, but he was nice to everyone, and the girls talked to him all the time about their problems and clothing. Still. A boy turning into a girl, from one day to the next? He would be a sitting target. Like a rose in the street soon to be trampled by stampeding rhinos.
“Hayden, I think this will raise the level of teasing to a frighteningly intense and ugly level.” And I don’t want this to push you over the edge, honey.
He dug a toe into the floor. “I know. But what’s worse, Aunt Meggie? I can take the teasing for being gay or I can take the teasing for being who I really am. You know what I mean? I’d rather be teased for dressing like a girl when I am a girl. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, it makes sense.” I reached for his hand across the table. Hayden is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. He’s had to do so much work on himself, he’s been so confused and lost, that it’s made him into a perceptive, resilient, introspective person. Many people never get near this stage of personal development and depth. They never hit the black, and they skim and they skate and remain shallow.
“It makes sense, Hayden, and I am behind you one hundred and ten per cent.” I kissed his forehead. I actually felt my hands tremble, and my stomach was jelly. “On to work . . . I need you to help me with the fashion show. You saw my e-mail from two days ago?”
“Yes, I have it. I do have a few suggestions for the show, the lighting, the invitations, the décor for the tables. I wrote the e-mail to you last night, but I wanted to edit it and think about things tonight, so I’ll send it to you tomorrow, boss.” He grinned at me. “I gotta show you the new robe I designed. The material is soft and velvety. It’s like polar bear fur and a rainbow combined. You’ll adore it.”
I adore you. We all do. Don’t take a step that will ruin all of us, forever.
Who am I to judge anyone for anything?
I have made serious, enormous mistakes in my life. I fought with Aaron often. I yelled back. I avoided him and left to travel for my work whenever I could. I nagged. I was depressed living with him, so I wasn’t much fun to live with myself. I was often cold and unresponsive because I was overwhelmed and so unhappy. I was impatient and visibly frustrated. I shut down on Aaron, then did something terrible. I probably handled very little correctly.
Worst of all, I’m so relieved, to the base of my soul, that I’m not married to him anymore, and that makes me feel more horrible than ever.
As for Hayden? What is there to judge? He was born a girl in his head with a boy body. He is brave enough to address it. He is brave enough to change. He is brave enough to face an unfriendly, hostile world with who he truly is.
Hayden is far braver than I am.
On Wednesday, as I returned to my office after meeting with the Petrellis, Abigail told me that Kalani had Skyped me and would be Skyping me again in ten minutes.
Tory said, “She’s your problem. I’m going to look up my horoscope, then I’m going to whip my design team into shape. They’re scared of me, you know.”
“I know.”
Lacey tried to skitter into her office, muttering something about “pregnancy-related hormone surges,” but I grabbed her elbow and wouldn’t let go. We sat at my table and turned the computer on.
When we connected, Kalani bea
med at us. We heard about her foot problems—“flaky foot,” her witch sister-in-law who cursed her with black magic and caused the “flaky foot”—and her “sad and blue mood” on Saturday.
She told Lacey, “You getting even bigger, Laceeey. Ya. That baby must be size of, what you call—a monster! You face. Face much bigger now.” Kalani held her hands outside her own face about six inches, as if Lacey’s face had exploded.
“Thank you very fucking much,” Lacey muttered, and smiled sweetly, “you skinny crow.”
I kicked her underneath the table. Kalani is blunt, not mean.
“Ya! You not skinny!” Kalani laughed. She had not caught the whole sentence. Sometimes English is mangled between us, fortunately.
“So, Kalani,” I said, “I hear you have a problem at the factory?”
Kalani laughed. “Yes. Teeny problem. Teeny as a bird. The color bleed, ya, Meeegie, the color bleed. Blech. Bad. Pink and dark pink now a swirl. We got bad material. Bad. I talk to Jayanadani at suppliers and she said it our fault. It not our fault. I call her again. Tell her she lie.”
“I’ll call her.” Jayanadani was who we worked with to get our materials and supplies over to Kalani.
“Hey, but lookie!” Kalani said, always positive. She pulled her shirt off and pointed to her bra.
“What in the world is that?” Lacey groaned.
“Lookie! This like, how you say, Hippie Bleeding Bra. Remember you have hippie in America? I know, I watch show on TV about hippies. It say Woodstock. I know you do Woodstock, Meeegie and Laceeey. Woodstock and hair long and messy and no shirts and colors that bleed. Bleeding colors and hippie. Now we have new line, right? New line we call Hippie Bleeding Bras!”
I forced a smile. “I’ll take care of the problem, Kalani.”
“Ya. No problem. I likie Hippie Bra. I wear for my man tonight. Don’t let him stay with me, though. He go home. I no want his socks my floor. I pick up my husband sock once, I never do again. See my eye scar? Bad husband. And see this? That scar on my arm? Him, too. Knife.”