You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  Before she left for Kinderstuff, Hope whispered to Kiki, “Don’t ever let that man touch that machine.”

  By the end of the week, Hope would repeat this phrase to Kiki nine more times after training Justin on the rest of Thrifty’s machines.

  The art class at Kinderstuff became the highlight of Hope’s November days. On rain-free and windless days, they marched the children hand in hand down Flatbush to Prospect Park to paint autumn scenes on Dylan’s portable easels. Hope would begin painting trees and leaves, and the kids would mimic her. This is more like show-and-tell than teaching, Hope thought. I can do this!

  On cold or wet days, they stayed inside, adding to a messy, and therefore fun, charcoal, chalk, watercolor, and crayon mural depicting the first Thanksgiving. After Dylan sketched a long table and outlined the children sitting around it on a massive piece of paper (“The exact size of the right picture window out front,” Dylan said), Hope gave them a choice. “Do you wish to be a Pilgrim or a Native American?” All of the children chose to be Native Americans since feathers, bows, and arrows were “easier to draw.” Then they scoured hundreds of magazines for pictures of food, cutting and pasting the pictures to the table.

  The resulting display in the front window of Kinderstuff stopped dozens of people in their tracks, most of them smiling, laughing, and pointing. Other than a live, bug-eyed turkey wearing a Yankees cap that Hope added at the far end of the table, the food on the table was anything but authentic Thanksgiving fare and featured spaghetti, tacos, cheeseburgers, ice cream, pudding, and breakfast cereal.

  Midway through the month, they cut out and painted colossal, glittering snowflakes made out of cardboard, and Dylan hung them from the ceiling with fishing line. They made reindeer sock puppets. They even mixed, rolled out, cut, decorated, and baked Christmas tree cookies using red and green sprinkles.

  Helping the children design and create oversized Christmas cards, however, gave Hope the most satisfaction because of Aniya, whose hair was just starting to return as soft black fuzz. Aniya spent two days in front of a mirror drawing a self-portrait of her smiling face and shiny head in a New York Yankees cap. Underneath the portrait, with Hope’s help, Aniya wrote, “All I want for Christmas. . .” Hope copied the outside image, and Aniya traced all but the cap on the inside of the card. Then Aniya added hair, lots of hair, hair so thick and luxurious that it filled the inside of the card.

  “I don’t think we’ll need a caption inside, do you?” Hope asked Dylan.

  “Nope,” Dylan said. “Let’s do this one, Hope.”

  Hope smiled. “For Odd Ducks.”

  “And any money that comes in goes straight to her family,” Dylan said. “They have a lifetime of bills to pay. Maybe this will help.”

  And help it did in ways Hope and Dylan never imagined it would.

  Dylan featured Aniya’s simple yet profound card on the main page of the Odd Ducks website. Underneath the card was a quiet plea:

  All proceeds from this card will go to the Aniya Fund to help Aniya Pierre-Louis, a child in Brooklyn, New York, who has leukemia. Click here to read more about Aniya.

  The link took viewers to a colorful collage of pictures of Aniya and her artwork along with Aniya’s life story. Within hours of its posting, orders streamed in by the hundreds, breaking the thousand-mark barrier in only two days.

  Most importantly, Dylan began receiving e-mails from people who wanted to see if their bone marrow matched Aniya’s.

  “This is so exciting,” Dylan said, “and these people are serious, Hope. A few have already gone to Brooklyn Hospital Center to be tested.”

  One of the people, who chose to remain anonymous, matched.

  Hope got a rare phone call from Dylan that evening.

  “It’s a match!” Dylan yelled. “Aniya’s got a match!”

  Yes! “That’s wonderful!”

  “I just got off the phone with her parents,” Dylan said. “Aniya has to go for more chemo tomorrow to prep for the transplant.”

  Just as her hair was coming back. She’s going to lose what little hair she has. “Will she have the transplant done soon?” So she can have her Christmas wish?

  “It all depends on how well she responds to her treatments,” Dylan said, “but I have a good feeling she’ll be home and sprouting hair by Christmas.”

  Out of a somewhat guilty conscience, Hope stared at her hair in the mirror. If I could, I’d give my hair to that child. I wonder if I can.

  Hope surfed the Internet until she came across Wigs for Kids, an organization in Ohio dedicated to providing wigs for children like Aniya. She read the requirements and found that she could donate her hair—if she unlocked her dreads. Each wig requires a minimum of twelve inches of hair. I know I have more than that. Dylan has more hair than that. Maybe both of us can donate our hair.

  She had trouble imagining Dylan without hair. He wouldn’t look like Dylan anymore, and putting a man’s hair on a little girl’s head is strange.

  She pressed and fluffed her own hair, pulling several locks to her chest. What if Aniya didn’t want a wig? She’s a proud little thing. She’d much rather wear a baseball cap. I’d be sending my hair to Ohio anyway, so there’s no guarantee she’d get my hair or that my hair would even end up back in Brooklyn. Would Dylan like the way I looked with short hair? For that matter, would I? I like having long hair. I only had short hair because Odell liked short hair.

  These thoughts troubled Hope as she printed out cards nonstop, most of them Aniya’s. She often had to return to Thrifty after art at Kinderstuff and remain there after six to stay ahead of the avalanche of orders. She and Dylan had working dinners as cards flew off the virtual Odd Ducks shelves. They were making nearly $4,000 a week now, an extra $8,000 for Aniya because of her sweet card.

  At this rate, Hope thought, I’ll have a total of seventy-six thousand dollars toward the beach house by Christmas. I really need to double that amount before I can even start looking. Maybe this time next year I’ll be walking in sand and listening to the waves. Miracles can happen, because miracles are already happening. Aniya is going to get a transplant.

  Hope knew there was a chance that Aniya’s body would reject the new bone marrow, but something about the season told her not that anything’s possible but that everything’s possible.

  Aniya is going to get well.

  Weekends allowed Hope and Dylan to become well, too. Every Friday night became “Reunion Night” as they reacquainted each other with the intricacies of each other’s bodies, his healing hands and whispers removing the stress of the previous week.

  Saturday became “Movie Day,” though they rarely watched any movie all the way to the end. Hope supplied them with black-and-white classics such as Sunset Boulevard, Orson Welles’s Touch of Evil, Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, Top Hat starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront, and Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep. They ate and fed each other buttery popcorn. They finished off pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. They tried to make love repeatedly, each attempt ending in tears and a trip to the washroom. On Sundays, they visited the Brownsville Recreation Center’s community room, re-creating the mural, the snowflakes, and the cards on successive Sundays.

  Despite the stress, Hope steadily gained weight. She saw curves at her hips. A rib on either side went into hiding. She could almost pinch a centimeter near her navel.

  On the third Sunday in mid-November, Hope felt confident enough to allow Dylan to watch her weekly weigh-in.

  Dylan sat on the edge of the tub with a bag of popcorn. “Do I cheer or what?”

  “Shh.”

  “Ladies and gentleman,” he announced. “In this corner, weighing. . .”

  Hope frowned.

  “Sorry.” He ate more popcorn. “This is exciting.”

  Hope placed one foot on the scale. “Oh, I forgot my glasses.”

  “I’ll get them.” Dylan left the washroom and came back wearing them. “I’ve used microscop
es with less magnification.” He leaned close to her arm. “You have very cute pores. Are those skin cells?”

  Hope removed her glasses from Dylan’s face and put them on. She stepped onto the scale. “One-fifteen!” Yes! “This is cause for celebration!”

  Dylan lifted Hope off the scale. “At the rate I’ve been eating, I should have gained at least ten pounds.” He stepped on the scale. “That’s a long way down there. Tell me what it says.”

  Hope squinted. “Two twenty-five. You’re almost twice my weight.”

  “Look again,” Dylan said.

  Why? Hope looked anyway. “It didn’t change. Two-twenty five.”

  “Look closer,” he said.

  Hope bent down. Oops. “Oh, two-oh-five. Sorry.” She straightened and gave Dylan a hug. “How are we going to celebrate all my new fat?”

  “I guess we’ll go out to eat,” he said, leaving the washroom and sitting on the futon.

  “How ironic,” Hope said. “Celebrate the gaining of weight by gaining some more.”

  Dylan nodded.

  Now he’s quiet. He’s only quiet when he’s asleep or something’s wrong. She sat next to him. “What’s wrong? Did you think I’d weight more?”

  “No, that’s not it. I am overjoyed you’ve gained so much weight, and I never thought I’d ever say that to a woman.” He sighed. “It’s just that I’m worried. Hope, how bad is your eyesight?”

  “Not bad,” Hope said. “I just wasn’t paying close attention.”

  “How bad is your eyesight, Hope?” Dylan asked.

  “You want the numbers?” Hope asked.

  Dylan nodded.

  “At my last checkup, I was twenty-three hundred in my left eye, and twenty-two hundred in my right eye. I’m extremely nearsighted. With these glasses, though, I’m fine. If I drove—and I’ve never driven in the U.S., by the way—I’d probably have a restricted license of some kind.”

  “Are your eyes getting worse?” he asked.

  “Well, I have some lattice degeneration,” Hope said.

  “What’s that?” Dylan asked.

  “It’s kind of like losing your peripheral vision gradually over time,” Hope said. “In other words, my field of vision is shrinking. It started about fifteen years ago, and my optometrist says I’ll have to do something about it eventually.”

  “Could you go blind one day?” Dylan asked.

  “I don’t plan to.”

  “I don’t want you to, but could you?” Dylan asked.

  “It’s always been a possibility,” Hope said. She rubbed his leg. “Does my bad vision bother you?”

  “Yes,” Dylan said. “I mean, no. It troubles me. It worries me. I mean, whenever you take off your glasses, like in bed, what do you see?”

  “Well, most of you gets all hazy and fuzzy,” she said. “I’m glad you’re a symmetrical man. I can always find your lips and other centered things.”

  “So you don’t see me very well at all.”

  “Well, you’re usually down under the covers, aren’t you?” She smiled. “I like it when you’re down under the covers.”

  “Have you ever thought of getting laser surgery done?” Dylan asked.

  “No,” Hope said quickly. Lasers on soft tissue? Whose crazy idea was that? Hey, we have some delicate flesh here. Let’s burn it.

  “Why not?” Dylan asked.

  “Laser surgery scares me,” Hope said. “It’s also expensive, and my insurance won’t cover any part of it.”

  “It’s a pretty common procedure these days,” Dylan said. “Millions of people have had it done, ten million at last count.”

  “Good for them,” Hope said. “I’ll be all right.”

  “But you’re not all right, Hope,” Dylan said. “You can’t see me when we’re intimate.”

  “Ah, but I can feel you,” Hope said. “Trust me, I can feel you.”

  He turned to her. “I want you to be able to see me perfectly, Hope, and without your glasses. That may be part of the problem of your not getting . . . juteux. What I see of you arouses me so much. I’m not saying that I have the greatest body, but if everything’s fuzzy, you’re not seeing the parts of me that should arouse you. At least I hope they would arouse you.”

  “Well, I can keep my glasses on if you want me to,” Hope said. “I’ll definitely have to get an eyeglass strap to hold them on while we’re jooking.”

  “Your eyes are extremely important to me, Hope,” Dylan said. “I love your eyes. I don’t want to see you go blind. I saw a child go blind, remember? That still haunts me. Shayna would look directly into my eyes, and I knew she couldn’t see me. You are not going blind on me, Hope. I want you to get laser surgery.”

  What?

  “I am going to pay for your surgery as part of your Odd Ducks benefits package,” Dylan said. “Nothing out of pocket, no deductible, no dent in your beach house fund.”

  “But it’s not really necessary, Dylan,” Hope said. “I can see fine with these glasses. You could buy me some lighter frames and the eyeglass strap. Do you think they make ones that glow in the dark?”

  “Hope, please,” Dylan said. “I just watched you squinting to see a scale only two feet from your nose, and you were wearing your glasses. I want you to see our children and grandchildren when you’re one hundred, Hope, and if you really want this beach house, you need to be able to see to draw. If you can’t see to draw, you can’t draw and you can’t make more money to go toward that beach house. I’ve seen you practically putting your face next to the page even with your glasses on.”

  “I like to get close to my work,” Hope said.

  “But you’re straining eyes that are already in need of help,” Dylan said. “Let me do this for you.”

  I love how he cares for me, but... “I’ll think about it.”

  Dylan sighed and shook his head. “What’s to think about? On the one hand, you can have perfect vision. On the other hand, you can have a fuzzy boyfriend in bed and maybe blindness in later life.”

  “Well, let me sleep on it at least,” Hope said.

  “No.”

  Did I hear him correctly? My hearing is excellent. Let me check. “Did you say no?”

  Dylan nodded. “I’ve already scheduled you for a consultation at the Dello Russo Laser Vision Center.”

  Hope jumped off the futon. “You what?”

  “We’re going to the eye doctor, Hope.”

  “No, we’re not.” She walked into the kitchen, rinsed her glass, and poured herself some lemonade. “Cancel the appointment.”

  Dylan rose, scratching his head with both hands. “Please do this for me. I held a child who couldn’t see me. I won’t have that happen again.”

  “And it probably won’t, Dylan,” Hope said, “and anyway, they’re my eyes, not yours.”

  “They are my eyes,” Dylan said softly. “Your eyes drew me to you.”

  Hope rolled her eyes. “No, they’re not. You don’t own me or my eyes. I don’t want anyone cutting or burning—”

  “I’ve already given them a down payment.”

  Hope blinked rapidly. “You what?”

  “For the right eye, I think,” Dylan said. “I’m pretty sure they do the right eye first.”

  “You already paid them?” Is he crazy?

  “Yes,” he said, “and it’s nonrefundable.”

  “You’re serious.”

  Dylan nodded.

  This isn’t happening. “You can’t go around . . . signing people up to have their eyes ripped out without their permission!”

  “That’s not what they do, Hope,” Dylan said. “They reshape your eyes so you can see better. Go with me to the consultation. Dr. Dello Russo will explain everything to you.”

  “When is the consultation?” Hope asked.

  Dylan looked away. “Consultation tomorrow, surgery Tuesday.”

  This is really not happening. “You have to be joking.”

  “I’m not,” Dylan said. He turned back to her. “It was diff
icult getting you in. Luckily, I taught the receptionist’s kids at Kinderstuff, and she worked you in.”

  Hope crossed her arms. “I’m not going.”

  Dylan approached and rubbed her arms. “You’ll be able to see clearly, Hope. You’ll be able to see me clearly. You’ll be able to roll out of bed without tripping over your cat. You’ll be able to go to the bathroom at any time, day or night, without having to search for your glasses. You’ll be able to see that scale correctly. You’ll be able to see what I put inside you. You’ll be able to see my head when I’m down there feasting on your tender flesh.” He held her hands. “You’ll be able to see my eyes when I kiss you. You’ll be able to see us growing old together. You’ll be able to see the sunrises and sunsets at your beach house when you—”

  “Okay, okay, I get the point,” Hope interrupted. That convinced me. There’s no reason to get a beach house if you can’t see a sunrise or a sunset. “I’ll go to the consultation.”

  “And you’ll get the surgery,” Dylan said.

  “I don’t know, okay? Maybe.”

  He hugged her. “Thank you. Thank you, Hope.”

  I’m crying again. I thought I had cried enough in this apartment!

  “Why are you crying?” Dylan asked. “Aren’t we celebrating?”

  “I’ve never had anyone care so, so fiercely for me, Dylan,” Hope said. “It scares me.” Because people who supposedly care for me go away.

  “It scares me, too,” he said, “but in a good way.” He looked down. “I’ve never asked this, but what happened to your left pinkie toenail?”

  Hope looked down at her foot. “I lost that nail years ago. Why?”