Full Support

by Woods, Natalee

  Four hours later, my long absence proved to be somewhat helpful. One of the girls kindly covered my shift again after I offered to take all her closing duties upon my return. But unlike my dad, I escaped the gastroenterology unit to process a new truth, which recklessly translated into Jameson whiskey coupled with Seattle’s best IPA. I squinted to find the number ten on the wall of buttons back inside the elevator, knowing once again that my decision to flee only generated more disorder, and the most paralyzing of fears.

  “Four, five, six, seven, eight.” I read the white boxes out loud, hoping Larry was asleep by the time I made it to his room.

  “She’s back!” Flossie grinned.

  “How’s our patient?” I asked, grateful to find fresh blankets on my cot.

  “He’s hangin’ on, darlin’.”

  Leaning over Larry’s bed, I tripped on one of the cords, loudly knocking his spirometer to the floor.

  “Natalee.” He opened his eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Are you breathing?” I whispered loudly, inches away from his face.

  “No,” he replied, not remotely amused with my drunken antics.

  “Did you shit?” I asked, still under the impression that I was whispering.

  “No, Natalee, I didn’t shit.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, patting his head. “It’ll happen.”

  “Natalee.”

  “Yes, Larry?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  The following morning, with a desert growing in my mouth, I awoke to a team of doctors and interns standing over my cot dressed in long white coats. With one eye open and a delayed hand wave, the permeation of booze hit the air. I heard clapping and laughter as more bodies filled the space. Soggy French fries, spilled chocolate milk, and my brothers’ juvenile, X-rated creation on Etch-A-Sketch sat atop a rolling table two feet away from a real life McDreamy, making me wonder how long everyone had been in the room before I became conscious. I had no idea what was going on. Everything moved so fast, including the shuffling of papers and the exchange of handshakes. Did Larry finally have a bowel movement? I wonder if McDreamy is single? When did I buy chocolate milk? Where the hell is Diane and, goddamnit, Raul? And then someone finally spoke in language I could follow as Flossie joined the party.

  “We’ve got a winner!”

  Barreling into the parking structure for my closing shift Kristy so desperately needed me to work, I pulled together whatever professional look I could create after days of sinking into a hospital cot and relentless rounds of shock.

  “Welcome back!” Caroline came charging with a hug. “We’re closing together tonight.”

  “Thank god,” I replied, relieved that Kristy had already gone home for the day and that my responsibility was an easy five-hour closing shift. The weeknight pace was manageable, or at least I hoped. The lingerie department was certainly no exception to surprises, especially during peak season—and record rain, when most Seattleites congregated indoors. But I was back, literally holding on by a thin string.

  After looking over new merchandise and Kristy’s long list of evening to-dos, I spent the next half hour stocking the counters with all the necessities, trying to look busy without having to help customers. I noticed that Kristy had set up a box in the stockroom for outgoing customer thank-you notes, pushing a very clear agenda with due dates and more one-on-one weekly meetings to go over personal sales and “growth goals.”

  “She’s been all over the place,” Caroline said, referring to Kristy while pointing toward a man circling the panty tables in the front of the department. I looked over to evaluate his attention to detail as he picked up a pair of thongs and studied their backside.

  “You don’t want him?” I asked, willing to beg.

  “Nope!” She turned toward the dressing rooms. “He’s not my type anyway…welcome back.”

  Dragging my feet toward the customer, I noted my irregular heartbeat, unable to overcome the daze that had transformed itself into an unbreakable bubble. Coming from the hospital to the lingerie department with life-altering news and zero hope was surreal. The backdrop felt strangely unsettling and the mood a drifting downcast. Nothing seemed right.

  “Good evening.” I smiled, looking over his silver highlights and dark brown eyes as I approached the panty table. He was tall and dressed to the nines, wearing a clean striped button-up with his cuffs turned back, and a thick flashy watch sharing in the same gold tone as his diamond-cut wedding band.

  “Hello,” he replied in a deep, croaky voice, still holding onto a pair of thongs. “I’m looking for a couple gifts.”

  “Okay.” I followed him over to a bra-and-panty display and waited while he examined the sheer crotch of another pair of thongs.

  “We’ll start here,” he said smiling. “And I’d like only black, mostly sheer, and lace is fine.” He pointed to a soft charmeuse bra with transparently thin areas for each of the nipples. “I like this. I’ll take a size small in the matching thong too.”

  His quickness was perfect for my comeback.

  “What cup size do you need?” I asked, filtering through the row of bras. His eyes darted back and forth from our mannequin’s perky, lace-covered breasts to Ruby’s boobs packed tightly into one of our T-shirt bras.

  “Uhhh,” he struggled to respond, and then fixed his eyes directly on my boobs, moving them up and down, and up and down. “She’s closer to your size in the chest, I think.”

  “But you don’t know the band size?” I replied, trying to follow his lead while realizing that he didn’t have a clue what size bra he needed. So I continued to climb the alphabet and grabbed the first double-D I could find and paired it with its matching thong, knowing most of it would be returned.

  I then followed him over to our French display and stopped to observe his attentiveness to each item. He picked up all the black lace bras only after examining the cut of their matching panty.

  “I like this too,” he said, handing over a demi-cut sewn with intricate black lace around the tops of the cups. I quickly grabbed a size from off the fixture and then continued to follow him over to our lace teddies and ultra-sheer bodysuits.

  “Wow,” he said, picking up a teddy cut into a deep V with two-inch lace for around the honey pot.

  “It’s a teddy, alright,” I replied. “I believe it’s called the ‘Oh La La.’”

  He laughed, steadily nodding his head. “I’ll take a small.”

  Holding onto his merchandise, I waited as he looked around the department, staring down his face, as well as his nose hairs, visible and protruding, like dark uneven paintbrush bristles.

  “I think I’m good there.” He met my gaze. “Let’s add a bathrobe and then if you could gift wrap them that would be great.”

  Sauntering over to a rounder of bathrobes, he didn’t take long to pick out an oversized gathering of blue terry cloth.

  “I’d get a small/medium?” I said, happy to move things along. “If she’s typically a small, you could still do the small-medium and she’d be fine.”

  “I’m going to grab a large in this,” he replied, looking toward the back of the rack.

  It took me a minute to respond as his objectives—and demeanor—changed. I couldn’t help thinking about how different his items were. And frankly it was none of my business, but I was far too curious and suddenly confused after he handed me a size large bathrobe my grandmother would’ve worn had she still been alive. The combo just didn’t make sense.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to consider a small or medium bathrobe since you’re buying small panties? They run really big.” He struggled to respond to my question, looking at me as if I was the definition of naivety.

  “The robe is for my wife and the lingerie is for someone else.” He narrowed his gaze while handing me the large bathrobe, struggling to convey what he was really up to while I was still stuck on the idea of helping a partner feel comfortable in his selections
for her. “I… uh…hope that helps.” He stuttered slightly.

  “I… see.” My head bobbed back and forth as I searched for a response. “Let’s… get you rung up.”

  Scanning in his merchandise, he watched the price climb on the screen with every bra and panty added. After totaling up his items, I was hit with my first split-transaction.

  “I’d like the lingerie on this card, please, and the robe on this one.” He handed over two credit cards.

  “Oh, uh, I’ll need to ring them up separately. I can’t accept two cards unless you’d like to buy a gift card,” I said, taken aback by his candor.

  “Whatever’s easier,” he replied, checking the time on his watch.

  I hurried to redo his transactions, balancing two registers at once, and then headed for the stockroom to gift wrap his good intentions.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” A woman stopped me right as I turned the corner to hide, holding a huge pile of satin briefs. “May I try these on?”

  After unlocking a dressing room, I spent the next ten minutes hovered over our gift-wrapping station in the back. I prepared the bra-and-panty sets first, feeling uneasy as I laid the panties flat against the tissue paper. And not because I couldn’t figure out what to do with the thong’s cumbersome design while I moved it around the inside of the box five times, but because my customer’s straightforwardness was a little out of the ordinary—and hard to swallow. Helping someone gather their desires over cup size guessing games was a weekly task; I was used to men buying lingerie for other women after years in the biz. However, it still felt strange. And I knew nothing about his life or his marriage. He was a stranger, shopping for merchandise, and I had a job to do. But it was awkward. His response, combined with his flagrant gaze, was too honest, disturbing really.

  It was hard to imagine that one woman would be tying up her new bathrobe while the other woman slid her bits into a new pair of panties all for the same man. It really got me thinking. Maybe everyone involved was privy to the infidelity and my internal conflict was provoked by nothing more than my biased assumption. Either way, I made Caroline deliver his boxes while I watched from afar, trying my hardest to drown out the repetition of “ma’am” coming from the inside of a nearby dressing room.

  Caroline quickly placed his boxes inside a shopping bag and walked them around the counter. And off his scandalous operation went, causing me to delve into my own morals and how I would feel had that woman been me. My heart hurt just thinking about it, yet I couldn’t decide if I’d even the score, or quietly walk away. It seemed so overwhelming and deprived of all the great things true, devoted love had to offer. But things happen, I suppose. Shit can go sideways. We can fall out of love, or find a new one. We stop communicating. We love the wrong people too hard, which can lead to feelings of time wasted and resentment.

  There were so many factors that came into play as I stood hiding behind the doorway, reminiscing about the men I’d experienced, as well as my shortcomings. Our department Casanova really split open the compartmentalized mess of monogamy that ran hamster wheels in my head. I wondered if Chase had found his Juliet, strumming away his sweet nothings over wine and one of LA’s orange sunsets. I wondered if Michael Morrison ever forgave me for choosing to walk away quietly after years of sincere adoration and unforgettable sex in the backseat of my car. I wondered if Marco, my six-month rebound, found his submissive “soul mate,” free from opinions.

  My wonderment took me on a sequenced rodeo of intimate discoveries, landing me right on top of an offensive lineman from small town Alaska. He kept me curious and irrational all throughout college. And then it ended as quickly as it began, sending me back to Seattle with unsparing nostalgia, and straight into the arms of a dying mother. It was never the right time. But maybe that was the draw. Perhaps we get more out of fractured relationships in the long run, well after the shock waves—and afterthoughts dressed in terry cloth.

  When I finally answered the nagging woman’s call, suddenly remembering that I had unlocked a room for her, she asked if I could come in and sit down. I hesitated at first, peering over her shoulder to find the floor covered in long satin briefs.

  “Can I answer a question?” I asked, moving only half of my body into the room before noticing that she didn’t double up on underwear and keep her own pair on while trying the new.

  “Yes, but I’d like to close the door for privacy.”

  “Of course,” I replied, slowly lowering myself into the chair, stunned by the number of panties she had pulled from the floor.

  “This is kind of an odd question,” she started in, somewhat bashful. “But I’m hoping you can tell me if the back seam is aligned with the middle of my buttocks.”

  Flashes of me running off the Santa Monica Pier came quickly.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not following.” My eyes sprung open as she turned around to point to her ass’s crack, and then slowly guide her finger down the underwear’s thin seam.

  “I want to make sure the stitching is perfectly aligned.”

  My head fell forward as her request became real. The minutia was dumbfounding. I had no idea what to say, or how to appropriately respond to her lingerie needs. I could barely tell her to put on her own underwear first. But that was just it. We all had our own idiosyncratic needs, a personal requirement that sat somewhere between logic and desire. I chose to remain seated in the chair, awkward and tongue-tied, aligning seams against long, aging flesh, and give purpose in how I tried to understand. “I think it’s aligning nicely down your…”

  She interjected quickly, overjoyed with my observation as she moved her finger along the back seam. “I’ll take all you’ve got.”

  hearts

  and bones

  Running across the sky bridge and up the stairs to the lingerie department, I struggled to arrive on time for a morning “holiday happy hour” followed by a random day shift I picked up in gratitude for those who covered my absences. With coffee and doughnuts (Kristy’s idea of a happy hour), management thought it was a good idea to hold a team meeting before the store opened to go over expectations as the holiday shopping gained momentum. We were encouraged, via the “happy holidays” mantra, to keep smiles in the aisles and pep in our steps. I unfortunately lacked in both areas, barely hanging on as I balanced Larry’s trial chemotherapy appointments and retail’s nagging hours. I was near a full disintegration of morale, silently preparing for Larry’s looming exit while scrambling to figure out where I’d end up. The clouded isolation and fecal incontinence I battled after round one with my mom had returned with full force.

  “And, ladies,” Kristy continued to talk in front of the Spanx collection wearing one of our winter bathrobes we were expected to showcase during bra fittings. “Remember to greet every customer and please keep the go-backs to a minimum! We can’t give customers what they want if it’s sitting in a pile in the back.” My head jerked from nodding off. I shot straight up, quickly looking around the group to see if anyone noticed. I moved my eyeballs in circular motions, hoping to stay awake without looking batshit crazy.

  “Last up,” Kristy continued, holding up a new full-figure bra in bright magenta with navy blue flowers. “We’ve got more Js AND new super breathable butt enhancers! Look! The pads are connected to the shapewear!” Everyone watched as Kristy squeezed the round, abundant seat cushions with her hands.

  “This place never ceases to amaze me,” Caroline mumbled under her breath. “Have we become that desperate?”

  “Alright, lingerie team, doors open in ten. Bring on the Spanx!”

  It didn’t take long for the early morning, down-to-business customers to arrive, keeping me somewhat focused. “Hi, Monica.” I read a woman’s name tag pinned against her V-neck sweater as she moved with purpose…and confusion. I tried gauging her size, no doubt landing on an HH, or a full JJ.

  “Hello,” she responded in a chipper undertone, jokingly cupping her hands around an airline symbol next to her
name. “I know I’m in the wrong size. What is it? 8 out of 10 women?” She kept talking, antsy and closely watching the time. It was hard to hold back from looking at her boobs, nearly busting open the entire row of buttons on her crisp blue uniform.

  “You’re definitely in the wrong size by a few cups.”

  She checked the time on her watch again as I continued to stare at her bulging breast tissue coming out from both the sides and the tops of her bra, mimicking the well-known “double bubble.”

  “Assuming you have a flight to catch, I can get you out of here in twenty,” I said, mentally logging our new J cups from the morning meeting.

  She laughed, playfully nudging my arm.

  “Is it that obvious? I never know how much time I’ll need and always end up just snooping around. Or maybe I’m making excuses because I’m scared to do this.”

  I appreciated her honesty and sensed a down-to-earth, no bullshit kind of woman. Her charm was quick to surface.

  “Follow me,” I smiled, urging her to get fit.

  Inside the dressing room, Monica was quick to rip off her shirt and stand awkwardly in front of the mirror. It took me a minute to assess her cup size after seeing her breasts in the flesh. “You’d think, with all of my layovers, I would’ve had this settled a long time ago! And the fact that people stare at my boobs all day long.”

  “I don’t know a whole lot of women who love bra shopping,” I replied, lifting the bottoms of her breasts.

  “That’s the truth!” she concurred, looking in the mirror as her high energy started to fade. “I’m desperate for help. On a flight, it’s like I’m invisible sometimes. I mean, I know my boobs are huge, but come on! Have they not seen titties before?”

  Monica was visibly agitated—and escalating the more she spoke about her experience, which sent me right back out onto the floor on a serious hunt for bras. I grabbed an H, a few double-Hs, as well as a couple Js from the stockroom, impressed with our new, colorful shipment. Designers and vendors were finally catching on, slowly but decisively.