Back inside Monica’s room, I was happy to see a smile while she held her boobs in her hands.
“I’m in shock,” she said, turning toward the mirror as I placed her breast tissue and fastened the band from behind. “An H?” After a firm push and pull, I stepped back to study the placement of her tissue, looking to see how close the underwire was to her body, followed by the “double bubble” that still would’ve been noticeable under her uniform.
“We need to move cup sizes,” I hurried to place her in another bra, keeping in mind that she had a flight to catch. After stuffing her breasts into a double-H, I tightened the straps and ran my fingers along the underwire, making sure that every last bit of tissue was inside the cups and not cut off by the bra’s wire, which was sometimes difficult to see with a lot of breast tissue.
“Wow,” she whispered, turning to the side. “This is what it feels like to have a bra on that fits?”
“Go ahead and move around like you would on a plane.” I prompted Monica to test out her flight attendant moves. “Reach for luggage,” I suggested, smiling, watching her arms move high into the air.
“I feel like…” she stopped.
“A new woman,” I finished for her, handing over her uniform to try on with the bra.
She shook her head while buttoning her shirt, consumed by her own thoughts. “I had this woman on a flight the other day who straight up looked at me and said, ‘Your boobs are gigantic, and your bra isn’t even close to fitting you.’”
I stepped back to listen as her voice cracked a little.
“She was serious, too. Drunk, but serious. And she said it so loud that everyone turned to look at me. It just happened to be on a day when I woke up feeling horrible about myself, too. Do I cut them off, or not? Do I just embrace what I have at age forty-two, or not? I went home and cried myself to sleep, which is so stupid because they’re just boobs. But this woman really got to me.”
I pictured Monica walking up and down the aisle of an airplane, already on display given the nature of her job. I had no idea what it felt like to have J breasts, but I certainly understood the anger and sadness that came from being antagonized by another person who had absolutely no right. How awful can you be? Hearing about Monica’s experience made my blood boil.
“That’s not stupid, Monica,” I finally responded. “And they’re not just boobs.”
“I know, but I really wanted to pop that woman!”
“I bet!” I adjusted the collar on her shirt. “People can be so cruel.”
“You’re tellin’ me. But another woman?” Monica’s eyes widened. “I’ve had a lot of men on flights harass me with their eyes or make side comments. But when other women make me feel bad about myself ...”
I watched as Monica unbuttoned her shirt and gently ripped the tag from off the side of the bra. “I’ll take four of these,” she looked in the mirror and then down at her watch.
“You got it,” I smiled, taking the tag from her hand. But before I could turn around toward the door, Monica grabbed hold of me, forcefully wrapping her arms around me. I could taste the perfume on her hair as we swayed back and forth inside the dressing room. It felt warm and full of sincerity.
“Thank you,” she whispered softly. “I’ll shake ’em down the aisle in your honor.”
A few minutes later, I watched as Monica bolted out of the department for the airport. She left feeling good, which made me feel good. Though thinking about how she’d been treated because of her boobs, her boobs, made me angry. Monica could’ve dressed her titties any way she wanted to dress her titties. It also emphasized, once again, how judgment always seemed to become a significant part of my conversations in the dressing room. It was a starting point for many, coming in subtly or with a lot of force, often to the detriment of women ... and women’s bodies.
Breathing in a small sigh of relief before the anxiety showed itself, I held onto the customer-free moment, quietly noting how the dressing room had a funny way of creating momentary escapes, but only for so long. My days were numbered in the lingerie department. The combination of terminal and “existing” had become terrifyingly unstable, resting on the brink of unhinged. Larry was dying, quickly and inconsolably dying.
Kristy arrived, startling me out of my erratic daze by holding up our ever-changing schedule.
“Sooo,” she stretched out the word, “Jena called in sick, and I need someone to close tonight.”
“Tonight?” I asked, feeling both surprised and annoyed.
“You’d be working a split.” She continued while straightening a couple out-of-place bras I managed to overlook as I hid next to the display. Knowing it was my turn to take one for the team, I agreed half-heartedly before negotiating a three-hour break. I needed enough time to check on Larry and then eat my feelings in the food court.
“Appreciate it.” Kristy smiled, leaving me in the middle of the department amid a plethora of push ups, and the bitter remnants of Monica’s passengers.
It was amazing what a few hours away from the lingerie department could do to the scenery. Last-minute holiday shoppers landed in droves, making it easier for me to stay parked on the second floor without having to monitor the chalk; there were far too many cars to keep track of. Upon entering the stockroom, I noticed a card had been placed on top of my personal box, inked in effortless cursive. I quickly ripped its edges and read on to find a thank you from Claire Whittler, including a Starbucks gift card and sincere gratitude for her bras she called “perfect.” It was a nice way to come back to the department after already working a day shift, on top of a morning meeting. My drive back felt long and heavy. And though I felt some solace knowing Larry was drugged and comfortable, it was difficult to separate.
I wondered what was going on inside Larry’s head. Who was he most excited to see upon transitioning to the other side, if that’s what happens. There had to be a welcoming committee, especially for a fellow skeptic like Larry who was about as interested as I was in our Sunday morning church excursions growing up. I understood it completely. On days when my mom wanted solitude, Larry would drop the three of us off, along with our one-dollar donations, in front of a gigantic white building that resembled a section of the White House. What congregated inside was another story. But we didn’t have a choice per my mother’s requests—and her mother’s requests, a somewhat dedicated Christian Scientist who could bake her motherfucking ass off. The treats that followed were sometimes worth the screaming discomfort I felt.
“Take the dollar and put it in whatever they pass around,” Larry would remind us, feeling beyond ecstatic to have one full hour of silence to drink his coffee and read the newspaper in his car. He couldn’t have peeled off faster, leaving my brothers and me to fend for ourselves amid a strange and questionable meeting of the minds. The place was a walking morgue, equipped with a fit-to-drop pianist who part-timed it on the organ, and a small table library stacked with highly regarded narratives like The Good Samaritan that often circulated around my classroom with an overarching theme of “don’t be an asshole.”
Larry knew the dollar donation had become an issue. Frisko Freeze, a classic burger joint that also served dollar ice cream cones, boomed with business nearby. Roughly one blinker and a quick turn into the drive-thru. We’d often plead with mom to take us through after church, but her own repetitive mantra on work ethic and “earning” money became exhaustive. Larry was an easier bet when it came to Frisko Freeze, mostly because he didn’t frequent the grounds, and he wanted their menu options just as bad as we did. So we’d wait and plot downstairs in Sunday school, wondering if dad was going to ask us to fork over our own money for a soft serve, also giving a long spiel on working for what you want, or pick us up ready to indulge, having felt renewed.
The donation bowl came quickly. I’d watch it move from row to row while others sang off-key from the leather-bound hymnals about some majestic shepherd showing the way. The dollar goes in the bowl, I’d have to
prep myself, evaluating all of my goodness as my feet dangled from the chair. Plus our Sunday morning sequence had become predictable and I
needed to be prepared to tell my mother what the lesson was about while quoting evidence from the scriptures, and that I donated my dollar bill. But I really wanted an ice cream cone 99.9 percent of the time. And as the giving bowl neared, so did the onset of cardiac arrest as my brother Skeet taunted my moves—flashing a mouth full of silver and his pocketed dollar bill. Don’t do it, I thought, eyeing its steady route right past dying Dolores and dead Donald. It’s almost here. Put the dollar in the bowl. It’s the right thing to do. Somewhere, someone needs Oreos and milk and blue fruit Gushers ... and Easy Cheese with a Tropical Punch Capri Sun. Put the dollar in the damn—
“Thank you, sweetheart. God bless.” Mrs. Wakefield tapped my nose.
Yeah, whatever.
Thankfully when I saw Larry, waving from the car in the parking lot, I’d run right toward him, clicking my patent leather shoes as my ponytail swung freely, knowing he’d come through.
“How about some Frisko Freeze?”
“Did you happen to check on the customer in room 8?” Ruby asked, passing by with our new butt-enhancing shapewear and a stack of trendy push-up bras.
“Shit.” I backstepped quickly after getting caught up in stockroom banter and a game of “Would You Rather.” It was Caroline’s turn and no surprise that she chose Brad Pitt and Farah’s dream-come-true, George Clooney.
When I knocked on the customer’s door, she was slow to answer, making me wonder if I should’ve moved on.
“Sorry,” she said, cracking the door. “Come in.” Her alarmingly emaciated frame threw me off.
“Sorry about the wait, it’s kind of crazy around here.” She stared at me with red, projecting eyes.
“I just need a couple bras.” She ran her hand through a thin layer of hair, stopping abruptly at a patch of exposed flesh. “Sure.” I stood close to the door, feeling like she needed distance, as the space felt strained. There was undeniable tension and I wasn’t sure how to respond. Something was wrong. And without being overtly assuming, I made it a point to let her lead entirely. I was at a loss by just looking at her, wizened into bone, and struggling hard to articulate her needs. “Do you know what size and style you’d like?” I asked, noticing a few of our thickest push-up bras laid out on top of the chair.
“Nothing fits,” she responded quietly while refusing to look in the mirror, her hands swelling with pale rows of yellowish bone, and her arms, long and threadlike, marked with a few discernable scar lines.
“Okay.” I tried coming up with a plan. Her young age suddenly hit me and I was concerned about what would happen if she left empty handed.
“You shopping alone?” I asked.
She acknowledged my question with a slow head nod and then self-consciously moved her arms to cover as much of her midsection as possible. Looking over at the chair of bras, I made a mental note of which ones she grabbed, hoping for a smaller replacement. “Let me grab you some different sizes,” I said, reaching for the door. “I see you’ve picked out padding.”
Her lack of response led me to quicken my pace. I could sense that she was frustrated and I didn’t want her to give up and leave.
When I returned with more merchandise, breathless and determined, she just stared at the bra’s padding.
“They’re from our petite section.” I unhooked the hanger from off the first bra and passed it over.
She waited.
“Oh, sorry,” I quickly slid out, resting against the wall outside her room while she put on the bra. After what felt like minutes, I tapped on the door. Without a word, she gestured for me to hurry inside.
“Alright,” I said, studying the fit of a push-up bra as it hung off her body. “And this is the 30 AA, right?”
“Yeah,” she replied, still refusing to look in the mirror. The band had slid up close to her protruding shoulder blades, making the cups, accompanied with foam padding, sit away from her breasts. I wracked my brain for options while realizing we were out of sizes. I just stood muttering the word “um” as she looked down at the ground.
“Ashley?” I heard a woman call out. “Are you back here?”
“I’m in here, Grandma.” She moved to open the door. I quickly stepped to the side to make room before the door slammed shut.
“Oh my god,” the woman said, holding a handful of shopping bags. “Look at you.”
I swallowed loudly.
Don’t say that to her.
“I know, Grandma.” Ashley quickly covered her stomach as I stood behind her, desperate to escape the discomfort.
“That doesn’t fit you at all,” the woman said, setting down her cluster of bags while staring at her arms and sunken chest.
“I was just thinking I could have our alterations department try to tighten the band and add a couple hooks.” I tried jumping in, hoping to break the cold stares.
Ashley continued to look down at the carpet, her skin turning a soft pink. Something led me to believe Ashley’s grandmother had pushed her to try on bras.
“People actually do that to their bras?” the woman asked surprised, looking over Ashley with a side-eye.
“Happens all the time,” I stretched the truth, trying to protect Ashley from feeling even more out of place.
“What about a thicker kind of bralette?” I inquired cautiously, still trying to figure out if Ashley wanted a bra at all. She came in wearing a small cotton sports bra from what I could see on the chair, which made the desire for thick padding feel complicated.
“I’ll try one, I guess.” Ashley shrugged her shoulders before looking up at her grandmother who couldn’t stop staring at her withered, marked-up body.
I stepped out and headed straight for the back room. A long pause was in order as I tried wrapping my head around what was happening with Ashley, and what she needed. I assumed her days were spent reconciling with secrecy and isolation before the enormity of exposure set in, cutting right into her fragile existence. Seeing the traces of her desperation etched into her skin made everything about our encounter difficult to lead, especially while her grandmother continued to stare in disbelief without any semblance of support. Her gaze, stone cold and beseeching, created an uncomfortable pressure I got to escape, a drastically different reality than Ashley’s. What must her day-to-day feel like? Self-hatred, carried by fear and loneliness? At least, that’s what I presumed to be true after quietly analyzing her weakened body and small wounds rising along her sides. Ashley didn’t need bras; she needed love. Love. Reassuring love. Comforting love. Love without casting shadows over her humanity.
When I returned to the room with one more 30 AA I found buried in the stockroom and a semi-flimsy bralette, Ashley’s grandma had found a seat in the corner chair. The tension had intensified as Ashley stood against the wall, away from the mirror, still covering her stomach with her arms.
“Let’s try another brand before we move over to the bralette,” I tried sounding positive.
Ashley watched as I moved the hanger from off the bra and unhooked the band.
“And again, we can add hooks if need be. I’ll make it happen.”
Handing over the bra, I opened the door for Ashley’s grandma. The awkwardness that followed made my face heat up to a deep red.
“Shall we let Ashley undress in private?”
“She’s fine… right, Ash?” her grandmother spoke with a firm push.
“Um,” Ashley turned to look at me and then over to her grandma. The vacancy in her eyes nearly killed me.
Only love.
“I think she’d like a moment alone.” I continued, panicking for a split second that grandma would come undone. She definitely had a time bomb ticking within, narrow and bold. But I pushed anyway, feeding off my own raw emotions, and the grimace alongside her nerve.
“Actually.” The grandma stood up quickly. “I’d like to a
sk you something.”
Worried about what she was going to ask with Ashley nearby, I led us out to the sales floor.
“I’m really hoping she can leave with at least one bra.” Her grandmother said, looking me straight in the eyes. “She can’t walk around with her nipples hanging out.”
“Well,” I paused, wondering if Ashley even looked in the mirror at all. “I think a bralette would be great for her.”
“Because of her body?” she pushed harder, but then slowed her tone. “I don’t know what to do.”
I immediately looked down at the ground, feeling her bewilderment—and her sadness. It seemed obvious she was concerned about her granddaughter, but had no idea how to proceed or rationalize clearly. I sensed a complicated entanglement between her thoughts, moving in and out from trying to understand, to becoming increasingly frustrated. Her quiet need to mend whatever had bulldozed its way into Ashley’s world was evident. The need for surrender was clear, as hard and aching as it was.
“Well,” I said again. “I think comfort is really important at this point. I also think—” I stopped, choosing my words carefully. “The wire might add discomfort.”
“I just—” she stopped, exhaling softly.
“Would you like me to check on her while you wait here?” I asked, trying my best to keep her out of Ashley’s room. She looked at me flat faced, though surprised me with her answer after she came across on the more demanding side of things.
“I suppose.”
When I returned to Ashley’s room, I noticed that she was standing near the door.
“Hey, Ashley. It’s me again, Natalee.”
“Hey.” She replied shyly.
“How’d the bra work out?”
I watched underneath the door as her feet shuffled closer to the chair.
“I don’t know. I’m—.”
Silence spread quickly.
“You need more time? It’s okay if you do.”
Her voice lowered into an almost desperate plea.
“Yeah, maybe.”
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