by Cathy Lamb
Regan said, “I didn’t want to punch Pat Kolsy for telling me that Hayden should be locked up in an insane asylum, but what he said made me insane, plus I was sad because two of my guppies died, so I took it out on his face.”
Hayden cried after school a number of times about the teasing, and he cried at work, but he also said, “Aunt Meggie, the best basketball player on the team says hi to me now, and a bunch of kids in biology started talking to me, too. Then someone throws a milk carton at me or a pencil at my face, or trips me, and I get upset and it makes me feel like nothing, like no one, like I want to hide or pretend I’m a boy again. . . .”
Several teachers had a problem with it, saying the whole thing was “distracting” to other students. They voiced these “distracting” concerns in a staff meeting. Thankfully, they were the minority and were shouted down by the other teachers, who had more compassion and an intellectually based understanding of the situation.
The whole thing was wrenchingly difficult for our whole family. My mother cried over the phone and sent Hayden a pink knitted scarf. My grandma, who had been shocked over Hayden’s news but was working on accepting it, said, “I’d like to knock their brains together,” and Tory said, “I’m going to make sure that Hayden is the most stylish girl at his school!”
After talking with Lacey one afternoon about Hayden, I remembered one of Grandma’s quotes: “Hold on to the peaceful days with both hands. Revel in them. Stop to think about all your blessings and good fortune. Listen to the birds chirp. Sing. Dance. Why? Because the shit is going to hit the fan, and you want to enjoy your life as much as possible before that fan starts whirling.”
“Mother made headlines again.” Lacey walked into my office without knocking.
“What did she do?” It was ten in the morning. I’d had my beer. Now I was eating carrots and graham crackers for breakfast while working at ten million miles a minute to solve company problems.
Lacey turned my computer toward her, hit the keys, and voila, the magazine article.
I read the headline. “Brianna O’Rourke describes, in detail, how women should perform fellatio on their man.”
One of her quotes: “There are many ways to do this, ladies, but let me tell you what I’ve learned. There is a way that is sure-fire. You must start at the base, think of a stick of ice cream and your tongue as the spoon . . . with your other hand . . .”
I groaned. “I don’t want any ice cream today.”
Lacey moaned. “I hope Cassidy doesn’t see this. No ice cream for that little devil.”
“Look.” The reporter had dropped in a note at the end of the article: “Brianna O’Rourke is the daughter of Regan O’Rourke, the founder of Lace, Satin, and Baubles, a lingerie company.”
Our mother’s quote: “Wearing a seductive, padded bra during the day keeps you ramped up for your delectable nighttime activities. I personally feel attuned to the magenta-colored bras in the Lady Slipper Orchid line. I feel my girls standing up, ready for action, and that makes me feel slinky in the sheets.”
“Splendid,” I said. “Splendid.”
“Sure is. I’m calling sales. I bet they’re swamped . . .”
The Petrellis confirmed they were.
Lacey and I high-fived each other.
“I love her.”
“Me too.”
22
“Hi, Blake.”
“Hello, Meggie.” He opened the door to his house and waved an arm for me to come in.
“I don’t need to come in, but thanks.” I was a fool. That’s why I was at Blake’s house at nine o’clock on a rainy and freezing cold night. I could have called the police station and left a message or gotten his e-mail and handled it that way. I didn’t because I wanted to see him and I was using this floppy excuse to be here. “I’m sorry, I’ve been swamped at work and I just realized my insurance company never billed me for my deductible. I called and they said you still haven’t made a claim for my hitting your truck.”
“That’s true. I didn’t.” He was in a gray suit. Sooo handsome.
“But your truck is fixed.”
“Yes.” He smiled at me, but it was a restrained smile, watchful.
“Are you going to make a claim?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“Okay, whatever.” I was confused. “How much do I owe you?” I took my checkbook out of my brown and saggy purse. I was wearing a brown sweater, jeans that were too big for me, and boots. The boots were saggy brown, too. My hair was back in a ponytail. It swung over my shoulder when I grabbed my checkbook.
“You don’t owe me anything, Meggie.” Blake leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. I tried not to be intimidated by those muscled shoulders.
“Yes, I do. The shop fixed your car. I want to pay you for it.”
“I got it, Meggie, no problem.”
“Yes. It is a problem.” I felt my temper rise. You owe someone, you pay up. Received that absolute lesson from my grandma and my mother.
“It’s a gift,” he said. “We’re friends. Well, at least I’m trying to be friends. I’m hoping to buy you that friendship bracelet soon.”
“You don’t owe me a gift.”
“I want to give you one.”
“I’m going to reject the gift.” I triggered back to my disastrous marriage. Aaron would give me a gift and I’d hear about it for weeks, as in, “I do a lot for you, Meggie. Remember the necklace, hello?” Or “I’m taking the necklace back. You obviously don’t appreciate it, because you’re not wearing it today” or “I can’t please you, can I? Bought you a sapphire bracelet, still not good enough.”
The gifts were often bought after he started a fight, I shut down, and he wanted me to reengage. They were always more than we could afford. He put it on our credit card and figured I would pay it off somehow. How much of a gift is that when you can’t afford it and the buyer knows it? His gifts caused me enormous stress.
“How much was your car repair, Blake?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Look, Blake, I don’t want this over my head. I don’t want to know that I owe you money.”
“You don’t. It wasn’t that expensive anyhow. They pounded out the bumper, paint, done.”
“It’s more than that, but fine.” I wrote a check and handed it to him. He refused to take it. “I’m sorry I hit your truck.”
“I’m glad you did. We began our relationship over a smashed truck.”
“Our relationship.” I shook my head and tried not to break down right there. There was no relationship. “Okay, well, I know you’ve had a long day, so have a good night.”
I was still holding the check out. He didn’t take it, so I stalked into his house, set the check on his kitchen counter, and turned to stalk out. I was feeling threatened by the whole situation, flashing back hard to Aaron and fighting grief over not being able to be with Blake.
“Whoa, whoa . . . Meggie, don’t leave. Let’s have dinner.”
“Dinner? No. Thank you.”
“I’m grilling hamburgers. I have salad. I was going to make corn, I think. Do I have corn?” He looked off into space. “Yes, I have corn. So, stay.”
“No. That would be too much. I don’t think I can resist you if I stay for dinner.” I took a deep breath as I studied him. He looked tired and drawn.
“I would probably have the same problem with you.”
I missed him. I thought about him all the time. I wanted to hug him.
So, remarkably, I dared myself. I walked right up to him and wrapped my arms around his neck and leaned into him. His arms went around my back, pressing me up close. I tilted my head back and his lips came straight down on mine, as if we’d done this a million times.
I felt my body roar to life, that liquid heat rushing through that is so delicious it kills every rational and working brain cell in your head. I could hardly breathe as that kiss went on and on
. It was that I-Can’t-Breathe-Because-This-Sex-Is-Going-To-Be-So-Awesome kind of breathlessness. I arched into him as his hands started to wander. I reached around to the front of his shirt—never breaking contact with that mouth—unbuttoned all the buttons, and ran my hands up his warm chest.
It was at that moment, my curves to his steel, that he abruptly stopped, dropped his arms, and muttered a frustrated “shit.” He ran a hand through his thick hair and turned away from me, head bent.
I struggled to breathe, my hand to my zooming, soon-to-be-crushed heart.
“I still can’t do this, Meggie,” he said, his voice ragged. His chest was heaving, his face flushed. Oh, how I wanted to have that heaving chest against mine.
“Blake.” I wanted to cry. “Do all relationships have to be headed somewhere? We get along. We like each other. We’re attracted to each other, we talk . . .”
“And you are looking for the door out, Meggie.” He turned back toward me. His chest was awesome, his shirt hanging open. “You’ve told me that. You’re looking to leave, call it quits.”
He was right. I wanted that door w-i-i-i-de open so I could scamper through it at any time.
“You’ve admitted that you’re a mess and don’t want a relationship. That’s not for me. Especially not with you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re different than any other woman I’ve ever met. You’re independent and deep and sincere. You’re smart and you know yourself. You’re beautiful. You eat odd foods and beer in the morning. You take in animals. You jump out of planes and bungee jump because your grandma asks, and you work all the time to save her company. You stick by your sisters. I like you so much, but I’m not going to get into something with you that will end up with one of us, probably me, getting raked over the coals.”
“I would not rake you over any coals.”
“My answer is the same, Meggie. I need you to change yours.”
“My answer is the same, too, and I don’t like being pressured.”
“I’m not trying to pressure you—”
“Yes, you are. Pressure may work at work, but it doesn’t work with me, Blake. You’re not the chief here.”
“That’s been made very clear to me.”
“I’m not going to be shoved into something or manipulated into the kind of relationship that you want. I am operating on what is best for me, and a serious relationship is not what I want.”
“I want you to try us.” His voice was hard, persuasive. “One step at a time.”
“No.”
He was not happy. He did not have a temper, per se, but he could get mad. It was a controlled mad. It was not an Aaron, out-of-control type of mad. I was relieved to recognize that.
“Try to trust me. Try to see me differently than you saw your ex-husband. Try to reach. Try to see what we could have.”
I shook my head and, darn it, those tears flowed out. “No, I cannot. I absolutely cannot do that, Blake. No.”
“Why?” His voice was strained. “Why not? If you tell me what happened, we can work on it. Talk it out. Fix it, together.”
“Ha. There is no talking it out, Blake. I’m not the slightest bit interested in that.”
“So you’re going to go your whole life without a relationship? You’re going to let your past run your future?”
“Looks like it.” I turned. “Cash the check, Blake. I don’t want to owe you anything.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” His jaw was tight. He knew I couldn’t make him.
I slammed the door when I left. It was churlish and immature, I knew it. As soon as I did, I regretted it. I was, however, relieved that I didn’t start blubbering, that disgraceful hiccupping and gasping sort of blubbering, until I was running across the street between our houses in the rain.
I am so damaged. My mind is so screwed up. I’m exhausted from what I went through with Aaron. I’m still reacting to him. I’m still sickened, still scared, still depressed, and still traumatized by red and black.
I thought of my closet and what I had hidden in it. I’d rather have a monster in there.
I hate myself.
Hate, hate, hate.
He snuck up on me.
I was in a field, with my camera, and his arms wrapped around me tight. He smiled, sweet and inviting, then kissed me like he did before. He slipped off my pink blouse and pulled down my pants until we were both naked, purple and yellow tulips swaying all around us, the sun glowing like hot butterscotch.
He pulled me close, my fingers threaded with his, and we danced in the field, twirling, spinning. He told me I was his golden girl, would always be his golden girl. When I leaned against his chest, he dropped me into a dark hole in the ground. As I was falling through the black, whirling spiral, he laughed maniacally, then tossed in the feather from his hair, which turned into a rat’s tail and wound tight around my neck.
He screamed at me, “I’m following you through the closet,” his voice echoing as I continued to free-fall, faster and faster. I knew there were snakes at the bottom of the pit and they would bite me until I died, their venom speeding through my body.
And they did.
“I want to thank all of you for the suggestions, the thoughts, and the advice you’ve given me about what we should do to get Lace, Satin, and Baubles profitable again.” I smiled at the employees on the production floor. Some of their ideas had been brilliant, some not so brilliant. One employee said we should all do an hour of yoga together a day. Another suggested, “Drunken Fridays,” for new inspiration.
Those were in the latter category. “I appreciate the time and effort you put into it, and we’re going to implement many of your ideas immediately.”
Grandma was lying on a pink fainting couch. She never lays on the pink fainting couches. Lacey and Tory were standing beside me.
“Now for the fun part. I asked you to create lingerie that was all about you. Who you are. Who you’ve been, where you’re going, who and what you love, the bad and the sad. I said you could be artistic, edgy, weird, pretty, graphic, funny, thought-provoking, anything that reflected you as a person. So let’s see ’em. Who’s gonna be the daredevil and go first?”
It was quiet for a few seconds.
“I will.” Melissa Tonto held up her hand. She graduated from college three years ago. She’d worked here for two. Tory scared the heck out of her. Grandma told me she had an incredible portfolio of ideas when she was hired, so I wanted to see what she’d thought of.
Melissa has tattoos up and down both arms. One is of a toothy, feisty dragon. She named the dragon “Mother.” They do not have a happy relationship.
She had designed several bras with a tattoo motif. Across both cups of one bra she had designed a dragon, a carbon copy of her mother dragon. Another bra had a tattoo of barbed wire. A third bra had a tattoo design of Tinker Bell sulking.
“I like it,” I said. “It’s new. It’s young and hip.”
Melissa smiled, then sagged in relief. “Tattoos say something about your life, your memories and experiences. That’s why I have them. Bras should, too.”
“Awesome,” Lacey said. “Makes me want to get a tattoo on my chest.”
Grandma said, “I think I’ll get a tattoo on my butt that says, ‘Sagging but smart.’ ”
Everyone laughed, then clapped for Melissa.
Candy, our blunt accountant with all the grim news, went next. She has rebelled against her sweet name. She is tall and wears flat and sensible shoes, long skirts, and horn-rimmed glasses. She designed an orange bustier with red flames, orange underwear with red flames, and thigh-high fishnet stockings with red flames along the top. “I have anger issues,” Candy said.
“I have anger issues, too, Candy,” Tory said, then muttered so only I could hear, “My anger issue is named Scotty.”
“I’d wear that,” Lacey said.
People clapped again. Whooee!
Our custodian/handyman/gardener/e
lectrician Eric Luduvic had us turn off all the lights to showcase his creation. When it was pitch-dark on the production floor, we saw multicolored flashing Christmas tree lights all over the bra Eric was wearing over his naked, hairy chest.
“You see?” he shouted after the applause died down. “This is for the people out there who like surprises in the bedroom. I like surprises, myself. Hello, Santa! Give me a sec to get this bra off and the next one on. Wow. That’s tight. Okay. This is the Valentine’s bra. See? All pink and red flashing lights, and the cups are shaped into hearts. Halloween? Give me another sec to change . . . ouch, poked myself.... Behold the witch bra! See how I’ve arranged the lights into a witch’s face?” We oohed and aahed as the green, orange, and black lights twinkled at us. That witch was evil looking.
Lance Turner made pajamas out of army material, except he’d added pink fringe on the V-neck, the wrists, and the hems. He modeled them for us. “I loved my army buddies, loved the army, don’t like the dent in my head. That’s why I made these pajamas. Giving these to my wife tonight,” he announced. “She’ll love ’em. Did I already say I loved the army?”
Edna Petrelli stood up next. “I’ve designed a nipple bra to feed my fantasies.” Her voice crackled from age.
A nipple bra?
“When you’re wearing a see-through blouse, you might not want to wear a full bra, but you don’t want your nipples to show through, now, do you, dears. So this is the Nipple Bra. They’re like pasties. They’ll come with a bottle of flavored glue. There’s strawberry, to honor Mrs. O’Rourke, and vanilla and grape, which will add sensory delight. You squeeze the glue around the nipple and aureole, then place the Nipple Bra over it. Let me show you. I made one for myself. You see?” She held her white see-through shirt tight against her chest, turning this way and that so we could all gaze upon her unbound bosom. “I didn’t want to wear a bra today, but you can’t see my nipples, now, can you?”
Her sisters shouted, “No! Good job, Edna!”
The employees cheered, “No nipples, no nipples!”
I stood in front of the preening Edna, whose breasts entirely showed through her shirt, but not the nipples. “You’re right, I can’t! Super idea!”