Assimilation

by James Stryker

Shelly wasn’t bad. She’d been Natalie’s best friend since middle school, and Andrew remembered how they’d had slumber parties and written boys’ names in bubble-printed script on notebook covers. They’d been an inseparable pair – crying at weddings, cooing over babies, comforting each other in the hardship of jobs, loss of parents, and a million other crises. Shelly reminded him of Natalie, and Natalie wouldn’t have been bad either if he hadn’t been expected to perform as her.

  “See, I told him. Or rather, I told Clark to tell him, ‘Natty’s not going to want some big party. When you had your back surgery last spring, would you have wanted me to invite a hundred people over to poke at you, Clark? Would you?’” Shelly took a sip from her water glass before continuing. “She can come over for the afternoon, nothing fancy. But they never listen.”

  I listen. Or I think I do. I listen, I watch, I try to learn. But none of it does any good.

  The day following the hairspray incident Robert had been reluctant to go to work, but their financial situation had forced the issue. He’d taken Andrew’s temperature, made his skin shiver by kissing his cheek, and then was out the door.

  It was a godsend that Andrew’s routine allowed him some moments of being alone. Besides Robert’s hovering, when Simon was around, the child was insufferably clingy and wanted only to be with him at all times. And just “being warm” had ceased to be acceptable.

  Only that morning, Simon had made the increasingly common demand:

  “Talk.”

  “About what?” Andrew had been standing in front of the kitchen counter again, drifting through an art magazine and Simon was on the floor near his feet.

  “I don’t care. Just say stuff.”

  “Can’t we be quiet for a while?”

  “No. I want to hear your voice.” Simon yanked his pant leg. “Say stuff.”

  Andrew had sighed. He closed the cover and turned on the kitchen sink. “I am turning on the kitchen sink. I’ve turned on the hot water, not the cold water. It takes the water a few seconds to become hot. I pick up the dish washing liquid. It’s an orange color but doesn’t smell like oranges. I …”

  This is my life. Narrating my actions like I’m basting a fucking turkey on television.

  But weekdays he received a reprieve when Simon went to school and Robert was at work. It was then that he spent his solitary time on three activities – he paced, looked out the bay window, and cleaned the apartment (ensuring that all outlet covers were properly dusted now). His tasks were usually uneventful; however, a few days ago he’d stumbled across a stash of discs hidden in the closet.

  Expecting to have uncovered Robert’s year-and-a-half substitute for Natalie, he’d been interested to find the real her. Two dozen discs worth. A boxed set. Some special things like Christmases and birthdays, but also mundane snippets – planting a tulip bed, frosting a cake, washing the dog.

  The Natalie Files.

  And perhaps, where the “welcome home” party idea had failed, these instructional videos would be the key. Andrew would learn to be Natalie by listening and watching her firsthand. They were a boring legion of cherished memories, but after three days of review, he’d made it through them a handful of times.

  The results of his efforts were still dismal. When Natalie sat in a chair, she was right at the edge, primed to take off. She kept her shoulders rolled back and her posture straight. In approximately eighty-five percent of the sitting shots, her ankles were crossed and her hands rested in her lap.

  Yet here you are. Fucking up repeatedly. You can’t clean right. You can’t do makeup or hair. You can’t take care of the kid. Even something as simple as sitting in a chair you fail at. You held that pose for a good five minutes.

  At Shelly’s kitchen table, Andrew was slouching in his seat with his legs stretched out and his arms hanging at his sides. Had Shelly noticed? She was looking at him strangely.

  He corrected his position to full-Natalie. For good measure, he threw in another classic Natalie move – the stir-her-icewater-clockwise-twice-then-tap-her-spoon-on-the-rim. For no good reason.

  Stir. Stir. Tap.

  And a lap full of water.

  “Here, let me get you a towel.” Shelly pushed back her chair, and Andrew watched her waddle out of the room.

  When she was gone, he folded his arms on the table and stared into the spilled water. He thought about crying. There was no makeup to run today. He’d piled that garbage onto Natalie’s vanity in the bedroom.

  Never again. Never.

  “Oh, dear. Natty, it’s okay.” Shelly had returned and thrust a towel at him. “It’s just water, and you’re not wearing one of your good dresses.”

  Those he’d given up too. He’d found an oversized sweatshirt and loose jeans shoved in the dresser drawer. But unlike the Natalie videos, he’d searched for these clothes.

  The Natalie Files. Season four, disc eleven, episode two – the scene opens on Natalie painting a wall. Nothing art-like. Just a plain, boring wall. She has her back to the camera, running a painter’s pole along a sheet of drywall.

  Cameraman sneaks closer. The foam roller swishes. Low humming. She can’t hear him because of the earbuds. He reaches out a hand and grabs her shoulder. She screams.

  “Rob! You jerk! Get over—”

  In his first session of watching The Natalie Files, Andrew had stopped the frame as Natalie laughed and swung the paint roller toward the cameraman. He skipped back to the opening and watched it again.

  “Rob! You—”

  Reverse. Watch again.

  “Rob—”

  Reverse. Watch again. And again. And again. Andrew knew it was her, but somehow it felt better to look at her this way. Easier. He wasn’t sure why at first, but this section didn’t fill him with shame. It didn’t make his insides crinkle like the rest of The Natalie Files. And while he didn’t feel good about it, he felt okay.

  Until you turn your face.

  As he played the sequence for the umpteenth time, Andrew pressed his palm on the screen to cover Natalie’s head.

  And there was only a person with a painter’s pole. Not Natalie. Not a woman. For the first time, maybe, possibly he saw a glimmer of himself.

  I need to find that sweatshirt and those pants.

  Andrew knew they had to be there. Robert seemed to have kept everything Natalie had breathed on. Somewhere in the apartment, there was probably a bag of tissues she’d used to blow her nose.

  When he’d found his prize, it’d been wonderful. He hadn’t dared to look in a mirror, but he’d thrown on the outfit and thought about the video. How these amazing clothes masked the ugliness of Natalie’s body. She’d been proud of those wads of fat on her chest and around her hips, but these attributes had been hidden by the divine baggy sweatshirt and jeans. He felt better. Not completely home, but maybe on the porch outside.

  I’ll never take them off.

  Remembering this elevated his stomach from where it’d sunk. Andrew sat up in the chair – proper Natalie position – and looked at Shelly.

  “Remember that time you spilled grape juice on your silver blouse at my Christmas party?” Shelly chuckled.

  Natalie had mourned that garment like she’d lost a piece of her soul.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m surprised at the new outfit.” She gestured toward him. “Does Rob know you left the house that way?”

  “Yeah.”

  He hadn’t been pleased, but he had to know – Andrew was still tagged with the ankle monitor. But although there’d been that twitch under Robert’s eye, he hadn’t verbally complained. He’d suggested something else, but on meeting resistance, dropped the matter.

  Maybe because I managed to do the stir-her-icewater-clockwise-twice-then-tap-her-spoon-on-the-rim perfectly this morning.

  “Hmm.” Shelly narrowed her eyes, the corners of her mouth tipping up. “So you’re wearing it to be comfortable, are you?”

  “Yeah.” It wasn’t perfect, but God, it felt more like him than Na
talie’s other clothes.

  “So is there something you’re not telling me?”

  He’d been paying attention to her before, but now his focus magnified.

  She knew. Shelly knew something was wrong.

  But, of course, you’d see it! Andrew felt a sparkling exhilaration. You were her best friend. You knew her longer than Robert, and you were closer to her than he or Simon ever was. You saw right through this game, through this false skin! You see the real me, not—

  “Wipe that smile off your face. You’re an animal, you know that? An animal. How long have you been awake? A month?” Shelly was on her feet squealing. “I’m so happy for you and I’m so excited I can barely stand it! Do you know when you’re due yet?”

  He couldn’t see it, but he felt the color drain from his face.

  “I realize I broke our pact by this one being another boy, but this couldn’t be more perfect!” She put a hand to both his shoulders and pressed her forehead to his. “Concentrate, Natty. Focus. Girl. Girl. Gir—”

  “No!”

  In pushing away from her, Andrew fell out of the chair. He scrambled to his feet and took several steps back.

  The thought of sex as a woman nauseated him, and the knowledge of what it could lead to made him ill. He sensed the sickness coming on now, as cold shivers ran through the body and his breaths came rapidly.

  When Robert had mentioned having another child in the Center, it seemed like Andrew had a mini-seizure. His mind frazzled and blanked out. When he returned, his stomach threatened to jump ship. He’d managed to release enough revulsion with a shudder to keep from exploding, but he’d detoxed for days, the poison of the idea leaking from his pores.

  Is that what this is? I’m having a seizure. I’m having a stroke. I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m—

  “Natalie, calm down.” Shelly approached him, but he couldn’t move. She hugged him, and smoothed his messy hair. “I’m sorry. It’s too soon after Michael. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive.”

  A reply didn’t come to mind. There were no thoughts as she removed an arm and pushed him toward the table. Shelly righted the chair with her free hand.

  “Sit, Natty. Talk to me.” She eased into her own chair, and Andrew felt her watching him.

  What’s wrong with you? Andrew wanted to scream. There are countless examples. The Natalie Files. Season four, disc three, episode twelve. Season six, disc one, episode seven. Season two, disc five—

  Natalie loved her children. Hours of film proved she’d wanted to be a mother. God, how many episodes was she pregnant? And like one of those fake sitcom women, she wasn’t miserable. Robert liked the plan of Natalie being a stay-at-home mom. Natalie loved the idea.

  And I can’t even talk to Simon. I don’t know what to say to him. He deserves to be loved by a mother but … I can’t even take care of myself, let alone someone else. I don’t know how and I don’t want to know.

  “Do you want me to call Rob for you?” Shelly touched his hand.

  “No.”

  It wasn’t Robert. It wasn’t any man. Consensual or not had no impact. It was all a violation. Of the physical body, but also of something more vital.

  I am not this body. I’m a prisoner inside it. No amount of studying those videos can bring us together.

  The tense white space of Beta nu. Diagonal asymmetrical lines framing an empty canvas. He’d found the painting in one of Natalie’s books and it’d struck him more emotionally than June Celebration. Of course he hadn’t been stupid enough to try showing it to Robert.

  This is me. I am blank. Andrew had bent the book’s spine and held the page to his chest. Pinned into place. I’m trapped.

  But the imprisonment could be worse.

  The real me, forced into that position …

  Makeup and clothes were one thing. The Natalie way of sitting, walking, holding a fork. They were external actions he could perform – like washing dirty dishes behind rubber gloves. But sex and conceiving a child reached the person locked within Natalie’s skin. It’d be a desecration of his soul.

  “It’s not the same as with Michael, but do you remember when I had the miscarriage before Carter?” Shelly’s voice went up an octave, but Andrew couldn’t look at her. “I wouldn’t let Clark touch me for weeks. I mean, if it resulted in death, what was the point?”

  I would die. I can barely tolerate Robert’s touch now. He’d stopped trying to increase his tolerance by elongating the counting sessions. Fifteen seconds was all Robert got, and even that was a stretch sometimes.

  “You had to tell me, probably a thousand times, that it wasn’t my fault before I finally believed you. So, honey, here’s number one with nine hundred and ninety-nine more to go: Michael’s death was not your fault.”

  It’s not my fault. I can’t help what happened. That Natalie died and CryoLife gave her brain damage. I can’t help that I exist instead of her and that I can’t do the things she used to do. It’s not my fault I can’t be her. The surface, the foundation is different. And I can do some things, like dust electrical outlet covers, but the deeper parts of Natalie – how she loved Simon and wanted to be a mother, I can’t mimic or make those qualities my own and—

  “It’s not my fault,” Andrew whispered.

  “That’s right, it’s not.”

  All I can do is manage what I have. I have this feeling I can’t ignore. I may be trapped, but maybe I’m not empty. Something fills me. It’s my strongest, deepest sense – I am not a woman.

  Andrew smiled at Shelly. And though the alarm in his head went off, warning him that he was slouching, he ignored it. Full-Natalie chair position was so fucking uncomfortable.

  Chapter 9

  Andrew’s daily activities dropped by one when, a couple mornings later, the urge to pace the apartment vanished. He walked to the couch, but didn’t feel compelled to circle it twenty-five times before Robert got out of the shower. Instead, he wanted to sleep.

  He woke when he felt Robert’s hand on his forehead. But unlike previous times where Robert’s touch made him jump, he could barely keep his eyes open.

  1 Mississippi. 2 Mississi …

  Robert shook him awake. “Are you sick, Nat?”

  “No, I’m tired.”

  “Simon, get the thermometer.”

  Andrew’s eyelids parted a crack to see Simon standing next to Robert beside the couch. Upon catching his stare, Simon’s upper lip trembled and tears flowed from his eyes.

  “Mom’s going to die! She’s going to diiieee!” He pulled his hair with his fists. “Mooommm!”

  Two weeks of suffocation by Simon – his near-constant presence, conscripted food show host narration, and the endless demands for attention – were beginning to overshadow the pity Andrew felt for him. Yes, he was clearly traumatized, but Andrew was tired of chronicling everything with a 50-pound weight clutching his leg and Simon screaming if he paused for breath. And the behaviors only seemed to be getting worse, as only the day before, Simon had insisted on following Andrew into the bathroom.

  “Stay out here.”

  “No, I want to be with you.”

  Simon had pressed against the reattached bathroom door, trying to prevent it from closing.

  “I’ll be in here for three minutes.”

  “That’s too long. Let me come.”

  “No.” But he hesitated. As the circumstance wasn’t Andrew’s fault, it also wasn’t Simon’s. Maybe he could compromise. “I’ll talk to you the entire time.”

  “That’s not good enough. I need to see you too.” The boy tried to bump the door open.

  “No. Stay here.” Andrew pushed back, the resistance despite his concession beginning to anger him. Not just with Simon, but also with Robert, who’d been of no support regarding Simon’s actions.

  Isn’t the right to a solitary piss written somewhere? Or does that get looped in with the fucking conservatorship too? Do I need to ask permission to take a piss? Make sure that’s okay with everyone and that my time isn’t
better spent wiping down lightbulbs?

  Simon curled his fingers around the door and continued to push in. “Please don’t lock me out, Mom.”

  He couldn’t decide which name was worse. “Natalie” or “Mom.” Probably the latter. While it wasn’t spirit-defiling sex, it scraped the same area with a garden rake. Not enough to slam a small boy’s fingers in a door, but it made the action tempting.

  “I said no!”

  “Please, Mom. Plllleeeease don’t leave me!” Simon wailed.

  Andrew eased off the door, pulling it back slightly. Immediately the child’s mouth closed. And his fingers retracted.

  Andrew slammed the door in his face and turned the lock. Outside in the hall, an eruption of epic proportions broke loose.

  He had paced a small circle while Simon shrieked and inflicted every manner of violence to the other side of the bathroom door. At some point, Andrew had fallen asleep to the sound of the boy’s weeping.

  “Natalie!”

  He woke to hear Robert again pulling the pins from the bathroom door hinges. Before he’d gotten to his feet to unlock it, the door was off. Like a suction tube, Simon immediately latched onto him.

  “Mooommm! Mooommm!”

  Andrew tried to pry him off, but he slunk to the floor and went limp, clutching his ankles as he bawled.

  “What’s the matter with you, Natalie?” Robert demanded.

  “I just wanted to go to the bathroom by—”

  “Look at the door! Look at him!”

  There were large gouges in the bathroom door. Various pans were scattered in the hall and a broken flower pot lay at Robert’s feet. The door panel was also stained with red streaks, and when Andrew glanced at the human ball and chain, he realized the child had tried clawing the door open with his fingernails.

  Yes, there needs to be boundaries but I should’ve talked to him. I could’ve done that and maybe he wouldn’t have completely flipped out.

  “Robert, all I wanted was three minutes to myself in—”

  “Then you come back in three minutes! You don’t leave him out here to try and tear the door down for three hours! What if someone had called the police?”