Full Support

by Woods, Natalee

  I waited for a few seconds, contemplating her movements. The space surrounding us became strained and hard to read.

  “You good?” I asked in a slow, muted pitch, holding onto her stillness.

  “Yeah.” She responded gently.

  My insides sank as I tiptoed away. I wasn’t sure what to do next other than hope that something gave way for Ashley, freeing her from the seclusion while breaking every fragment of fear.

  “She just needs a few more minutes,” I said, rejoining her grandmother as she paced around a display of bathrobes.

  “Sure” was all I heard, leading me to separate myself and meander toward the front of the department. I wanted to look busy, but I struggled to figure out how much distance was needed; I didn’t want to leave Ashley in case she needed something. I knew she was lonely and lost, spinning in circles inside the dressing room. But her grandmother headed back anyway, discarding all of it. So I hurried to make myself invisible in the stockroom for the time being, hoping to not have to pick up another customer.

  “Can you believe it?” Ruby’s voice echoed throughout the back. “I mean ... this takes some serious balls! This man really thinks this is okay, like I want these panties ... like I invited this ... like I don’t have an opinion in the matter.” I stood looking at Ruby’s expression as it transformed from sheer shock, to anger. The whole operation was intrusive. But still so shamelessly intriguing. I think we all tried our best not to jump to conclusions about Ruby’s random panty deliveries, but it had the potential to explode, rightfully so. It wasn’t remotely flattering, or comfortable, but presumptuous and really overconfident. I couldn’t help wondering what else the night had to offer, and why we weren’t just getting quick, in-and-out holiday shoppers with good intentions. But I stood by Ruby’s every word, feeling every graze of intrusion, inside the dressing room, and out.

  Joining the group, equally perturbed, was Caroline, holding Ashley’s bralette and push-up bras. “Your customers just walked out,” she handed over their pile. My stomach sank again. I was really hoping to get at least one bra down to alterations, or a comfortable win for the bralette. I couldn’t help wondering if Ashley’s grandmother might’ve said something to halt the process, or make her give up altogether. Her grand entrance was hard to shake as her words turned into stones.

  Look at you.

  My mind drifted as the backroom chatter picked up, becoming nothing but separate noise right up until Ruby held the last pair of our featured stocking stuffers with an invitation to slip into their lacy shreds. The combination of predicaments was hard to fathom. I wished I could tell Ashley to wear whatever the hell she wanted to wear, nipples blazing. To go home and find the one thing that would spark joy in every fiber of her being.

  Finding a bra wasn’t important when the mirror alone became the antagonist. There were bigger things. Bigger battles. But it was all easier said than done. The aching had intentions. Ruby’s testimony had resistance. People were dying. And in that moment, among the lost and hurting, a memory of Gladys came shining in like the big ray of sunshine that she was.

  Give ’em hell, honey.

  space between

  Closing down the department again, I moved with little enthusiasm. Customers tore through every piece of lingerie from the minute the doors opened, creating a cluster of stray merchandise and nonstop organizing well into the night. I was beyond ecstatic to bury the holidays and resume some kind of normalcy, at least inside the store, amid temporary measures.

  As I marked down a rounder of holiday bras into hot new sale items, a woman approached me holding a well-intentioned stack of boyshorts. Her pile was growing by the second as she added every style from sheer sexy satin to soft cotton.

  “Do you know which one of your boyshorts will make my thighs look the smallest?” she asked, adding to her mound. “You know, the ones that won’t pinch your skin and create more fat on the sides.”

  I hesitated, thinking about her question while reflecting on all of the large white flesh I carelessly smashed against string somewhere between retrieving pants from my laundry basket and mix-matched socks from a drawer as I rushed to get back to work.

  “Well, I know the ones with more spandex in them tend to cut into the skin.” I replied, uncertain as to how to respond or at the very least, appease. “Maybe start with the cotton ones. And some lace?”

  “Okay.” She perked up fast, leading me straight back into a dressing room. It came as no surprise that leftover merchandise covered the floor. Shit was everywhere, making it extremely difficult to differentiate between utter laziness and flat-out disrespect.

  “Take your time and I’ll be back to—“

  She interjected quickly, her long curly hair bouncing in bundles as she hurried to unzip her jeans. “You mind waiting outside while I put a pair on? I would love your opinion.”

  I struggled for an escape, knowing I was being involuntarily thrown into the oh-so conflicting “thigh gap” slash “side bulge.” I didn’t even bother to utter a response, as I knew my presence was mandatory in her mind. She was down to business. And my role was to watch, nod, listen, and attempt to control my side of the dialogue.

  She flung open the door while pulling down the lacy edging of her first pair of boyshorts. I stood staring with my mouth halfway open, still at a loss for what I was supposed to say—while caught off guard, though intrigued, by the explicit sex scene tattooed all the way down the side of her leg. I saw boobs, flowing hair, feet, a man’s lower half, and maybe a sunset?

  “Awesome! Looks like you found a pair!”

  “Nooo, I don’t think so,” she replied, turning back toward the mirror. “See all this?” She pulled on her thighs outer flesh. “They’re cutting in!”

  Mentally winded, I cautiously moved back inside the dressing room and unhooked one of our top-selling boyshorts, hoping their trusted elasticity would suffice.

  “Here,” I said, handing over a thin nude short with soft lace trim around the waistband and leg holes. “We sell out of these all the time. I hear they’re comfortable.”

  “Oh, great,” she replied, once again taking the lead by closing the door. “You can sit in the chair. I don’t care.”

  “Well, I need to—“ barely left my mouth before she stripped down to nothing and moved her feet through the trim.

  I sat still, continuing to examine the provocative storyline along her strong build. It was obvious she spent a lot of time defining muscle groups, seemingly bonded with her body while knowing exactly what she was looking for. I respected her pace, and I admired her confidence to bare all. Though I couldn’t help wondering if the “perfect” boyshort really existed for her, especially as she continued to pull on the thin fabric tightly covering her thighs.

  “Damnit,” she complained, turning around to examine the back of her legs in the mirror. “These have the same pinch to them.” I moved my eyes along the edging of her thighs, trying to follow the “pinch,” though it wasn’t my place to do so. I thought they fit like boyshort underwear fit. However, I didn’t wear them myself, so who was I to know what a good fit felt like? Struggling to respond, I sat forward on the edge of the chair, hoping an assertive approach would land us on a pleasing pile so that she could find comfort in knowing her efforts weren’t wasted, or overlooked. “What exactly are you looking to see?” I met her stare in the mirror.

  She didn’t hesitate. “I want very little side squeezing and they need to separate my thighs. I want to see a gap.”

  “Okay.” I nodded slowly, looking over at her pile of underwear. “Let’s try on some cotton.”

  She hurried to remove her current boyshorts to replace them with a light pink pair I’d quickly picked up before she found our room. They were as stretchy as could be and absent of any additional tight stitching or design that might’ve hindered my customer’s desired thigh gap. Simplicity had to be the answer even though I had no clue what it looked like or, more profoundly, what it even
meant.

  “Those look good,” I said, still nodding my head.

  She moved her body in slow circles, studying every inch of flesh and fabric.

  “More balanced than the other pair?” she asked.

  Balanced? I deliberated quietly before moving my gaze from the space between her thighs all the way down to the lack of space between my thighs. The only gap I saw was the air between my fingers.

  “I just hate how they cut into you and create a thigh bulge!” She, too, deliberated intensely. “I can’t have my thighs rubbing together either!”

  Still straddling the edge of the chair, I examined my own thighs one more time, thickset and squeezed into wrinkled dress pants. Everything about their existence started to feel like gelatin as I began to overanalyze their company. It felt impossible to not scrutinize, considering the feel of insistence and demand shown by my customer.

  “I just don’t know,” she moaned, rotating her body in front of the mirror, her lean muscles tight and uncompromising.

  “Have you ever thought about just wearing a thong? Or a brief? Or, I don’t know ... nothing?” I asked, cutting through the nuances.

  Her facial expression fell flat, leading me to remain silent.

  “I just prefer the boyshorts.”

  “Alright,” I replied, handing her another pair to put on. “Let’s find you one then.”

  For the next ten minutes, we swapped out five more styles of boyshorts. I was at a complete loss in terms of what she was determined to see aside from what she’d already shared. There had to have been more. And though I admittedly grew tired and peeved measuring the space between one’s thighs, I sort of understood her private need. I suppose we all have body parts we’d love to exchange, or parts that require more attention. I wasn’t completely sure. But I continued to sit, talking panty trims and thigh gaps, chalking it up to a nice break from boobs. She was my leader and I relaxed into whatever direction she wanted me to go, until Caroline came knocking.

  “Natalee? You in there?” She stood outside our dressing room. “You have a phone call.”

  I jumped up to open the door, forgetting that I had a fully undressed customer standing in the middle of the floor, right under the glaring lights. I bolted straight for the counter, knowing nothing good ever came out of my department phone calls.

  “Hey, Nat,” Larry said, coughing into the phone.

  “You alright?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.

  “Yeah, I was wondering if you could swing by the pharmacy on your way home from work and grab my nausea meds. They’re open late.”

  I leaned against the counter, still trying to breathe. “You never call me,” I said, realizing he needed help.

  A soft chuckle came through from the other end.

  “That’s because you always call me, Natalee.”

  “I’ll talk to the girls and leave a little early.” I paused, sinking into his loneliness.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Preparing for my 10K.”

  “I’ll see you soon, Dad.”

  A cloud of dizziness came rushing as I looked around the department for one of my closing teammates. I had to get out of there. Though I also wanted to rewind every passing minute and hide back in the room with my customer and her boyshorts—an easier problem.

  When I returned home that evening, I fought to remain level in my reactions, hoping to keep the inarticulate sounds and uncontrolled shedding of tears to a quiet minimum. I couldn’t let Larry see me go to pieces. He still needed stamina and resilience—and high doses of Oxycodone that I had to cut and manage and not ingest. A blubbering mess would’ve only made him more uncomfortable and I had never, ever, seen him need someone the way he needed me.

  “Sorry I got you out of bed, Nat,” he said, expelling questionably colored liquids from his nose as he fought for air. The gurgling rising in his chest, paired with the verdant fluid coming out of the sides of his mouth, had me running back and forth, gathering hand towels and whatever anti-nausea meds I could find among his packed pillbox.

  “Do you feel like you need to go to the hospital?” I asked, getting up to flush his innards down the toilet, marking 3:00 AM on the microwave. He thought about it for a second while I cleaned out his bowl.

  “Not yet,” he whispered softly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” he wheezed.

  I stood in a panic.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” I said, looking right at him. “You’re dying.”

  “This isn’t it, Natalee.”

  “You’re not dying?”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Not at the moment.”

  Goddamnit, he’s dying.

  “You want bagpipes, Paul Simon, what?” I asked straight-faced as I began to pace the living room. “I can play Graceland ... or Streisand.”

  His laugh fell into another labored wheeze.

  “ABBA’s ‘SOS’? Earth, Wind & Fire?”

  “Natalee.”

  I examined his hands covered with residual purple markings from all of the trial drugs that never worked. They only prolonged the inevitable while creating insufferable agony. His last CT scan lit up like a Christmas tree and a menorah combined from his shoulders to his shins, making the likelihood of dissolving even a fraction of his malignancy pretty much impossible. He was dying, quickly and inconsolably dying.

  As he rested against the arm of the couch, I noticed his fingers had become more skeletal, causing his wedding band to slide down to his knuckles. I instantly thought about my mom’s final days before we green-lighted the morphine. She sat on the same couch, crushed and conquered, assuring me she needed to go to the hospital. I ran around the house quickly packing a bag before calling Larry at work to inform him that we were leaving because she thought her brain was going to explode. A strange silence filtered through the house as I stood waiting for her at the front door, realizing a few seconds later, that she was missing in action. I dropped her bag and bolted into the living room and then into the garage, thinking that maybe I had moved the car in, and she was already sitting in the passenger seat. Trembling and horrified as to what I thought I was about to walk into, I ran upstairs, yelling her name over and over. And then I found her, sitting in front of her bathroom mirror, putting on lipstick.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said bent over, holding my knees. She stared at herself for a few moments, quietly connecting all of the dots, and then looked up at me while I continued to pant.

  “I ain’t dead yet.”

  Pacing the kitchen, I listened as Larry coughed up more fluid. A slew of scenarios raced through my mind, all of which included the reverberation of a flatline. I could see his arms tightly wrapped around the bowl right before he motioned for me to join him on the couch.

  “Would you mind massaging my shoulder, Nat?” he asked. I gulped from the vulnerability in his voice, hearing the faint clinking of tin handles while a forbidding malady chipped away at his bones. The man that I had come to know as an individual, and not just my father, had reached his breaking point. His mustache kisses and Wet Willies and Donald Duck impersonations suddenly reappeared and crystalized into everything I ever knew about true, devoted love. I longed for our Saturday morning Egg McMuffins. Just he and I sitting in the corner of a McDonalds, squirmy from the hard plastic seats, and giggling uncontrollably after he’d pretend to steal my nose from right off my face and wiggle it between his fingers, assuring me he’d stitch it back on. He gave me everything he had, and goddamn, did I love him for it.

  As I lowered myself next to him on the couch, I could still hear a subtle wheeze traveling up his chest. The shine from the back-porch light cast its glare into the living room while we moved inside of the darkness, restless and fearful of the defeat rising within.

  “Thank you,” he said, holding onto my forearm as I helped guide his body into a pile of pillows. He stared at me lovingly, moving his eyes alo
ng my face before he tapped on the top of my hand. “You’re going to do great things.”

  beautiful wreckage

  Gazing out onto a blanket of leaves, I welcomed fall’s arrival while I packed the last of my belongings. There was something about its changeover that felt consoling and serene, allowing me to sit for hours and feel a semblance of life after Larry passed. The foliage was all the light I needed as I ate off a TV tray and circled through the same three T-shirts and two pairs of sweats day in and day out. I had become a zombie, living in an empty house and following a well-ordered routine of waking before renting out all of Blockbuster Video. I hadn’t worked in months, living off a prayer after walking away from the lingerie department, never to look back.

  Sometimes I wondered if my nagging presence and lack of structure concerned the employees. I spent six months with them, ordering obscure foreign titles and buying discounted Milk Duds from their display table. We were on an every-other-day status without fail, and I’m certain their collective curiosity about my daily activities slowly evolved into straight-up feeling sorry for me. Their long, awkward stares hit every aisle as I read handfuls of emerging plots. I wasn’t exactly dazzling with a come-hither look either: messy side bun, thick bags under my eyes, oversized sweats I found in an old dresser, and dark sunglasses that blocked out all the glowing rays of sunshine that built rainbows around me. I was bitter—and beautiful.

  “What exactly do you do, anyway?” the store manager, Paul, finally asked one day, looking down at my sea-blue sock stitched with turtles, and then over to a red sock sparkling with silver poinsettias.

  “I watch movies, Paul,” I replied, eyeing their new shipment of buttered popcorn as I held onto a pack of cigarettes and a magnum of wine from the corner mart next door.

  “Yes, right.” He smiled, allowing me to change the subject to his stamp collection, followed by his girlfriend’s pestering need for an engagement ring. I lost my sense of self somewhere between the estate sale and the blinding realization that I no longer had parents. The isolation became irrationally dependable—until I came home to a SOLD sign hanging in red—and new renters in my LA apartment. Everything changed, just like Larry said it would.