CAREGIVER
by Natalie Finn
Part I
"Everything is determined, the beginning as well as the end, by forces
over which we have no control. It is determined for the insect, as well
as for the star. Human beings, vegetables, or cosmic dust, we all dance
to a mysterious tune, intoned in the distance by an invisible piper."
- Albert Einstein
Family tragedies and flying objects
Our family histories, the stories of our parents and their parents, do
much to shape our early beginnings and even many of our opportunities in
life. But our destiny is shaped elsewhere. Destiny is shaped when the
magic of our souls mixes in the elixir of happenstance, and often
tragedy, in the bubbling caldron of life. - my mother, in a letter to
her mother, written from Paris when she was in her mid-twenties.
I was only in the sixth week of my senior year in high school and was
living at home, when my mother fell from a fig tree, breaking her hip,
her lower leg, her wrist, and several other bones. Her beloved fig tree
was undamaged in the accident. But together with her many bones, even
my mother's fierce spirit seemed to break that day.
The unfortunate day that my mother fell from the tree was to change the
course of my life.
I was a painfully shy young man, with few friends and few passions. And
though I loved to read, in school I was an uninspiring and uninspired
student. I did not relish going on to higher education. But it seemed
I had little choice. Both of my parents had graduated from college, and
so had their parents. And so had my older sister. Our family, until I
came along, was one of bright academic stars.
When I drove to the hospital and learned of the severity of my mother's
injuries and the anticipated length of her rehabilitation, despite the
fact that I was born into such a strong legacy of education (and fairly
comfortable wealth), it suddenly occurred to me, as if in a moment of
clairvoyance, that I would surely drop out of school, just to take care
of my mother.
I loved and was devoted to my mother, and my sister. I had never even
known my father.
From the emergency room doctor, I learned that my mother had fallen when
the branch she was standing on broke, while she looked through the
branches and leaves at the cloudless sky and balanced a tray of figs on
her shapely hip. My mother was an extremely attractive woman and had
always been one of the most beautiful women in our town. In high
school, she had been a mid-distance runner and the salutatorian and the
most popular girl in her class, which is quite an accomplishment for a
runner. That unlucky day in the fig tree, she stood on a sturdy branch
only four feet from the ground. But she lost her balance, dropped her
tray of carefully placed figs, and stepped into space. She screamed as
she landed with one foot on the rim of an old metal bucket, the other
foot between two thick tree roots. Her foot hit the side of one root
with her full weight. As a former athlete, she forced her body to
collapse, but it was the wrong choice, if she had a choice: her left
fibula shattered under the strain, and her right hip hit the root with
such force, that it too broke in at least three places. The tray, and
most of her figs were found within minutes by a neighbor, almost
cartoonishly displayed on her unconscious, upturned face and crumpled
body.
My sister gasped and I burst into quiet tears when we learned that,
although my mother was only 49 years old, she would be very lucky to
ever walk again. We were told to prepare for a year of pain, several
surgeries and rehabilitation, with a crucial first surgery to begin that
very day.
It was not the first misfortune to visit my family. I was just three
years old, when my father's life was taken by a drunk driver. My
father, sitting in the passenger seat while my mother drove him to the
hospital with symptoms of a heart attack, was killed instantly when the
oncoming car struck my parent's Mercedes head on. The drunk driver
survived the crash with just bruises. My mother literally opened her
own car door, and walked away from the crash without a scratch. My
father's body suffered such trauma, that it was impossible to tell
whether he really had been having a heart attack.
My mother had never broken a bone in her life. I'd never even seen her
sick. It shocked me to see her in the hospital bed so pale.
Adjustments and Convalescence
My sister, Marilyn, a successful young vice president at a large
pharmaceutical company, and ten years my senior, took charge immediately
after the accident. I stayed at the hospital for two days, comforting my
mother before and after her four-hour surgery, sleeping in a cot beside
her at night. My mother slept so much, and I was so overwhelmed with
boredom, that I completed a medium-sized novel and read three magazines
cover to cover by the time she was well enough carry on a somewhat
coherent conversation. My sister had taken prompt action to ensure my
mother would have a good location for her convalescence. Within 48
hours of the accident, Marilyn had moved my mother and me, and our
belongings into her own spacious home, and put our house on the rental
market: Five bedrooms, three baths, beautifully furnished, for several
thousand dollars per month. The money would insure our comfort in the
following months.
With my mother scheduled for still three more days of recovery, Marilyn
picked me up at the hospital and took me to her house to help set things
up for my mother's recovery. While Marilyn supervised the delivery of a
proper hospital bed and the building of a wooden wheelchair ramp to a
side entrance of her home, she had me unpack my mother's and my clothes
and few personal belongings. Because she had rented our home as
furnished, and Marilyn had moved some of our belongings into storage,
there wasn't much to unpack. Our two new bedrooms at Marilyn's, not to
mention her whole house, were spacious, comfortable and beautifully
decorated.
My sister and I, though ten years apart in age, were unusually close.
My first memory of her, and my first clear memory of my childhood, was
when she was 13 and I was a just a toddler. I have a distinct memory of
her holding me on her hip as I pulled open a metal gate, my tiny hand
holding a cold, wet chain, as our car drove though the gateway up a
gravel driveway leading to a country house. It was just days after my
father had passed away. We had been staying, and mourning our loss at
my Aunt and Uncle's country house, a kind offer in our time of need from
my mother's sister. I was too young to realize it at the time, but for
my mother and sister, it was an escape from the tragedy of my father's
violent death to an unfamiliar place of quietude and refuge. Now my
sister's home was to serve as our place of refuge and repair.
That I had lost my father before I could ever know him was not the only
unusual and unfortunate fact in my history. I learned, when I was 16,
that I had been born over four weeks prematurely. My mother and sister
had not told me because I had developed normally, both mentally and
physically as a young boy. I spoke my first distinct words and could
stand and walk before my first birthday, and I could climb stairs and
form quite intelligent questions by my second.
But my physical development seemed to stop after my fourth birthday. I
lagged behind my peers in grade school, in height and weight, by a
noticeable degree. And well into my teens, I still had the genitalia
and lack of pubic hair of a much younger boy. In high school, I saw,
enviously, that many boys my age had grown not only arm and chest
muscles, but also dark hair on their arms and legs. Some could even
grow mustaches. Not me. The meanest of the boys cruelly called me
"Pinky Dick." By the rest of my peers, I was ignored. I was very alone
and extremely lonely.
Never someone to miss a chance at gallows humor, it was at around that
age that I began to think of my humiliatingly small friend between my
legs as Mr. Pinky. To compare him to my tiny pinky finger was actually a
bit generous. My whole life he ranged in size from a piece of cooked
macaroni to, when I was aroused, about the size of a penlight battery.
I was to learn, years later, that Marilyn and my mother discussed and
worried about my social development.
A loner, who is at least blessed with brains, will find friendship and
solace in books. And I had brains. I read voraciously, often with my
head resting on my sister's lap, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun,
as we poured through our novels, on the floor of our play room. I also
loved animals, often stopping to pet neighborhood dogs, even the ones
that looked intimidating. And more than once, I walked home from school
alone, carefully cradling an abandoned kitten or a small bird that had
fallen from its nest.
Where I was a shy loner, Marilyn was outgoing and social. Where I had
resisted sports and academia, she had excelled. Some of my teachers
remembered Marilyn with tremendous fondness, and I hoped that some of
that warmth and glow would transfer to me. But it didn't. I certainly
felt the warm glow of her love, her charisma, and her power, because she
shared her gifts and her kindness freely with me. But it seemed I had
little glow of my own.
Just as Marilyn had succeeded in school, she had risen quickly in the
working world, and had proudly purchased a large home only one year
after leaving college.
She owned an Eichler home. The well-known computer executive Steve Jobs
had grown up in an Eichler home, and had perhaps been inspired his whole
life by that experience. My sister's Eichler was a beautiful and
wonderfully designed home, and Marilyn's had gorgeous mahogany floors
throughout, a large welcoming kitchen, a large fireplace in the living
room and huge windows looking out onto a large, lush garden and white-
barked birch trees. From the day I had moved in to her house, she had
two requests. She had assigned me the task of cutting fresh flowers
from her garden every morning for a vase on the dining table on her back
patio. And she had insisted that I remove my shoes at the door and wear
slippers in her house to protect her polished hardwood floors.
At first, to my embarrassment, I had to wear her pink bedroom slippers,
but the next day, she brought home for me some new black espadrilles
with jute soles, which fit me perfectly. I looked at their narrow cut
and thought they looked awfully feminine, but I said nothing. "The
natural fibers are so good on my floors," said Marilyn. I was relieved
to return her pink slippers.
Marilyn had been unusually short with me in the days while my mother was
still in the hospital. She had been so efficient in the transformation
of her home into a place of recovery, that I had not had the heart to
complain about anything, much less her floors or having to wear
slippers. Besides, I thought, her income and generosity, together with
the rent we would receive on our old house, were now the only thing
supporting us all.
Marilyn's house was sunny and gaily decorated with fresh hydrangeas
which I had cut from her garden on the morning we wheeled my mother up
the wheelchair ramp and into the house after five days in the hospital.
My mother was quiet, but appreciative to leave the hospital. For the
first few days, she was on a regular drip of pain medicine, which hung
from a hook on her wheelchair or from a stand beside the hospital bed in
her room. Marilyn drove to her office that very day and worked until
midnight. I kept my mom company and tried to engager her in
conversation. She seemed a little down.
Healing
I was not alone the whole day. In the afternoons, I had the support of
a home care nurse and a physical therapist. Nor was I bored. I had
several duties every day. I monitored her medicines and helped her into
her wheelchair each morning and noon, and wheeled her to the bathroom
and to breakfasts and lunch on Marilyn's back garden patio. I read to
her from the newspaper or from her magazines. I prepared her lunch, and
washed all of our linens and laundry. In the afternoon, the nurse gave
my mother a sponge bath and checked her medications, blood pressure and
pulse. An hour later the physical therapist, a stout, strong-looking
man with an enormous neck and a bald head, arrived and dispensed tough
love every afternoon in the form of massage, exercises and stretching,
leaving my mother exhausted.
She seemed to progress very slowly day by day.
"Shawn," my mother said to me one day, "You're a good boy. Thank you
for taking such good care of me. With your help, someday, I'll be able
to walk." But she said it with such a hopeless look in her eyes, that I
wondered whether she believed her own words.
A week after my mother's hospital discharge, Marilyn asked me, over
coffee on the patio, "Shawn, I'd like to talk with you about your near-
term plans. What do you think you'd like to do??
Although I was glad to have been able to provide care to my mother the
previous week, it was draining work. Still the week away from school
made it clear to me how much I really hated high school.
I had been both ignored and bullied in school. Friendless and shy, my
extremely small frame and thick glasses and braces proved too big a
barrier for even the most outgoing of my classmates. Even after my
braces came off over the previous summer, and I relished the feeling of
my tongue licking over the front of my smooth, straight teeth, I
couldn't make a friend if my life depended on it. I would wake up each
morning, look at my large, brown eyes and longish brown hair in the
mirror and ask, "Why doesn't anyone like me?" And then I would put on
my thick glasses and see in clear focus the parade of inflamed acne
marching across my forehead and nose, and the oily hair that I grew long
in an effort to hide from sight both my acne and my shame at having
acne. I saw my freakishly long eyelashes that seemed to make my eyes
look like those of a baby deer weeping over her a fallen mother. I
noted my small five foot five inch frame and my tiny arms that didn't
look like they would ever swing a bat or catch a football. I was the
smallest boy in my class, and shorter even than half the girls. And
each of my physical attributes seemed to say to me, You have no friends
because, you're a skinny little runt and an acne-faced nerd.
My teachers would try to hide their disappointment over my assignments
and exam results, the kindest of them looking at me with considerable
compassion. But I knew at an early age that the teen years were not
going to be happy or successful ones for me, at least as long as I was
in school.
Marilyn was family, my only sibling. It seemed that Marilyn had always
looked out for me, kept me under her wing. We were close enough that we
always communicated kindly, but from the heart.
"I don't know, Marilyn," I replied to her query about my future plans.
"I can't really say I miss school. I just don't fit in there. It's so
lonely. I'd love to do something different." I could read the sadness
and compassion in her large brown eyes.
"Well, I think that the past week has been very good for both you and
Mom." She paused and smiled kindly. "You were never much of a student,
and having you here to provide full time-care is really helping us."
I smiled at her praise.
"I have a proposal," she continued, "I could give you one thousand
dollars a month and you could live here. You would continue to care for
Mom the way things are now. I'll convince the school that you are home
schooling. And by the end of the year, you can decide what you want to
do. Continue home schooling, go back to finish high school, or find a
job."
"Wow, a thousand dollars a month? But, for an entire year? It's very
demanding work," I said.
"It's good work experience for you, Shawn. I wish I could afford to pay
you more. But keep in mind that you're learning discipline, and
developing a work ethic, and caring for the needs of someone else," she
said. "Maybe this work will lead to something that truly interests you.
Maybe it will lead to a career. My career in pharmaceuticals has been a
wonderful thing for me."
"I'm really struggling," I said. "I can do the housework and bring her
food and water, but it's extremely hard just helping her move. I think
it's just too physically demanding."
She looked at my small frame and slender arms with compassion. "Let's
give it a try, Kiddo, for just a few more weeks," said Marilyn.
And so, with my sister's help, I dropped my classes and applied for
permission to home school with my mother and sister. The school didn't
even protest, and sent me home with a course plan and a list of
recommended textbooks which I could check out free from the school. I
fell into a daily routine of taking care of my mother, wheeling her
around, preparing her meals, and reading to her on the patio. In the
evenings, I would spend at least an hour reading in my textbooks, and
keeping a journal.
Marilyn continued to work at her company, a short drive away. She
shopped at the supermarket on her way home from work twice a week, so we
always had fresh food. A few days later, she walked in with two
brightly wrapped presents with a card to me.
"To celebrate and honor your two weeks of working so hard, helping Mom
and helping our family," Marilyn said. "Why don't you pour us a few
lemonades and we can open your present in Mom's room".
I carried three lemonades on a tray to my mother's bedroom. I sat at a
small table with Marilyn sitting in a chair beside Mom's bed. Mother
dozed quietly. I excitedly untied the ribbon on the larger of the two
boxes, and tore open the wrapping. Inside, I found a pair of white
shoes and black shoes, similar to the black espadrilles that I had worn
for two weeks, but these both had a one inch wedge heel. More
hesitantly, I opened the other box. Inside, were a pair of white shorts
and a pair of black shorts. There was also a white shirt and black
shirt. And a white cotton apron and a black one. In an envelope, I
found a card and three crisp fifty dollar bills. The note said, "Shawn,
with my profound gratitude and appreciation. You have become a very
capable caregiver. You've made it possible for me to go back to work,
knowing that Mom is taken care of. I want to encourage your further
development and enjoyment in your helpful role, and as thanks for all
you've done, I have purchased cooking lessons for you. A home chef will
come to our house and cook with you for five nights next week."
"I hardly know what to say," I said, putting the card down on my lap,
fidgeting with the money. "What are the clothes and shoes for?" I said,
eyeing the white espadrilles with the one inch heel. I realized that
the heels would give me a small boost in height. I'd be one inch less
of a shrimp. Looking into Marilyn's eyes, I wondered if she could read
that self-loathing thought.
"I just thought it would help you feel better about your work if you
looked more like a professional care-giver," she said, looking me in the
eye.
But I was receiving quite a different non-verbal message via the
wireless sibling telegraph. She was thinking about the boost in my
height, too.
"Think how good you'll look in your new outfit with a stethoscope around
your neck," she pressed hopefully. "It's a uniform of sorts."
"You mean it's a nurse's uniform?" I asked, horrified.
"No. It's not a nurse's uniform, Shawn. Nurses wear rubber soled shoes,
you'll wear these espadrilles. They are much more attractive, and
easier on my floors," she reminded me.
"And why the shorts?" I asked, feeling the silky lining of the shorts
and top.
"With summer approaching, you'll be much more comfortable performing
your duties in shorts. And you can catch a bit of sun on your legs,
while you read to Mom on the patio. Vitamin D is so important!"
"I'm really not sure about this. They look a bit feminine. My other
clothes are just fine," I protested.
"You'll get used to them in no time. Let's see how your white outfit
looks. And put on your black apron, and meet me in the kitchen, so we
can make dinner."
I went to my room and placed the black outfit, carefully folded, in my
chest of drawers. I stepped first out of my black flat espadrilles and
then the blue jeans I was wearing, and then stepped into the new white
shorts. They were snug at the waist and in the crotch, but flared more
at the thigh. They were shorter than the shorts I was used to, with a
wide cuff fairly high on my thighs. I could feel the silk lining of the
shorts on the tops of my legs and around my pelvis. Although they fit
me perfectly, they were not at all comfortable on my tiny manhood, Mr.
Pinky. I arranged him between my legs as comfortably as I could.
I removed the black t-shirt I was wearing and tossed it in the hamper. I
took the new white top from the box and unfolded and unbuttoned its
buttons. It was long-sleeve, silk and had silk covered round buttons.
It was very light. I lifted it over my head, put my hands into the
armholes, and it slid weightlessly down my slender arms. I buttoned up
the shirt leaving a v-opening at my neck. I had never worn silk before,
and I thought it looked ridiculous on me. The sleeves were long but
didn't extend more than a few inches past my elbows. I reached for the
black apron, slid it on over my head and tied the apron strings behind
my back. At least the apron covered most of the silk shirt and most of
the shorts, except for the arms and the entire back.
Oh brother, I thought. I don't want to seem ungrateful, but these
clothes are ridiculous.
I slipped on the new white espadrilles. The slightly higher heel
immediately felt strange and I didn't like it at all. Thankfully, they
didn't look that feminine except for the slightly higher heel. I
decided to switch back to the black flat espadrilles I had been wearing.
Still somewhat embarrassed, I walked into the kitchen.
Marilyn turned around smiling. "Let me see your outfit, Shawn."
She carefully eyed me up and down and then said, "It's a very nice
start, but we'll have to make some changes before you meet your cooking
teacher on Monday. Why aren't you wearing your new shoes?"
"I can't wear them, Marilyn. They look like woman's shoes. They're
goofy. This whole outfit is weird. I feel like a fairy!"
"That's nonsense, Shawn. I spent good money on those shoes. They're
unisex. The espadrilles and your outfits will help you feel more
professional in your role as caregiver and homemaker. As I said, you're
learning to care for others. Sometimes that will require you to lighten
up on that ego of yours, and especially that silly macho attitude. Now
run along and put on your new white shoes."
I went back to my room and switched shoes as Marilyn had demanded. As I
walked back down the hallway towards the kitchen, I realized it would
take a while to get used to the slightly higher heels.
Sunday at the Mall
The following morning, after putting on my black uniform and my new
black espadrilles, I completed my morning duties, feeding Mom and then
reading to her on the patio. The Sunday morning sun did feel nice on my
exposed legs and I kicked off my dreaded shoes. A half hour later,
while I was cleaning up the kitchen, the afternoon nurse arrived,
several hours early. She looked at my new outfit and heeled shoes with
a smile and a hint of a smirk. "Nice outfit," she said dryly. "I was
told that you and Marilyn had some errands to run," she said. "I got
you covered til sunset."
Marilyn came into the kitchen and said, "Hey, it looks like you got some
sun on those long legs of yours. They look good." I nodded, grateful
for the acknowledgement. "Finish cleaning up the kitchen and take off
your apron, we need to run out to the mall. "
"What's up? Shopping?" I said, wondering if I would be able to change
out of my uniform, especially the horrible silk shirt.
"Just a few errands," she replied. "You'll want to stay in your
uniform, Shawn, but I'll get you a sweater to wear over your top. It's
beautiful on you, but a little sheer, don't you think?"
Marilyn went to her bedroom, while I wiped the kitchen counters. She
returned with a beige linen top. I pulled it over my head and smoothed
it down my waist until it hovered partway over my hips. It had a very
loose weave and I could clearly see the white silk top underneath. The
linen top had a v-neck opening. And the silk neck collar and top
buttons seemed to burst upward as if trying to caress my neck. Marilyn,
reached down, took my left hand and scrunched up the linen sleeves to
just below my elbow, exposing some of the silk sleeve of the top
underneath. "That looks better, I think. Jeez, Shawn, your arms are so
slender," she said. Then, smiling and seemingly in deep concentration,
she adjusted the collar of the silk top so that the collar and points
lay exposed outside of the linen top. "Maybe, let's wear it like this
today, no?"
"I can't go out in public like this," I said, eyeing my outfit and
shoes. "Everyone will think I'm a gay hairdresser!"
"You look fine, Shawn. That sweater is very unisex."
"At least let me wear my old black espadrilles," I pleaded.
"Don't start with me," she replied, picking up my black espadrilles with
the flat heels. She stepped on the foot pedal of the kitchen trash can,
and dropped them in.
"Those ones you're wearing with the slight heel are much nicer. Let's
go. We don't have all day."
We drove in Marilyn's convertible BMW to the mall, the sun warming our
bare legs while the new Rihanna album played on the stereo. It was such
a pleasant drive, I almost forgot my embarrassing outfit. We found a
parking spot in the shade and Marilyn closed up the car. It was the
first warm day of spring. Birds tweeted in a nearby tree.
"First, I want your hands looking presentable because you need to take
Mom in to have her stitches removed tomorrow, and your first cooking
lesson is tomorrow night. And that means a quick manicure at my
favorite shop. I also want to see what Angie has to say about your
uniform. She's very smart and very fashionable. Let's see if she has
any ideas."
Angie's Nails
Angie did have some ideas. She took one look at me and said, "Shawn, I
can have you looking professional in no time. Just leave it to me."
Marilyn had already walked over to a manicure chair, removed her strappy
sandals, sat daintily in the high, padded chair and, with a sigh,
dropped her feet into a spa of bubbling water. Angie directed me to the
chair next to her. "We might as well clean up those feet, too," she
said.
Angie Stanton was a very young woman to be managing her own business.
She had long, blond hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a strong
entrepreneurial streak. Just a year or two older than I, Angie had
worked for two years as an aesthetician in the nail shop, when her boss
told Angie she wanted to retire. Angie had borrowed money from her
mother and bought out her former employer a year ago, and it was now the
most popular and successful nail salon in town. She had a beautiful
design sense and her store was bright, airy, peaceful and feminine, with
lavender colors and two large bouquets of fresh flowers adding even more
fresh color.
Despite my extreme embarrassment, I was quite taken by the beautiful
Angie Stanton, with her long blond hair and her full lips. I felt my
tiny friend, Mr. Pinky awaken from his slumber. He was too small to
really make much of a statement. Even when he was completely excited,
as I was when I first met Angie, he grew to not much more than the size
and stiffness of cooked rigatoni.
I stepped out of my shoes and stepped up on the spa chair, conscious of
my flared shorts and the linen top which I still thought was
embarrassingly feminine. "Just step your feet into the warm suds and
relax," Angie said, noticing my hesitation. I glanced towards Marilyn.
I gazed back at the beautiful Angie. I could feel the distinct urge to
hold her in my arms. One of Angie's helpers, a small Asian woman about
my size started removing the nail polish from Marilyn's finger nails
using a moistened cotton ball.
"Now, what we want is a professional, clean look. I understand that
you're studying nursing, Shawn, is that right?" Angie asked, pushing me
gently into the seat.
"Well, I'm a part-time caregiver for my mother in the mornings, helping
with her recovery from a broken hip." I realized I sounded a bit
defensive, but I couldn't help myself from continuing. "And I'm helping
around the house." The words seemed to flow from me like water out of a
hose. " I'm learning quite a bit about physical therapy. But, I'm
mostly studying to be a chef," I said, not wanting to appear to be a
complete loser and not wanting to be called a nurse. I noticed out of
the corner of my eye that Marilyn had to cover a grin with her free
hand, the magazine she was reading nearly sliding off her lap. She knew
I hadn't spoken so many words to a complete stranger in my whole life.
Angie, nodded thoughtfully as she wiped my nails with a moist cotton
ball and used a tool to clean the dirt from under my nails. She asked
me if I wanted to cut back my cuticles. "Yes, that's fine," said
Marilyn, next to me before I could respond that I didn't know what
cuticles were. "I think it's more hygienic for a nurse to have clean
cuticles."
Angie used a tool that looked like a cross between tweezers and scissors
to clean up the skin at the top of each of my nails, which instantly
made my nails seem much longer. "I like the length, but I'm rounding
the corners slightly so they don't catch on your nice outfit," she said.
"It's nice that you keep them at least as long as your fingertips. For
a really professional look, I recommend that we cover the white of your
nail with a protectant that will also hide any dirt that accumulates
under the nail. But you also really must do a better job of keeping
your nails clean of dirt, especially the underside. Dirt hides germs
and no nurse wants to be carrying germs around, right?"
While I sat, stung by again being called a nurse, she walked over to a
rack of colored nail polishes and selected a bottle of cream-colored
polish and walked back to where I sat, uneasily, with my feet still
soaking in the sudsy water. She carefully held the thumb of my right
hand and painted a line of cream-colored nail polish that perfectly
covered and exactly matched the white of my nail. She inspected her
work and then deftly continued onto my next fingers. When she completed
my right hand, she gently placed my hand under a small white plastic
fan. "Be careful and don't mess up my hard work, okay Shawn?" she said
with a smile.
I smiled a reply, but my heart was hammering in my chest. "What am I
doing here?" I thought. "What if someone sees me? I should be
ravishing this beautiful woman, not letting her file my nails!"
She worked on the left hand and then I moved that hand across my body to
the drier. As my arm brushed the linen top, I felt the silk top slide
against my upper body and was reminded of the feminine top I was
wearing, not to mention the utterly strange and unfamiliar situation in
which I found myself. As if on cue, Angie, who had looked up briefly
and was inspecting my face and hair, asked, "By the way, Shawn, has
anyone ever told you that you have really beautiful eyes, especially
your long lashes. We ought to be able to do something nice with those
lashes, but let me think on it." And she went back to work on my nails.
While my left hand dried, she looked at the nails on my right hand
again. "We want something that looks clean and professional. I
recommend that we just put a clear protective coat to ensure that the
line I just painted doesn't scratch and chip. How does that sound?"
"That will be fine, Angie," Marilyn said with a smile. I stared at the
floor dumfounded as the beautiful Angie proceeded to gently brush a
layer of clear polish over my nails. She noticed my alarm. "Don't
worry, sweetie, these are going to look great. They'll dry with a bit
less gloss than they have now. Very subtle and very professional."
And sure enough, after the second coat of clear polish had finished
drying, the effect was fairly subtle, unless you looked carefully and
realized that I had been given a French manicure.
Meanwhile the cute Asian woman had finished scrubbing the bottoms of my
feet, and had pulled the plug on my foot bath. She rinsed my feet in
lukewarm water, dried them carefully and then began cleaning, trimming
and filing my toenails. Angie said, "Let's just do the same colors on
the toe nails. It's included in the spa special." I was too
embarrassed to reply. It felt as though some of my maleness had been
washed down the drain along with the sudsy water of my foot spa.
Worse, I had the sense that things were getting quickly out of control.
I was a nervous wreck. I felt in danger. I had never spoken more than
a sentence to a girl my age before. And I'd never been as close to a
woman as beautiful as Angie. As she rubbed lotion on my calf and ankle,
I felt a surge of sexual wanting and desire course through my body. It
had always seemed as if no girl or woman would ever be attracted to a
small, willowy guy like me. It was a strange, but exhilarating
sensation being so close to Angie. I could smell the lovely scent of
her hair and feel her warm hands caress my feet. But I was sitting in a
pink chair, surrounded by femininity. I watched as she finished
painting my toe nails. Along with my male longing to hold Angie, I also
felt like such a horrible sissy.
Minutes later, I sat with my back to the front window of the shop, with
my hands under yet another nail dryer and with some white rubber flip
flops on my feet, a gift from Angie. I could feel the eyes of strangers
on my back as they looked through the window, and I wondered if they
noticed that a guy was drying his nails after getting a manicure and
pedicure. "You should be very careful of your fingers and toes for at
least an hour. And we want lots of air circulation. No shoes, okay?"
she said as she gently shook a small aerosol can.
Then she held my hands and quickly sprayed my finger nails with a light
mist, and then bent to spray my toenails.
Angie smiled at me warmly and winked. "Your hands and feet really are
so beautiful."
I sat in a daze of embarrassment and post-traumatic stress. I felt like
I needed to take a nap. My heart was fluttering, and my mouth was as
dry as an old cork. I was afraid I might pass out. Marilyn was paying
for our nail treatments with her credit card and chatting amicably with
Angie. I heard Marilyn say, "We'll be back after lunch. Shawn looks a
bit overwhelmed. I just want to take him for a bite to eat."
"Come on, Shawn, up and at 'em. Let's go grab lunch."
"I can't walk around the mall in these white flip-flops, they look
ridiculous," I said.
"So you're missing your espadrilles, are you? Come on, it's only for an
hour or so. Look it's a warm day and lots of people are wearing slippers
and sandals. No one will even notice," she said.
I didn't think that anyone would fail to notice my white slippers and my
new pedicure. I was so afraid I'd ruin the polish on my fingernails, I
couldn't ball my fists to hide my shameful nails. As if in a terrible
dream, I stood up and silently shuffled behind Marilyn out of the shop,
trying to look as masculine and nonchalant as I possibly could, despite
my flared shorts, silk top, feminine sweater and white slippers with
manicured toes. I walked with my fingers extended but curved slightly
so as not to scratch or smudge the polish, and hoping that no one
noticed my humiliating manicure.
"Come on, Shawn. And please stop slouching and shuffling. You're
drawing attention to yourself. Walk with a spring in your step, like
me, and no one will even notice you."
Looking around, I suddenly realized that everyone was looking at me,
noticing my outfit and my pedicure and my slippers. That got my
attention and suddenly I walked more upright and more quickly.
Laughing, Marilyn said, "Easy, girlfriend, we're going in here." And
she led me into the cavernous entrance of a department store. We rode
several escalators that traversed and climbed through a large atrium, to
an elegant caf? overlooking the city. I looked around the caf? and saw
only beautiful women, sitting at tables in groups of two or more. I
followed Marilyn and the ma?tre d' to our table.
The taller and straighter I walked the less people seemed to notice me.
Marilyn ordered iced teas and garden salads for both of us. They were
delicious and I felt some of the stress and trauma drain from my body as
we talked and laughed, and sipped our iced teas and looked out over the
city. We talked about Mom's recovery and the excellent care she was
getting. We talked about my upcoming cooking classes and perhaps saving
up some money to remodel the kitchen. Then she said, "You know, Shawn,
you have such nice legs. I really like seeing them. And with the sun
you're getting on them, they are looking really good. You'll be wearing
shorts most of the summer, and I thought that it would be much more
professional and attractive if we could clean up the hair on your legs a
bit."
"What do you mean by clean up the hair?"
"Well, let's just take the hair off to give them a cleaner look," she
said calmly.
I gulped. "You want me to shave my legs?" I asked, the stress suddenly
returning like an electric shock. I felt my heart beating faster in
fear. "I can't do that."
"It's not exactly shaving. Angie can wax your legs which will leave a
much cleaner appearance. I do it every six weeks. It's a bit painful,
but nothing a big, tough guy like you can't handle."
I was practically shaking in fear. I put down my fork with some lettuce
on it. I held my voice down so as not to reveal my fear, but also out
of embarrassment that women at neighboring tables would overhear my
thoughts. "Marilyn, look, I can't do this. This uniform! The manicure!
And the pedicure! What's going on? Are you trying to make me look like
a sissy?"
"Shawn, it's time we had a little talk." She looked at me, suddenly
serious. " I only want to help you look and feel more attractive and
professional as you help out around the house and provide needed care to
Mom as she recovers from that terrible accident. She may never walk
again, and it's important that we do everything we can to show that she
is supported and loved. I have a dream that one day all three of us
will walk through this mall together and eat at this very restaurant.
If we all work together, we can accomplish that. If you're going to let
your ignorant, macho feelings get in the way, you might as well move out
and go find a job. Or go back to school. I'll bring Mom back to health
all by myself." She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and looked
at me in anger and desperation.
I felt the guilt of her words wash over me. How could I abandon my
mother and Marilyn at a time like this? But, jeez, how was I going to
face the world with no hair on my legs? I'd be a laughing stock. "I'd
look ridiculous with shaved legs," I pleaded. "I have a hard enough
time avoiding the bullies now. I'm so thin and short. With shaved
legs, I'll probably be lynched."
"First of all, you have hardly any hair on your legs anyway. Second of
all, they'll be waxed, not shaved, and you'll look very smart," she
laughed. "Think how much more hygienic it will look not having your
ugly leg hair everywhere. And besides, you can always say that you're a
bicyclist or a swimmer or a triathlete or something. Michael Phelps is
thin and he probably shaves his whole body. He probably waxes! And
he's one of the sexiest men alive!" She grinned and winked at me.
"I'm just not ready," I said, determined not to bend. I glanced at the
other tables to ensure that no one was listening to our embarrassing
conversation.
"You're ready, Shawn. Enough of this discussion. This is all about
helping Mom and helping you to become a professional with a potential
career. Besides, I've already paid Angie, so she's expecting you.
You'll be done in no time. Here's a tip you can give her. Don't let
this go to your head, but I think she might like you, and giving her a
little tip will show your appreciation. Please meet me back here as soon
as you're done, as I have some shopping to do."
I stood up with Marilyn and tried to walk swiftly out of the caf?,
despite my new feelings of stress and fear. As we walked to the
escalators, I could feel the breeze blow through the thin hair on my
legs and I suddenly wondered what it would feel like to not have any
hair there. Marilyn gave me a kiss on the cheek and said "This is for
Mom." And turned on her heel and waived to a saleswoman who was
standing nearby.
Angie's Nails, the Sequel
I walked back to Angie's and admired her long legs as I followed her to
a white room in the back of the shop. In the middle of the small room
was a waist-high table with a long, clean, white paper pulled over the
top. Angie handed me a folded white robe and told me to take off my
clothes except for my underwear and lie on my stomach. I noticed another
smaller table against the wall with a small electric tub of hot blue wax
and a clear jar of tongue depressors, and a small pile of strips of
white cotton cloth. The strips looked like they had been torn from a
bed sheet. Angie winked at me and left me alone. I removed my shirt
and shorts and placed them folded on a pink chair. I wrapped the ties of
the white cotton robe around my waist. Two young Asian women entered
the room and shut the door. I think they were Vietnamese. "Nice legs,"
they said and giggled as they proceeded to rub baby powder all over my
upper and lower legs. I shifted uneasily and heard and felt the white
paper crinkle under my bottom.
"This is it," I thought to myself, thinking that the baby powder smelled
like flowers. I nearly jumped as I felt the warm wax being spread over
my calf. Seconds later, I felt a cloth strip laid down on my leg in the
hot wax, smoothed down and then suddenly ripped up and off. The pain
was immediate, shocking and ferocious. I felt my chest clammy against
the paper. My face got hot and I could feel my glasses getting foggy.
"I don't think I can handle this," I said, trying not to cry, as I tried
to push myself up from the table.
"You fine. Just relax," they said in broken English as one of them
gently pushed me back down on the table, by putting her hand firmly on
my back, and the other spread more hot wax on my left leg just next to
where they had just ripped my hair out. "A little pain and over in no
time."
"This is terrible," I said, shaking. I was having difficulty breathing.
My glasses were fogged up and I couldn't see anything.
"You not need to shave for six eight weeks. Legs feel very soft and
smooth," said the one holding the cloth as she ripped up again.
Needless to say, the whole procedure, waxing every bit of hair from my
toes, up my legs, all the way to my "bikini line" took 25 minutes. My
legs were buzzing when they finally rubbed baby oil all over my legs to
remove any stray pieces of wax.
"Very nice legs," one of the women said as I stood up and fished the $20
tip from the tiny pocket of my shorts.
"Your nails also so pretty," said the other, oblivious to my pain and
embarrassment.
I put on and quickly buttoned up my silk shirt. They watched me
struggle with the silk buttons.
"You come back soon for eyebrow waxing," they said, smirking as I fled
the room.
As I staggered in shame and shock to the front of the shop, Angie
blocked my exit. With a smile, she bent down to feel my toe nails,
announced that they were completely dry, and had me sit down while she
pulled my black espadrilles from a white cloth bag. "You know these
espadrilles are a little tough on your pedicure. Why don't you continue
wearing the flip flops, and then find something else to wear to keep
your pedicure looking fresh and healthy."
I nodded, trying to hide my anxiety and dread. I just wanted out of
this hell hole of a shop of horrors.
She held up my hands and inspected my manicure. Two women sitting at
spa stations both glanced at me. "Very nice," pronounced Angie. "Here,
let me clean your glasses for you, sweetie."
She washed and dried my glasses and placed them back on my face. "I
hope you'll come and see us again soon, Shawn. You know you really
ought to consider contact lenses. Your eyes are gorgeous!"
I looked towards the exit wondering if it was better to run out or stay
in the safety of the shop. Angie walked by me to her counter and said
in a voice just loud enough that the two women looked up again, "You'll
want another leg and bikini waxing in six to eight weeks, but I hope
you'll come back again much sooner for another mani-pedi." She took a
pink and white card for her shop and dropped it into a small shopping
bag. She tossed into the bag containing my espadrilles, a bottle of
pink crystals in a small clear glass bottle and another small white
bottle. "You were such a good sport, Shawn. These are moisturizing
bath salts and some rich lotion to care for your legs. You can also use
baby oil, to keep them smooth and moisturized. They really do look
terrific."
I reached for the door, and turned back to the beautiful Angie. "Thank
you, Angie," I said as warmly as I could.
"You're so sweet, Shawn," she said with compassion and pleasure on her
face. "I really hope to see you again soon. Have a wonderful day!"
Still in terror, I stumbled out of the shop, holding the small pink
shopping bag and feeling completely naked without any hair on my legs.
It seemed as if a sudden, cool breeze was blowing up my legs and up the
flared legs of my shorts. I could feel the silky lining of the shorts
as it tickled my now hairless thighs. I looked back at the store and
noticed someone watching me from the window. I could see a tall,
slender woman watching me as she stood inside Angie's shop. I blinked
and realized, of course, that I was looking at myself. I staggered to a
shady bench and sat, wondering what I should do. I had no money and no
way home. Marilyn was waiting for me back at the department store just
outside the restaurant.
Miss Marilyn
I walked swiftly back to the department store, the pink shopping bag
dangling from my hand, looking straight ahead, not daring to meet
anyone's gaze. As far as I could tell, no one was looking at me. I
stood shivering in fear as several escalators took me up to the
restaurant. Sure enough, Marilyn was waiting, holding a few shopping
bags with a big grin on her face.
"Don't you look fantastic!" she said. "Let me see!
I cowered behind my pink shopping bag, embarrassed and in shock.
"I knew your legs would look better without that silly hair. They look
so smooth. I think Angie really likes you. Did they put baby oil on
your legs after the waxing?"
I ignored her question. "I don't feel well. Let's go home now," I said
barely containing my rage, shame, fear and embarrassment.
"Okay, we will," she said, shooting me a worried glance. "But I just
want to pick up one thing on our way out, so you don't have to wear
those slippers. Follow me."
We walked a few feet over to the shoe department. There were men's
shoes and women's shoes tastefully displayed and sales people helping
patrons try them on. Marilyn led me over to a woman wearing a red
dress, standing next to a counter holding what seemed like ten shoe
boxes.
"I think we only have time to try on one pair," Marilyn said to me as
the saleswoman took the lid from one of the boxes that said Nine West.
The saleswoman showed me a leather shoe with straps similar in design
and function to my flip flops, except that the T straps were a bit wider
at the top of my foot, and where the three Y shaped straps came
together, it joined in a gold ring about the size of a half dollar coin.
She removed my flip flops, noticing my pedicured toe nails and my
smooth, hairless legs for the first time. Without looking up, but with
a smirk on her face that told me she was thinking "sissy," she put first
one and then the other sandal on my feet. It was clearly not a man's
shoe, with shiny black straps and a narrow espadrille heel about one and
a half inches high. "Stand up and see what you think," she said, still
with a twinkle of a smirk on her face.
In embarrassment, I stood up, and sat back down. "They're fine.
Whatever. I think I'm sick. Can we go home?" I looked around wildly
for an exit.
Marilyn said, "We guessed right on the size. Please just ring me up for
those sandals. We'll wear them now. Can you snip the tags?"
"Sure," the sales lady said, pulling a small scissors and cutting the
tag from my sandals. She put my flip flops into the Nine West box and
handed it to me.
"Sorry to rush you," Marilyn said kindly to the sales lady as she rang
up the sale. "We need to get home and take care of our mother who is
home recovering from some broken bones." She glanced back at me with a
stern look on her face, as we left the shoe department.
Marilyn walked me briskly through the mall to her car. I struggled to
keep up in the strange shoes. The high heels made me walk with a very
strange gait as I tried to look confident. I had to stop once, causing
Marilyn to turn and say coldly, "Walk with straight legs and relax your
hips. Try to land gracefully on your heel just slightly before you put
down your toe. Keep your arms near your sides like mine." Within a few
steps, I felt a rhythm, but I was no less humiliated by the femininity
of my situation.
We finally arrived at her car and put our bags in the trunk. Keeping
the top up, she turned on the air conditioner and we drove home in
silence without the joy of the music or the sun on our legs. I glanced
once at Marilyn as we drove. She looked through the windshield. Her
expression was black onyx. By the time we pulled into the driveway, I
was feeling guilty and ashamed. "I'm sorry I got sick at the department
store," I said to Marilyn.
"You're nothing but a spoiled brat, and you can't endure a little
discomfort just to help someone else who needs you. You should be
ashamed of yourself."
"I'm sorry," I mumbled.
"I've gone to considerable expense to make sure that you present a
professional image when you take care of our mother. I also want you to
look clean and professional when you're cooking teacher arrives tomorrow
evening. If you can't do that, and lend a hand where it is needed, then
I don't see any reason for you to continue to live here rent free. I
can easily hire a live-in nurse to do what you do. I'm just trying to
help you find a career, something that will interest you in your life.
Is that too much to ask?"
"No, Marilyn, it's not too much to ask. I'm sorry and I'll do my best
from now on."
"You're forgiven. But you're on probation," she said stonily, looking
me straight in the eye. "Shape up or you're out. I don't want any more
of your back-talk. Take these bags up to my bedroom and then go check
on your mother. Then, go freshen up and change into your white uniform,
white shoes and white apron. You can cook for Mom and yourself. I need
to go to the office."
"And one more thing," she said icily. "You need to learn some respect.
Please address me as 'Miss Marilyn' from now on."
In shock, I returned to my bedroom after stopping by to say hello to my
mother. She hadn't notice my hairless legs, but the nurse sure did.
"What nice legs you have," she said with a smirk as I fled the room.
I took a quick shower in my bathroom, noticing how strange it was to
wash my hairless legs with soap. I dried off, rubbed a bit of lotion on
my smooth legs and went into my bedroom, where I changed from my black
uniform to my white uniform, and then was about to head down to the
kitchen to begin making dinner, when I noticed a small flat pink box on
my bed with a note. "Please wear these from now on. Your old underwear
leaves unattractive lines--please dispose of them immediately."
I opened the box and saw to my horror, that it contained eight pairs of
soft, silky underwear folded into little square balls. There were a few
white and beige pairs and one of dark grey. There were no tags or
labels, but when I unfolded one of the feather-light silky balls
concoctions of fabric, I could read the label stamped inside on the
silky fabric: Vassarette. Seamless no-line panty. 100% Nylon. Size 3.
"Please begin dinner. Mother is waiting! Did you find the box?"
Marilyn barked from down the hall.
"Yes, Miss Marilyn," I gasped at the strangeness of using so formal a
name with my own sister.
I hastily unbuttoned and lowered my white shorts and stepped out of my
old cotton underwear. I reached into the box and selected a white pair
of the nylon underwear. I unfolded and pulled the silky panties up my
legs feeling their smoothness against my hairless skin. The panties fit
perfectly, but my tiny friend, Mr. Pinky, though flaccid, looked out-of-
place and embarrassed in the panties, so I tried to force him back
between my legs and that made the crotch of the panties fit better. I
grabbed my white shorts and pulled them up my legs. I shivered as I felt
the smooth silk lining of the shorts as it slid against the silky nylon
of my panties. I quickly put the white apron on over my white silk top.
Thankfully, the skirt of the apron partially covered my shameful outfit,
but it looked like a skirt over my now hairless legs.
I slipped on my white shoes and ran out into the hall. Marilyn was
standing there with a garbage bag draped over a finger. I grabbed it
and ran back to my dresser. "All of it, please," Marilyn said
impatiently from the doorway. I reached into the top drawer and grabbed
every piece of underwear, including undershirts and socks. I dropped
handfuls of my old underwear into the garbage bag. I wondered what I
would wear for socks and undershirts. I thought about the silky panties
caressing my hips. My face was hot and my glasses started to fog up.
"Leave the garbage bag in the hall closet and go and start dinner. I
have to go to work," she said. "Don't forget Mom's doctor appointment
tomorrow morning."
I dropped the garbage bag in the hall closet, hoping that I could remove
the undershirts and socks later, and sprinted to the kitchen. I was
filling a pot to boil pasta when I heard the front door shut and a few
seconds later, Marilyn's car start and reverse down the driveway.
Relieved, I leaned against the counter, close to tears.
I never saw the garbage bag or any of my underwear or socks again.
Rudimentary skills
My simple meal of pasta with marinara sauce from a jar and a salad was
thankfully simple and delicious. Dinner with my mother was uneventful.
She sat up in bed and asked me about my day and complimented me on my
neat appearance. I reminded her that she was going to have a follow up
meeting with her surgeons the following day, and that her stitches would
be removed. She nodded and murmured, "Yes, I remember," in that haze of
pain and pain-reliever that seemed to hang around her like a wispy fog
on a windless day.
I told my mother briefly about the shopping expedition and eating lunch
with Marilyn. I left out the embarrassing details: the mani-pedi; the
waxing of my legs; my new heeled sandals.
As she slowly chewed her pasta, she finally noticed my smooth legs and
my heeled shoes, and commented dreamily, ?My, what nice, tan legs you
have. You really are so pretty.?
I cleaned up the dishes and put Mom to bed. We were both in a daze.
I slept in my panties because I had nothing else to wear. That night I
dreamed that I was a star quarterback on my high school?s football team.
I had not a trace of acne on my young face. In fact, I was handsome and
strong. I was the most popular boy in my school. I walked confidently
out of the locker room, holding my helmet at my waist, leading my team
through a tunnel to the field. We could hear the cheering of an
overflow crowd and the beat of drums as a band played. I flexed my arm
and adjusted the pads that protected my collarbone. It was an evening
game, the sky darkening. We could just begin to see the light-bathed,
bright green of the grassy field beyond the darkness of the tunnel. I
could barely make out the clack of our cleats as we walked along the
paved floor of the tunnel.
As we emerged from the tunnel, I saw fourteen pert cheerleaders each
standing in perfect formation on one bent knee in purple tops and short
white skirts, which waved softly in the breeze. They each held two
purple pompoms at their waists. And when they saw me they jumped up with
a cheer and formed two straight lines. Shaking their purple pompoms
high above their heads, they formed a tunnel for me to run through onto
the field. I smiled and winked at the head cheerleader. She smiled
back eagerly. I put on my helmet and ran through the tunnel of young
feminine skin, and white miniskirts and purple pompoms, as the roar of
the crowd reached a frenzied crescendo. The stadium was so loud with
applause and cheers that it gave me a headache, and I tried to massage
my temples through my helmet. The sound got louder and louder. The
sound was crushing my head.
I woke with a jolt. It was 18 days since my mother?s accident. I was
living in my sister?s house. I had dropped out of school. There was a
loud grinding noise coming from the kitchen. I slinked out to the
kitchen in a daze, my head pounding, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, my
hair standing straight up, my wonderful dream completely forgotten.
Marilyn was just adding celery to a blender full of green slime. ?Well,
you have a big day at the hospital, and I?m determined to finally do
something about that acne of yours.?
My acne. I was suddenly stunned and hurt. No one had ever commented on
my acne before. I?d always assumed it was just one of those painful,
traumatic phases of being a teenager. I tried to grasp at the dream--
something to do with pretty cheerleaders with purple pompoms--which was
drifting away, waving to me from the edge of my consciousness, like a
friend waving a scarf goodbye from a departing ship.
?A colleague of mine told me about this treatment,? Marilyn said
breezily, unaware of my pain and confusion. ?And it sounds so good, I?m
going to try it myself.?
She stopped the blender and inserted a few more pieces of celery into
the blender, glanced at me and my hair, and said, ?It?s called a Green
Girl Cleanse. We?ll try it for seven days and stop all dairy. Let?s
find out if it helps. I even want Mom to try it. By the way, nice
hair!?
I leaned against the counter rubbing my temples trying to get rid of a
headache. I glanced at my reflection in the kitchen window, and saw
that my long bangs were standing straight up.
Marilyn enthusiastically cut a cucumber into three pieces. ?Could you
cook up some oatmeal for the three of us??
She added the cucumber chunks to the mix. ?It?s time for Mom to get up
anyway. It?s going to be another long day for you, Shawn, so eat up!
You have your first cooking lesson this evening at five,? she said,
pushing the pulse button on the blender a few times. ?And go ahead and
get showered and dressed for breakfast. I have a special outfit I want
you to try on this morning.? She flipped the switch on the blender
again, filling the kitchen with the grinding sound. And it was clear to
me that the conversation was over.
Treatments and Cures
Mom, Marilyn and I sat out on yet another beautiful sunny morning. We
each drank a full glass of the Green Girl juice and ate a half bowl of
hot oatmeal with soy milk. We all grimaced as we tentatively took sips
or gulps of the green slime.
?I promise I?ll add a bit more fresh lime juice next time. Shawn, I
want you to give this a try, too,? Marilyn said, handing me a large
purple pill. ?It?s supposed to help you with some of the hormonal
issues that can be the root cause of acute acne.?
?Well, that would be nice,? I said absently, as I put the large pill in
my mouth and washed it down with some of the bitter green slime. Purple
seemed like a lucky sign for me, but having forgotten my dream, I
couldn?t figure out why.
After breakfast, I quickly cleaned up the dishes and wiped the counters
and poured a second cup of coffee for Marilyn who was working on her
laptop on the patio. I wheeled Mom back to her bedroom.
?I know you?ve already showered, but please wash your face again with
this soap,? she said handing me two white bottles and a lipstick. ?The
second bottle is an acne cream for after you pat your face dry. And
please clean your glasses, or we?ll have to get contact lenses for you.?
I glanced at the lipstick, which said Clinique. ?The medication is
strong and will really take excess oil from your skin. We want to make
sure your lips stay moisturized, or they?ll end up looking like
raisins.?
I went back to my bathroom and removed my white top. I took off my
thick glasses and set them beside the sink. I washed with the bottle
marked ?Acne Cleanser.? The lather felt rich on my face, and I closed
my eyes and massaged it into my cheeks and forehead. Then I dried my
face on a white towel. Taking the bottle marked ?Acne Treatment
Foundation? I looked in the mirror and applied a thin layer to my
forehead. Miraculously, the red nearly disappeared. I put some on my
nose and the blackheads and red inflammation again seemed to magically
vanish. ?Wow!? I said to myself, pleasantly surprised.
?Let me see!? Marilyn, hearing my exclamation, yelled from her room. I
put on my glasses and ran into her room forgetting that I was wearing my
white shorts, but wasn?t wearing any top. She was just finishing
putting on her makeup, and was wearing a beige bra, boy short panties
and a short silk robe. ?That looks great. Let?s put just a bit on your
cheeks and chin to even it out.? She quickly spread the magic solution
on my face.
She took off my glasses. ?Close your eyes,? she said, and then she took
a powder puff from a brown jar and lightly dabbed my entire face. ?That
will even it out and keep it from getting shiny,? she said inspecting my
face with a smile. You know, your eyes are so pretty. Would you like
to look into getting some contact lenses??
I looked into the mirror, ignoring her question. And I saw clear skin.
For the first time in years, I didn?t have ugly red sores all over my
face. My huge eyes betrayed my joy and surprise. ?I look kind of
nice,? I murmured.
?Yes, you certainly do, Shawn,? Marilyn agreed, smiling. I had
carefully touched the hair on the back of my head with my manicured
fingers. Marilyn had not missed the unconscious, feminine gesture.
?Thank you, Miss Marilyn,? I said, still in wonder at the small
transformation.
?Before we get Mom in the car, I want you to try on a new outfit, just
for the hospital,? she said, snapping me from my happy trance. ?We want
to make a good impression if you run into an important doctor or
administrator.?
I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand as if a snake had slithered
across the floor. It dawned on me that I had been standing there with
no shirt. Marilyn went to her closet and pulled out a hanger with what
looked like a knee length white jacket. ?You can wear this over your
other uniform, but let?s see how it fits with just a tank top first.?
She took a silky ball of wispy fabric from her top dresser drawer and
gathered it her hands. She placed it in a circle over my head and let
it flow, like a tunnel, over my narrow shoulders and down my slender
waist. She pulled it down gently so I felt the adjustable straps of the
tank as they draped from my shoulders and I looked down and felt the
silk of the bottom whisper against my upper thighs.
The thrill just minutes before of having conquered my acne nemesis was
only a distant memory, as