If You Could See What I See

by Cathy Lamb

  She smiled, angelically, arms out. “I present to you, the Nipple Bra!”

  My, oh my.

  Edith Petrelli patted her white hair, then stood up. “My first bra is called the Whip Brassiere. As you can see, it’s made out of black leather. I like leather. I call it licorice leather because it reminds me of licorice. It’ll be more expensive, honey. We have to allot for the cost of the leather and the fringe.”

  “The fringe?” I asked.

  “Yes, dear.” She fastened the Whip Brassiere over her buttoned-up pink blouse. She has a sturdy bosom. “You see how there’s one inch of fringe below the cups? That’ll cost more.” Edith knew her cost analysis. “We have a silver zipper on the left cup”—she ran a finger across it—“and a crossbones on the right.” She pointed to the right cup.

  “To make this more attractive, we’ll sell it with black leather panties with a handcuff imprint. I’ll put them on now. This is why I wore pants today. I have to wriggle into them. Pardon me, dears, almost up, one more yank, another yank. Okay. How do you like the leather panties?” Everyone liked them! “And for my finale, I present to you”—she paused for dramatic effect—“the Licorice Whip!” Edith withdrew a whip from her bag and cracked it in the air three times.

  “Impressive!” I said, as the employees hooted.

  Edith cracked the whip again. “Do you see why I call this bra the Whip Brassiere?”

  Oh, we did. We did.

  Estelle Petrelli had made a pair of pink fuzzy pajamas with feet and a long zipper. They were cute, except for the gun. The gun pointed down at the crotch. Above the gun were the words “If there ain’t no ring on my finger, ya ain’t gettin’ in here.”

  “This is for the younger women, of course,” Estelle said. “We women of a mature age don’t wish to marry again. We know that having a husband is like hauling around bad luggage that farts.”

  “You’re right on that,” Edna said.

  “Like my fart, Scotty,” Tory hissed, misty eyed. “He’s bad luggage. Doesn’t even appreciate me.”

  Estelle climbed into the fuzzy pajamas, then pulled two cap guns out of her bag and shot them into the air. We jumped, then laughed.

  Lance didn’t laugh.

  “We can’t sell guns,” I whispered to Lacey.

  “Not even cap guns,” she agreed. We all clapped for Estelle.

  We saw a white lace nightgown with tiny words printed all over it made by Larissa, who was, apparently, still dating Tato. When I looked closer I read the tiny words “Derrick Riordan is an asshole.”

  “Derrick is my ex-husband, a controlling and narcissistic ape, and it would be a huge favor if you could plaster his name all over this nightgown.”

  “You do know that we’ll be sued?” I asked.

  Larissa looked uncomfortable. “Maybe I’ll shoot him before we get to that point. Can I borrow your gun, Estelle?”

  The most poignant idea, though, came from Hayden.

  He was shaking when he stood up. He was wearing a blue skirt, brown knee-high boots, and a red sweater. His hair was brushed straight down. His makeup was tastefully applied. Honestly, he was a pretty girl.

  “I started thinking about life when I designed these bras. You know—” He took a trembling breath. “All the stuff we all go through. All the bad stuff, and then how we have to keep going and not let it get us down and sad and keep us sad. So I . . . I write poetry.” He blushed. “I like to write in my poetry journals and, uh”—he pushed his hair off his forehead—“I wrote on the bras.”

  I saw Lacey smile. “He wrote on the bras,” she whispered. “Brilliant!”

  “Let’s see ’em, Hayden. Hold ’em up,” I said.

  Hayden turned around and grabbed the first bra out of his backpack. “I used our plain pink or white bras, to give you the idea . . .”

  One bra after another came out.

  “I did the matching panties, too.”

  Even Tory stood up straighter.

  “And I wrote on them. This one says, ‘Sexy is Being Proud of Yourself.’ And ‘Being Fabulous Is My Birthright.’ ” He held up a pink bra. “This one says ‘Power’ because women need to feel that, too. The underwear says ‘Power is Powerful,’ see?”

  We saw.

  There were more inspirational sayings, for example, “I Like Being Me” and “My Future Is Full of Light.” The bras and panties were particularly lacy.

  When Hayden was done, there was silence on the floor.

  I thought about the designs. It could be a whole new line. A line for women who wanted that strength, that self-encouragement, right under their satiny dresses and business suits.

  Lance started clapping first. He stood up. “Awesome. I’d buy those for my wife. In pink or red or blue. Not white.”

  The Petrelli sisters followed. “We’re fabulous!” Estelle shouted. “We could wear that.”

  Abigail Chen said, “I’ll take the Power bra. Power my boobs up! I need it!”

  Soon they were all standing and clapping, even Tory.

  “Yeah, we can tear that one up,” she said.

  “Tearing it up” to her means that it will be a success. “Women’ll go for it. They’re great gift items, too. Mother to daughter, friend to friend. Inspirational, encouraging, all that crap. We should have star sign bras, too. Taurus. Capricorn. Scorpio.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Not bad, Hayden.”

  Lacey flopped onto the pink fainting couch next to Grandma. I blinked rapidly. After all that Hayden has gone through, the emotional turmoil I can’t even comprehend, because he was, in his words, “born in the wrong body,” after the teasing at school, the strength it took to write the article about being a girl, now here he was getting a standing ovation.

  Grandma stood up, too, and walked over to me, those heels tapping. “He’s a fantastic girl.”

  Hayden burst into tears and waved his hands in front of his face.

  He really is a she.

  To celebrate, I ordered in pizza and strawberry pie.

  “So, Meggie,” Lance shouted across the room, getting everyone’s attention, “what are you going to do with our designs?”

  I smiled into the sudden silence and said, “You’re going to wear them to the fashion show.”

  “What?” . . . “You’re not serious!” . . . “Is this a joke?”

  I waited for that moment of shocked chaos to subside.

  Grandma’s face was peaceful. She was on board with me.

  When I had told Tory what I wanted to do, she said, “At least you’re an insane person with good teeth.”

  Lacey said, “I’ll be enormously pregnant. I am not wearing a thong on a runway.”

  “We could have a normal fashion show with models parading up and down the runway,” I told them. “But that’s been done before a zillion times. We’ve done it, too.”

  I did not say that there was no way in this galaxy that we could afford the models, stylists, and all the other fashion paraphernalia that went along with a high-end fashion show.

  “I wanted something new. Something that showed the heart of this company—you all—people who care and have lives and challenges and joys. I wanted us to come across as a woman’s power type of business. A business that creates a product that helps women be better. Stronger. More daring. Gorgeous. A business with employees who have soul, for customers who have soul.

  “At the fashion show—which we’ll call The Fashion Story because we’re going to be telling stories, the story of Grandma, the story of us—you’ll model what you made. For some of you, the employees who have been here the longest, you’re going to stand onstage a little longer while the video that I took of you runs.”

  I heard the whispering, the nervous chuckles, the uncertainty.

  “What do you think?”

  There was another stricken silence, a few pale faces. I knew what they were thinking. They were too old, too fat, too many stretch marks, etc., to be on a runway.

  Finally, Lance stood and said, �
��Hey, if I can dodge gunfire in Afghanistan, I can wear these pajamas with the pink fluffy stuff down a runway.”

  And Abigail said, “I escaped out of Vietnam. If I can do that, I can do this, no problem. I’m in.”

  Tato, who designed a nightgown with a motorcycle on it and a Hell’s Angel biker dude, said, “I’ll do it, Meggie, but I’m drivin’ my Harley down the runway.”

  “The Nipple Bra and I will be there!” Edna Petrelli shouted. She pulled her shirt tight against her nipples to re-model her creation. Edith cracked her whip. Estelle shot off her cap guns again.

  Tory tapped her heels. Lacey grinned, hand to stomach.

  “Yes or no?” I asked our employees.

  It came back, pretty loud. “Yes!” They clapped for themselves. “Yes!”

  I glanced at Grandma. She had a victorious look on her face.

  I helped her stand on a chair next to me. She tried to speak, couldn’t, overcome by emotion. She tried to speak again, couldn’t. She put an elegant hand to her mouth. We waited.

  “I am damn proud of you all.” She blinked rapidly, those green eyes shining. “Thank you. Thank you all. You’ve made my life beautiful.”

  The clapping had my grandma’s tears flowing.

  She waved her hands, then yelled, “Stop it! Stop this cheap, unnecessary sentimentality immediately. It’s making me nauseated.”

  They clapped louder.

  She rolled her eyes. “This is irritating! You’re irritating me!”

  23

  Woman magazine

  Interview of Brianna O’Rourke,

  by Gabrielle Madeiro

  You have helped women all over the nation, even the world, get in touch with their sexuality. You write books, a popular column, and you’re a coveted guest on talk shows. Do you ever get tired of talking about sex?

  Yes. Sometimes I never want to say “sex” or “sex toys” again in my life. But it’s not a twenty-four/seven occupation. I have a life. I have a mother, three daughters, and grandchildren. They are my priority. I also bake and I love to embroider. I sew and knit.

  You knit?

  Yes, I love knitting. Don’t you?

  Uh, no. Do people come up to you in public and ask you about sex?

  Yes, all the time. Happens in airports, restaurants, and cafés. For example, last night I was at a dinner and a man asked me what a clitoris was. He asked what he was supposed to do with it. I used two slices of lime, an olive, and half a cherry to explain it to him. I told him exactly what to do. He was so grateful he hugged me. I wrote instructions on the napkin. He took the napkin and ate the olive. I ate the cherry.

  I also use bananas a lot—less intimidating. Apples come in handy, too, as do lemon quarters and chocolate fudge sickles.

  Why do you think so many women reportedly lose interest in sex?

  Many reasons. Oftentimes women are simply not attracted to their partners anymore. Their partners are boring in bed or self-centered, inane, ridiculous, abusive, or gross. It’s not what men want to hear. They want to blame their wives and girlfriends, but it’s the truth. Sometimes women are flat-out exhausted. There can be medical issues, like thyroid problems or depression. There can be hormone issues, too. Who likes blowing up in bed with night sweats? Working too hard will kill a sex drive, too, as can motherhood and its demands. There may be abuse in a woman’s background that needs to be addressed immediately.

  Sometimes women don’t feel sexy anymore, too fat or frumpy, or they’re self-conscious performing. Let me tell you, ladies, dim the lights, light candles, put on a negligee, and your partner will be so glad he’s getting some, there should be no complaints. If there is, dump him and get a new partner.

  You absolutely must get to the bottom of why you’re not interested in sex. There’s a reason, find it, attack it, get back in bed.

  But does our society put too much emphasis on sex? Isn’t it okay to lose interest in sex?

  If you want to feel like you have a dried-up raisin living in the heart of your vagina, yes, it’s fine. If you want to lose that feeling of youth and vitality, sure, give it up. If you want to go to bed every night and simply sleep and give up your sexuality, go ahead. If you want to miss out on the rush of an orgasm, the intimacy with your lover, being in a close relationship, sure. Embrace the raisin.

  You do sex counseling for couples. How does that work?

  It words darn well, honey. First off, I listen to the husband and wife individually, then I work with them together. One of my clients, the wife, said that she doesn’t like sex because her husband treats her vagina like he’s holding a cattle prod and the cattle prod has to keep poking the vagina. It drove her bananas. He thought he was turning her on. I was blunt and told him to knock it off. I had another husband complain because his wife made this singsong sound when they were having sex, like a tortured whale. I told her to make the sounds. It was awful. I told her to knock it off.

  Those are easy fixes. Sex counseling can be painful because much of how a relationship is working or is completely dysfunctional comes out in a couple’s sex life. We get down to what’s going wrong between the two of them. Could be an affair, an addiction, the couple is not in love, or one person is gay or frigid or bored to death or a jerk. Their sexual patterns could be at odds—one person wants it more than the other. It could be money issues, work issues, penis issues, vaginal dryness issues. We dig in and go.

  Next I work with them about what they like during sex, and what they don’t. We talk boldly and honestly. When they leave, they’re usually pretty steamed up. My office overlooks the parking lot, and often they’re having sex in their car.

  What should couples always do to have a happy sex life?

  Have sex.

  That simple?

  Yes. Have it regularly. Have a Sex Night each week. Sex can be serious, passionate, fun, even funny. Try new things, new positions, new places. Try not to get arrested. That’s embarrassing.

  Any other advice?

  You must get to know your clitoris. You must figure out your orgasmic rhythm. You must figure out what you like and don’t like. You must ask your partner to do what you want to have done. Also make a brutal assessment of yourself. Are you good in bed? Truly? Are you open to trying new things? Adventurous? Exciting? Are you doing what you can to keep your partner in love with you? Are you a supportive, friendly, loving spouse or partner?

  Anything else?

  As my mother always says, “Live your life with love. When you die, that’s what you’re leaving behind.”

  24

  That night, I pulled on two jackets and the knitted hat and scarf my mother sent me. The hat and scarf were pink, but there were three flowers in purple, yellow, and orange on each one. I loved them.

  I sat on my deck, in the yellow Adirondack chair, right under the maple tree, and ate an artichoke with mayonnaise and hot garlic butter. I thought about Sperm Donors One and Two. Their relationships with my mother were decades ago and, according to her, one night stands.

  But when my mother become famous years ago, did they recognize her on TV? Did they remember that one night?

  Did they ever wonder if she became pregnant?

  I tipped my head back and studied the branches above my head. The maple trees are one reason I love this tree house. Maybe I would buy it.

  But could I handle living across the street from Blake? What if he got married, had children?

  No, I couldn’t stay here.

  Absolutely not.

  I already missed the tree house.

  And I had never stopped missing Blake.

  He would be a great dad. I wondered if Sperm Donors One and Two were great dads.

  “It’s only one more cat, Aunt Meggie. One more!”

  Regan stood at my front door. He was wearing his basketball jersey—football had ended—and he was wet because he’d walked to my house in the rain. He had a gold cat the size of a small hippo in his arms.

  “It’s a tiny cat. See?”


  “But you already brought me Jeepers.”

  “I know, I know. How is Jeepers?”

  “He’s still hissing. Come on in.”

  Regan took off his high-tops, one foot after the other. He towered over me.

  “Jeepers is a good cat, right? Patient and sincere? He needs a friend.” He slung the new cat over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then bent to pet Pop Pop. Pop Pop licked his hand and smiled extra wide. He barked. Regan barked back. This did not seem to bother the hippo cat.

  “Jeepers does not strike me as the kind of cat who wants friends.”

  “He does! I’m sure of it.” Regan nodded eagerly. “This one is a stray.” He held the cat up so we were eye to eye. “I’ve had posters up for two weeks. No one claimed her. She came to our back door and kept eating our cat food. Her name is Breadsticks because I like breadsticks.”

  Now that made sense.

  Two weeks ago, Regan made three touchdowns. After the second touchdown, and after getting tackled by a couple of joyful teammates, he leaped up, ran about three feet, and caught a frog. He ran the frog back to Matt, Lacey, Grandma, and me in the bleachers.

  “Mom, please! I think this frog has been separated from his family!” he whined, helmet still on.

  “Put the frog back, Regan, and get back out on the field,” Matt ordered.

  “Dad, come on! Hermie needs a frog friend!”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Lacey said. “He already has three frog friends.”