by Cathy Lamb
“I know you have a problem with my being honest, Stevie, but you have to hear it sometimes. Better from me, someone who cares about you, than from someone else.”
“Eileen—”
“Eileen what?” she mocked, her face flushing. “Eileen, I’m too good for this section now? I want something that remakes me into a teenager? Come on, Stevie, it’s time someone told you that you’re trying to dress too young. Remember Mrs. Tomissan in school? Heather’s mom?”
I remembered.
“Slutty. She was slutty. She was trying to be young again. I think she was trying for sexy, but it didn’t work. So don’t be a Mrs. Tomissan.”
I felt hot and stupid. “I’m not trying to be her—”
“Good. What about this shirt?”
She pulled out a patterned, long-sleeved blouse. It looked like a puzzle squished together by ghouls. “I don’t think—”
“It’ll be flattering on you. Add some color to your face. You know, you can’t wear blah all the time.”
She piled a few more shirts on my arms. I hated all of them but said nothing because I am spineless. “This one will slim down those shoulders of yours, get rid of that football player look.” She smiled at me, then went back to her shopping.
Eileen Yorkson is wealthy. Her father owns an investment company and she works as the “manager.” She’s paid more than $250,000 a year. I hear about that often. She is “invaluable” to the company, she tells me. She has an expensive home in the hills of Portland, shops obsessively, and dumps tons of money, which she uses as an excuse to treat the salesgirls as one would treat contagious cholera.
I sighed again. This time, the sigh was for me and my patheticness.
“Can I help you, ladies?” a saleswoman asked. She was in her fifties, stylishly dressed with a gentle, kind face.
“Yes, thank you.” I smiled back, tentative, insecure. Shopping scared me to death. I had no clue what to buy or even the remotest hint of what would be right on me. I had been buying used clothes for almost two years, after buying only tent-sized clothing, changing them out as the weight dropped off.
“Let me see what you have there,” the saleswoman said. She examined the shirts that Eileen had pulled off the rack in my arms and held them up.
“This will be perfect with your coloring,” she told Eileen, smiling, friendly.
“They’re not for me,” Eileen snapped.
“Oh, I’m sorry, a gift then?”
“No, not a gift.” Eileen’s voice dripped derision. “These clothes are for her.”
The saleswoman held up the shirts again, huge, billowy. “Oh, no.” She laughed. “Not for her. These are way too big. Honey, this isn’t your section. You’re in the wrong one. Let me help you.”
“We’re in the right one,” Eileen huffed.
“Not at all. She’s way too thin for this section. Are you a size 10, dear?”
I smiled back at her smile. A size 10! I had dreamed of being a 10! “I’m not sure.”
“I’m Phyllis. Come with me.” She turned and I followed, as if I were following the Pied Piper of clothing. I almost expected her to whip out a flute.
Eileen’s hand yanked me back, and she hissed, “Remember Mrs. Tomissan, the slut. Do you want to be a Mrs. Tomissan?”
“No, I don’t, but neither do I want to wear clothes that don’t fit, Eileen.” It was as if I’d told her she was uglier than Frankenstein. Her face grew mottled, her eyes narrowing into slits. Lately I had noticed how mean her eyes are. I glanced away.
“Here we are.” Phyllis beckoned us over with a wide grin, then threw out her arms. “Right here. This is your section.”
If horns had blasted, followed by a sweet trill of violins, and a ba-bong-bong on a huge drum, I would not have been surprised. I’d entered paradise. I admired the mannequins. The racks. All filled with finery and fluff and skirts with ruffles and pants with pizzazz and—
“I would look okay wearing these clothes?” I had to confirm it. Had to.
“Absolutely!” She tilted her head, quizzically. “Oh, I understand. You’ve recently lost weight, haven’t you?”
Eileen giggled. “She took the shortcut out. Bought into society’s twisted vision about how a woman has to be thin to be valuable, threw out her life savings, didn’t have a penny to her name, then saved all her money a second time to have another operation to cut off the loose skin and risked her life, all so she could be thin—”
“Yes, I have lost weight.”
The saleswoman studied Eileen for a second and then her mouth opened, a slight bit, and she nodded, as if to herself. She understood the situation, I knew it. She smiled at me. “Congratulations!”
Eileen snorted again. “Ask her how much weight she’s lost, why don’t you?”
“It’s none of my business,” Phyllis said, a slight edge to her voice.
“She’s lost 170 pounds,” Eileen said, as if I’d committed the crime of kidnapping. “She took the cheater’s way out, if you know what I mean.”
Phyllis stared at Eileen for long seconds, then, as if in dismissal, she turned toward me, a hand under my elbow, her back to Eileen. “Now, dear, what can I help you find?”
“Everything.”
“A makeover then?” She was delighted. I couldn’t blame her. She was probably on commission.
“Yes, you could say that.” I could feel Eileen’s seething anger.
“Rather a start-over,” Eileen said, her diamond bracelets flashing. “She has no fashion sense and—”
“Let’s go on over here and pull some jeans off the rack, shall we?” Phyllis grabbed my arm. As we were walking away, she said to Eileen, who started to follow, “There’s a chair by the dressing room where you can rest. We’ll meet you there in a minute.”
She hustled me off. I didn’t even dare sneak a peek back, I was so shocked. Someone had handled Eileen. Not me, but someone else, and she was off my back.
I almost skipped. I could hear the flute music trilling, tra-la-la. Phyllis and I dumped one outfit after another into our arms.
“Too tight,” Eileen barked as I came out of the dressing room to show her and Phyllis the jeans I was wearing.
“Perfect fit,” Phyllis said at the same time. “You look fantastic!” Eileen glowered at her.
“Do I?” Did I? There were violins and a cello!
“If you want every part of your butt to be outlined for men’s consumption, you do,” Eileen said. “Take my word for it. Those are too tight.”
Phyllis turned to Eileen. “This is the style. It’s the way women wear them now—”
“Not me.”
“Well, of course not,” Phyllis blurted out. I knew she regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. “I’m sorry—”
“Forget it,” Eileen snapped, crossing her arms, after thumping her $1,000 purse on the floor. “I get it.”
There was a silence, and then, “All right.” Phyllis turned back to me and smiled.
I was stunned. Usually when Eileen was offended, people stumbled all over themselves trying to apologize. Her anger was a living thing, intimidating, controlling. They would say they were sorry once, twice, three times. She never budged, only glowered. I should know.
This woman, this Phyllis, moved on. She said she was sorry, Eileen didn’t accept it, and she let it go.
Whoa.
“Now, take off the shirt you’re wearing and put on the red shirt with the criss-cross bodice we picked out. It’ll be beautiful.”
I skedaddled back into the dressing room. I hadn’t worn red since I was a kid, even though it was absolutely my most favorite color. I stripped off the dowdy blue T-shirt I had on and slipped on the clingy red shirt with a scooped neckline. I didn’t turn around until I had adjusted the neckline.
My mouth dropped when I saw myself in the mirror, the flute music now a full blast orchestra.
I loved it! The shirt clung to my curves and the material felt so gentle, so…so sexy!
I fluffed my hair out. Dowdy. Maybe I’d get it cut, too.
I braced myself for Eileen’s reaction but couldn’t wait to show Phyllis.
Their reactions were as I imagined.
Phyllis said, “That is fabulous, absolutely fabulous!”
Eileen let out a shriek-groan and said, “Slutty Mrs. Tomisson! Here she comes!”
Tra-la-la!
In the end I bought jeans, skirts, slacks, six dressy shirts in all colors and styles, two belts, and two jackets—one was denim, the other khaki corduroy. I had not dared to buy the red dress. I couldn’t. Too daring. Where would I wear it, anyhow?
Eileen and I were both silent for the first ten minutes as I drove her home.
“Stevie,” she sighed.
I braced myself.
“Can I be honest with you, honey?” She reached out and squeezed my hand. “We’re best friends, right? We’ve always been there for each other.”
I knew what was coming. I wanted to tell her to be quiet, not to ruin the glow I had.
“You’ve spent a fortune.”
“I needed clothes, Eileen. All of my clothes hang off of me.” I’d gotten paid last Friday. After I paid my mortgage, bills, and medical loan, I would have $15 for food for two weeks, plus what was in my pantry. How many ways could I eat spaghetti?
And you know what, I didn’t care!
Spaghetti, here I come!
Eileen smiled at the pathetic person that I was. “Those clothes aren’t flattering, Stevie. I’m sorry to tell you that, I am. Phyllis is on commission and you bought whatever she told you. You could have bought them for a fraction at Goodwill. You don’t make enough. You’ve lost some weight, now you think you can wear anything. It’s not true, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to be a frump anymore, Eileen,” I said weakly.
“You don’t want to be a frump anymore? What? You’re saying I’m a frump? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean what? That I’m fat and dull compared to you? I get it, Stevie, you’re better than me now. Thinner. Prettier. And I’m still obese. Did you need to point that out? You can wear jeans, you can wear red, you need a belt. I’m sick of this. You’re going to dump me, aren’t you, because you’re thin and I’m not. I see it coming.”
“I am not going to do that….” It was weak, I knew it. But I wouldn’t drop her for her weight. I would drop her for her mouth.
Eileen went on and on, and I stopped protesting, stopped apologizing, shut down.
Why did I stay friends with her? Obligation? Guilt? Loyalty? Do I feel sorry for her? Is it okay to dump a friend? If it is, how do you do that?
My delight over the clothes was dimmed to almost nothing by the time I dropped Eileen off. Maybe she was right. Maybe the clothes were too clingy, too young, too too.
By the time I arrived home I was so relieved to see my emerald green house with the burgundy door and white picket fence I almost cried.
I put the bags in the back of my closet and pulled on my sweats and a T-shirt.
That night I flipped through a stack of gardening books and magazines by my nightstand, then worked on the sketches for my garden before turning out my light when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I knew what to do with most of the garden, but I had a corner filled with weeds that was stumping me.
As usual, as soon as I snuggled down, sighed, and told myself to go to sleep, I was wide awake.
Insomnia is a plague. It tiptoes after you and then when it’s dark it snaps its jaws over your sleep and flings it around, teeth clamped down hard.
I watched the clock.
I started worrying about work, money, my medical debt, and what would I do if I lost my job, had no money, couldn’t pay my medical debt, and ended up living in a shed? Sheds are cold! What would I do if something happened to Polly, Lance, or Aunt Janet? What if I lost my mind and started collecting cats? What if I had another heart attack on my walk, lost control of my bowels, and Jake found me in a mess?
I gave up after an hour. My hands shook as I turned on the light and studied my gardening magazines again. I drank milk. Finally, about two in the morning, I fell asleep. I woke up after I saw Sunshine riding a horse away from me. She was headed for the bridge. She turned her head, panicked, screamed my name, but I couldn’t catch her because my feet were stuck in red paint. I saw my grandparents’ faces across a field of corn. They were melting. All their features seeping to the ground, only their white hair left and their cowboy hats, then Sunshine melted, too, and I was alone. The horse kept galloping across the bridge, then jumped over it and turned into a black, frothing cloud.
I sat straight up in bed, struggling to breathe.
Sunshine wanted something, I knew that. I have tried not to think about her very much these last decades, or about my grandparents, because it hurts so much I think I’ll die of the pain of it, but in the last eighteen months, Sunshine keeps coming back, again and again, and I don’t understand what she’s trying to tell me. I wiped my face with trembling hands. The tears are coming more and more since I lost all this weight.
I briefly toyed with the idea that I was losing my mind, that I would soon be wearing a floppy yellow hat, but I shut that thought down. I got up, went to the bathroom, and drank a glass of water. My eyes automatically went to the mirror, and I shuddered.
She was there.
4
Portland, Oregon
“Thank you for your orders. It will be a pleasure to serve you and your guests this evening, Mr. Barrett,” the waiter said, deferential. He was suited up in black and white.
“Thank you,” Lance said. “Thank you so much.”
Lance is a grateful person. He says he is so grateful he lived through his childhood and so grateful that he doesn’t have to see Herbert every day that each day is a gift that must be enjoyed, “with love and friendship.”
Lance also has very expensive tastes in dining and insists on treating me and Polly to dinner all the time. We were at the Portland Que, one of the fanciest restaurants in Portland, the type of restaurant where the food arrives on your plate as if it is art. Edible art.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Barrett,” the waiter said. He nodded and smiled at me and Polly. We smiled back. The candles flickered over the white tablecloth and shiny silverware.
Lance was a regular customer, so the owner, under no circumstances, was going to protest that Lance had brought two of his blow-up dolls with their plasticky smiles to dinner and placed them in chairs around our table.
Fiona Butterfly was lovely in her purple bathing suit with gold butterflies flitting across it.
Katerina was also splendid. She was a naked doll, so, for modesty’s sake, Lance had draped her with a gold sari. Already two people had made comments and Lance had handed out his Lucky Ladies business card. One man almost slobbered over Fiona Butterfly. His wife yanked him away.
“I think we should talk about your parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary party,” I said as I slipped a spoonful of strawberry sorbet into my mouth, which was supposed to “clean my palate.”
“Even thinking about talking about Mom and Dad’s fortieth makes me want to blow in a sack,” Polly said, breathing hard, her mouth in an O. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to plan it. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to be a part of this crime.”
“But we have to, Polly,” I said. “It’s coming up.”
“Dad should plan it,” Lance said, his face darkening. “Nothing we do is going to be right.”
“That’s true. He’ll hate the whole thing.” Polly put her white cloth napkin over her face and breathed deep. “All will be wrong. All done poorly. Putridly. Such a disappointment his kids are to him—it’s his wife’s fault, her family is crazy.”
I felt my usual pangs of pain.
“He wants us to do it so he can tell the state of Oregon what a fantastic dad he is. See here, Portland, my kids gave me
my anniversary party.”
I finished my sorbet and put my spoon down. My hands were starting to shake. See what the mention of one boorish, testicle-trouncing man can do to sane people?
“I’m going to bring my blow-up girls to the party,” Lance announced.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Oh, stop,” Polly wheezed. “Let me get my hyperventilation under control before you throw something jack-crazy at me. I’m picturing all these naked blow-up dolls with cushy boobs sitting at the head table with Mom and Dad.”
“I’m going to do it. Good advertising.” He reached out a hand and patted Katerina. She almost fell off the chair. I caught her by the hip and propped her back up, ignoring the pointed stares of the three well-dressed, snobby women behind me.
“Plus I need the comfort they give me,” Lance said. “Good comfort.”
“Are the invitations ready to go?” I asked. The party was months out, but Herbert wanted everything shipshape.
Polly didn’t answer.
“That was your job, Polly Wants a Cracker,” Lance said, real gentle and sweet.
Polly balled up the napkin in her hands and rocked back and forth. Her hair was up in a ponytail, the auburn curls cascading down in red and gold. She was wearing an overly large, white T-shirt; a flowing red, cottony shirt down to her knees; and jeans. She was trying to cover up. I felt sick for her.
“You did do the invitations, didn’t you?” I asked.
Polly whimpered and breathed into her napkin.
The waiter came by and discreetly took my and Lance’s sorbet cups, but not Polly’s. She hadn’t eaten hers.
“The invitations aren’t ready, are they, honey?” Lance asked.
Polly whimpered again.
“You haven’t even started them, have you?” I asked.
She threw her napkin down.
There was an electric silence, and then I said, “I’m going to take that as a no.”
Polly threw both hands in the air, shook them, stomped her feet under the table, and said, in a pitchy voice, “I don’t think they should have the party. There’s nothing to celebrate, and I don’t want to be a part of this lie. I hate that Mom married Dad. I hate that she’s still married to him. I see this as forty years of Mom being stuck with Dad. She probably would have had more freedom in prison with a girlfriend named Maude. And a penchant for handcuffs.”