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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