Magnetism

  ‘What a lucky young lady you are, honey. Your folks sure do love you, don’t they?’ When he turns all that glow on to me, the attention hits me physically. I am beginning to blush as I nod. I mumble, ‘I know,’ looking down and trying not to open my mouth much.

  Mom explains my unintelligible speech. ‘She’s a bit shy.’ Then she turns and says to me, like she’s talking to a three-year old, ‘Dr Turner is going to have to study your face. Go ahead and let him.’

  My blush deepens. I feel the heat at my neck and I remember how Dad always says I should demonstrate curiosity, that people like answering questions about themselves and this is a good way of getting over my personality. My heart pounds as I thrust my hand and point to the top of his bookcase and blurt out, quite clearly. ‘What’s that, I wonder?’

  He gets up and comes around the desk and takes my glasses off. Everything blurs and his face suddenly swarms in front of me. He holds my head firmly in his hands, tilting it upwards and smoothing both of my cheekbones simultaneously with his thumbs. ‘It’s an armadillo,’ he says, breathing the words on me. ‘It’s dead.’

  His nose is not so elegant this close. There’s a stray black hair drooping from his right nostril. Though it’s coming straight at me, I try not to inhale his warm exhalation. If I have to be careful with the cat sleeping in my bed because her breath is dangerous, presumably I should demonstrate caution in this kind of situation too. ‘Well,’ he says, now sliding one forefinger down the length of my nose. ‘Um. Uh huh,’ he says to himself. Then he pulls his hands away and tips my head again, straight this time. I don’t know what he’s looking at now, but my view is his crotch, where his white coat has flapped open. I shut my eyes. There’s a clock ticking and Mom is doing her deep yoga breathing beside me. I can smell her new perfume from here.

  Then he releases me and returns to behind his desk. ‘I’ll do it,’ he says to Mom. ‘But you have to understand some facts. A good nose can be made beautiful, but a bad nose will never be perfect. You can’t create a really great nose from something that’s not at least good.’

  Mom asks eagerly, ‘It’ll be better?’

  ‘She’ll have a real cute nose.’

  I put my glasses back on and look at the two of them. Mom is bewitched by all that hope. There can be no other reason for her vacant expression as he dismisses us to make the arrangements with his secretary outside. ‘Been a pleasure,’ he says, winking at me and offering her his handshake.

  ‘Why do you think he’s got that dead armadillo?’ I ask when we are getting into the elevator. I picture it. It wasn’t posed; it was just standing there, in a glass case, like an aquarium.

  ‘People like critters,’ she says pressing B for the basement car park. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I think an armadillo is a strange thing to stuff and keep on display like that.’

  ‘No, about fixing your nose, honey?’

  ‘I don’t care what happens to my ugly nose.’

  ‘He said it was a bad nose, not that it was ugly.’

  At home later I get the Encyclopaedia Britannica volume ‘A’ from the Encyclopaedia Britannica bookcase in Dad’s study and take it up to my room.

  When I open the door my new bright furniture is still a surprise. Mom said that my old desk needed to be replaced and she ordered the huge vanity unit opposite. ‘It’s better for a girl’s room,’ she said. ‘When you’re a little older you’ll want to do your make-up and make sure you look nice.’ But all it means to me now is that I can view my ugly nose in the triple-aspect mirror instead of scoring ink daydream squiggles into dark wood. My sturdy old bed has been replaced with French Provincial style – white and spindly. There are two delicate chests of drawers to match and I’ve got a new white rug over the rose-coloured carpet.

  Miss Tibbs has followed me up. I sit on the bed with her on my lap purring softly. ‘He had a stuffed armadillo,’ I whisper to the cat. ‘What kind of a person keeps something like that?’

  Miss Tibbs is very sympathetic and doesn’t know either.

  In the encyclopaedia I learn that armadillos are native to this landscape, that they are poor-sighted and use their strong forearms and claws to burrow. Despite their hard exterior armour, they have soft, vulnerable underbellies. I like the word ‘underbelly’ and have just flipped the accommodating Miss Tibbs over to expose hers when Mom shouts from downstairs that dinner is served.

  I didn’t hear Dad come home but he’s there at the dining room table, pouring himself a glass of red wine. He downs his drink in two deep gulps as Mom plonks the casserole on the table and announces that tonight it is broccoli chicken.

  Though it’s highly unappetising to look at, I remind myself that, if you ignore the gloppy white sauce, it’s probably nutritious. Chicken is good protein, after all. The broccoli is because Mom has been in love with broccoli since Mrs Glodsky’s Welcome Wagon Fourth of July picnic. It’s very healthy for us. We’ve had it in salads and hot pots, disguised and plain, steamed and boiled and even raw. I think the A&P has an ongoing special. Dad thinks Mom just has an obsession; he says that she gets like this now and then and not to be worried about it. She works it out of her system.

  The one-dish meals are another of her recent crazes. Mom says they’re efficient. I know Dad hates them. You can’t separate and prioritise your food for eating; it’s just all there in one mass. She’s got a whole fat cookbook of one-dish meals. She’s wading her way through the pages, dragging us along.

  Today Dad doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s eating, let alone what he’s eating. He rhythmically puts forkfuls of the stuff into his mouth, chews and swallows while he hoists up another lot. ‘Have a good day?’ he asks with his mouth full.

  Mom recounts how we’ve been to see about my nose while I push my food around, wondering if I could slide some back off my plate without either of them noticing. One of the benefits of one-dish meals.: it’s impossible to see what you’re leaving behind. Mom says the nose operation is all fixed up for the first week in August.

  ‘He’s cutting off my ugly nose and sticking a fake one on.’

  Mom glares at me.

  Dad says, ‘Does she really need a nose job? How much is it going to cost?’

  Mom puts down her fork loudly and picks up the serving spoon. ‘We’ve talked about this.’ She jabs the spoon in Dad’s direction. ‘Her nose comes from your side of the family. Your mother had a nose like that.’

  ‘I know, but an operation? She’s only twelve.’

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ I say.

  ‘She’ll be fourteen and in junior high soon,’ Mom says.

  He pours another glass of wine and looks at my nose appraisingly. I remove my glasses so that he can see it better and so that I can’t see anything.

  ‘She didn’t need braces. We don’t want her disadvantaged,’ Mom says.

  ‘So how much?’

  ‘You can’t put a price on everything.’

  ‘A plastic surgeon can. I’m not made of money.’

  ‘I read that it’s a growth industry,’ I offer, but neither of them is pleased at this contribution. They both scowl at me. ‘If you two are going to argue about my nose, go right ahead, but I’ve got better things to do,’ I say, not that this is true.

  As I leave the room Mom tells Dad that we should all be pleased Dr Turner was even willing to take on the job.

  She stops by my room later on, when I’m in bed. She sits down on the covers and fusses my hair. ‘What do you want?’ she asks.

  ‘A pretty nose,’ I say.

  ‘Your father doesn’t understand that being a woman takes effort.’

  ‘He works hard.’

  ‘With women, a lot of it is presentation.’

  ‘Like advertising?’

  ‘Sort of. Maybe. Not really,’ she says in quick succession. ‘It’s a very quick operation.’

  ‘I don’t like my ugly nose.’

  ‘You are not ugly.’

  ‘My nose is ugly,’ I say q
uietly. ‘Why do you think he had that armadillo?’

  ‘Maybe it’s a college mascot or something. Or belonged to his family. Who knows?’

  ‘Do you think it died a long time ago? Maybe it was road kill?’

  ‘Road kill isn’t something you ever need to think about. I promise.’

  ‘He had very positive teeth.’

  She nods thoughtfully.

  ‘You don’t have to have the operation,’ she says.

  ‘I really want to,’ I decide.

  My bedroom is above the garage and at some point in the night I think that the big door whirrs open and shut but I can’t be sure because I don’t know all the noises here. Miss Tibbs wakes too. She stretches and kneads the blanket then rolls on to her back.

  My furniture glows in the moonlight. Once school starts I’ll see Kirsty and Misty and I will make new friends too. I will study and work hard, get straight A’s and also be beautiful and popular. This is what I think about as I fall back to sleep.

  This hospital is designed for little kids. Everywhere there are posters and Disney pictures. Dad points out as a joke that, given his main facial feature, Woody Woodpecker’s portrait on the mural which takes up an entire wall in my hospital room is very appropriate.

  After a while Mom tells Dad he can leave because it doesn’t take both of them to do this, and she settles down with an old copy of Reader’s Digest while I take a shower with this stinky pink stuff the nurse gives me. Then we just wait.

  Eventually Dr Turner comes in, wearing green scrubs. Grey hairs from his chest are fluffing over the V neckline.

  I’m very conscious that I have no underwear on. Mom couldn’t tell me why I had to take off my underwear when it’s an operation for my head. ‘But I promise no one will notice,’ she said.

  ‘I still feel naked.’

  ‘Ready, honey?’ Dr Turner asks me now.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Great. It’s a date, then. See you down there.’ He winks at me and squeezes Mom’s shoulder.

  The nurse arrives then and she tapes up my hair and tells me to leave my glasses with my mom, that I won’t need them now. I ask her, please, can I take them? I can’t see anything at all without them. Suddenly this is the scariest thing about the whole operation: that I’ll lose all my bearings and won’t even know where I am when they put me to sleep.

  Mom tells the nurse that she needs to speak with her outside. She returns alone. Mom says that she will come with me right to the operating theatre and take the glasses at the last moment and that she’ll wait right there for me until I come out. They’ll make an exception. She’s cleared this with everyone who needs to know.

  I wave goodbye to Woody Woodpecker and say, ‘See you later,’ to the picture. Mom holds my hand as the orderly pushes the bed out of the room and down the corridor. She never moves from my side. Even though it’s a very tight squeeze, she holds on when we are in the staff only elevator. Finally she kisses my hand, then my cheek and lastly my ugly nose, right before she takes the glasses from my face. ‘You’ll see. It’ll be perfect,’ she whispers. ‘I love you.’

  When it is unwrapped eventually, my new nose looks pretty darn good, but once the swelling settles it turns out the new delicate bridge is quite narrow and this is a problem. My glasses sit on my face and slide down continually. I hate this, and Mom sets about persuading Dad that I should get contact lenses. He doesn’t think it’s necessary.

  She is undeterred and tackles it methodically: she mentions that my glasses are causing acne irritation one day, then tells him a couple of days later that the Clearasil isn’t working. The next week she says that the problem is increasing, I might need to see a dermatologist, and then that she’s anxious that my recurrent zits are going to scar me for life, and finally, a week before school starts, she tells him that if he loved us he’d understand the problem and fork out the two hundred bucks and be done with it. She thinks I’m out of earshot but I happen to be at the door when she says, ‘We can’t neglect her. My daughter’s future depends on simple decisions like this.’

  Dad can see me, but he’s looking at Mom when he answers. ‘Get the goddamn contacts. I don’t give a good goddamn about any of this cosmetic crap. I’ve been taking care of the two of you since before the day she was born. Don’t accuse me now of neglecting her future. You should know that, however things began, she means everything to me and I will always want the best for her.’

  Before Mom can reply, I quickly step back and creep a retreat to my room.

  Miss Tibbs is waiting upstairs. In this room there’s another something new: there’s a lock on the door, and a key. I turn it for the first time ever before I climb into bed. I don’t want Mom to come up and boast that because of her efforts I’m getting the contact lenses that I want, because she’ll present it as if she’s won the battle on my behalf. I will have to be grateful.

  The sheets are fresh and cold. I like my nose and I know that I do want the contacts and am pleased that now I will have them, but right now I just want to be on my own without interruption, or interference.

  Miss Tibbs curls up beside me and her fur is silky soft.

  Maybe Mom does come and try the door, but I don’t wake. I don’t hear a thing at all.

  1971

  The Foetal Pig

  Mom is out somewhere and Carmela and I are in the back yard under the shade of the trees. This corner is dark, and the grass doesn’t grow here. There are pine needles and long-dead, last-year-dead leaves stuck together in clumpy piles. She is talking about her brothers and how much they stink.

  I sense the beginning of a headache like a watermark inside my head and I half wish my friend would go home so that I can lie down in the dark. I don’t want to have to listen to her any more and imagine the stench of her smelly brothers, but she is my best friend so I can’t tell her to shut up. Instead I say I’m thirsty.

  While she waits outside I get two cans of soda from the kitchen. The screen door is light and flaps back too quickly. It ricochets and surprises me with a light tap on my back. It’s cool and quiet inside and the soda is ice-cold. I hold a can to my forehead before I walk back outside into the sun. My eyes have to adjust – everything is whited out, except for the violet blotch, a paisley shape, that is growing in my right eye.

  Carmela has moved to sitting in the sun and she’s found a broken knife. ‘Look at this,’ she shouts, waving it about. Part of the blade, she says, snapped off when she pulled it up out of the ground. ‘It could be a murder weapon.’

  This knife does not look familiar. It must have come from next door.

  ‘It’s a dinner knife,’ I say. ‘That’ll be Greg.’

  Greg is always throwing things into our yard. Boys like to project themselves, Mom says. They walk around poking at things, the ground, whacking the leaves. It’s part of being a male animal. Greg’s back yard has trees scraped and stabbed to bits.

  ‘Who’s Greg?’ she says. Even with her four stinky brothers Carmela is boy-crazy. I don’t know if boys will ever like her, or me, but she stares at them in the schoolyard, nudges me on the school bus, and practically pants if any of the boys behind the counter at McDonald’s even looks at her.

  I don’t want to be like Carmela. When I told Mom that this obsession of Carmela’s was getting on my nerves – that they don’t notice us, so why should we notice them? – she said it was just a phase. ‘She’ll learn they’re nothing to run after. Some things are best not watered,’ she said and that boys really hate the girls that chase them. ‘They only want one thing and it’s not getting married.’ I didn’t ask her anything else. I didn’t want another talk about S-E-X. But I can see that boys have their uses. How else would a person get married and have children, without boys?

  ‘Nobody,’ I say now. ‘Greg is nobody to worry about. I think he’s a girl.’

  We both roll over on the grass. The sprigs are springy underneath my hand. It was only cut last week. I imagine the worms resting underneath in the soil.
It’s too hot for them to come out and wriggle their raw pink segments around. We’ll dissect an earthworm again this year in Science. It gets all pinned open so we can see all of the alimentary canal. Then we’ll do a foetal pig. They abort the pigs for science classes just so we can look inside and see how things work. I don’t know how big it will be, but you can’t pin a pig open, surely? We’ll have to take it apart. The pig’s inside will be the colour of the blossom inside my eye. Fresh blood, pink in places.

  ‘Tomorrow they’re launching Apollo 15,’ Carmela says. ‘Imagine that. All that way away. Living for three days on the moon out there in space.’

  ‘They’ve been up there loads of times already.’

  Half of Carmela’s face is fading in and out as I look at her. I try to figure out which half stays, but it’s too difficult. I take off my glasses and shut my eyes. The colours behind my eyelids now are a beautiful kaleidoscope.

  She takes a swig from her can. A dribble of foam slides down her chin and she wipes it away with her forearm.

  We’re silent for a while. It’s a good time to get her to go home. She always wants to be here at my house because she says that it’s too crowded at hers and that there’s more to do here because I am an only child, but I don’t see that that’s true. Anyway, it’s too hot to lie around outside any more and I don’t want to do anything inside. If we went indoors all we would do is watch TV and that would hurt my head even more. Quietly I say, ‘Hey, do you want to go home? My mom will be home soon. She’ll want me to help out with doing something and my eyes are all funny.’

  ‘Your mother’s a cranky old bitch,’ she says. ‘It’s summer vacation.’

  I open my eyes to a squint. The half of her mouth that I can see grins at me and she says, ‘Just joking.’

  Now Carmela says to put the sprinklers on. I don’t want the trouble of it, but I still can’t figure out a polite way of saying that I really want her to go home and leave me alone – so I get up to do it. I have to put my glasses on. Things are still swimming around and disappearing in front of my eyes.