patches and all.
“Well, you can borrow whatever’s in my closet.”
And much like my attitude with Jenny, I’d wear a triple-tiered tiara if it meant my mother wouldn’t nag.
“Okay then, thanks.”
“Yes, let’s give you some proper time to freshen up. I’ve got all the goodies you’ll need. Powder, shampoo, soap – have yourself a nice long bath, and help yourself to my closet, sweetheart. There’s a real pretty blouse that I think will fit you. It’s way too long for me in the arms. You’ll see it on the bed.” Her words sounded like thoughtful suggestions, but I knew well they added up to a direct command.
“But,” I started.
“Since after all – ” she burst.
“What?”
“We’re having a special guest tonight.”
My mother had that familiar frantic look in her eye, after years of dealing with my obstinate refusal to play girl. She was waiting for me to protest that I was, in fact, not a doll.
I just sighed, “Special guest?”
“Yes.”
“Do I know this person?”
“I think so.”
“I’m so tired, Mom. I’ve been cramped up all day.”
“I know, sweetheart. A harmless little dinner and then you can go to bed.”
She hugged me again, and I knew my choice in the matter was gone. This was a place where I’d always had to acquiesce, and tonight would be no different.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Buying the dinner rolls.”
“Right.”
I walked upstairs and into my parents’ room; something felt very different. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what the difference was, so I sat on the bed until it came to me. My father was missing from the room, not just his possessions but also his very essence.
The bathroom counter – once cluttered with both perfume and aftershave bottles – was almost bare, except for an old bottle of Chanel and a toothbrush holder that held only one brush. Now only my mother’s things were here; even the grey shower curtain had been replaced with vertical pastel stripes.
Everything smelled completely of her.
I took a long, hot shower and conditioned some life back into my hair. I picked up the mushroom-colored blouse that had been laid out ever so neatly on the bed. My mother had passed it off as hers, but I knew instantly that she had bought it specifically for me. I clipped away the Jane’s Boutique price tag, and slipped it on over my bare breasts, which were well into their downward sag. I searched my duffel bag for a bra, but only found two of the sports variety. Myboobs looked like thick pancakes under a silk blanket. I tried on my mother’s bras, but my C’s were quickly lost inside of her giant D cups.
Then I tried on my mother’s dress slacks but every pair was three inches too short. This would normally be the time when I’d end up wearing a pair of my father’s pants, cinched up tight with a pretty belt and a long top left to hang loose over the way-too-big crotch area.
That left me with one final option, and it was the worst possible. I wanted to run downstairs and offer my mother a thousand dollars to let me wear one of her warm fluffy housecoats. But I couldn’t.
It was time to break out the wool. I slowly stepped into one of my mother’s school-marm skirts. It was too large around the waist and I was tempted to create a new hole to loop around the button, but I had nothing sharp except my angst, so I knotted a Disney-inspired sash around the whole itchy thing. Then I put my hair up in a tight bun, and applied a little of my mother’s powder and rouge to my face and neck.
I studied myself in her oval ivory mirror, and was reminded of my days as an extra in a really bad period piece – around the same time I’d discovered that the screenwriter isn’t exactly the most valued person on a movie set.
Humiliating as this dress-up nonsense was, it was far easier than the epic battles my mother and I had fought any time I’d resisted such maidenly garb. I could have solved this indignity if I’d possessed even a modicum of
“Well, you can borrow whatever’s in my closet.”
And much like my attitude with Jenny, I’d wear a triple-tiered tiara if it meant my mother wouldn’t nag.
“Okay then, thanks.”
“Yes, let’s give you some proper time to freshen up. I’ve got all the goodies you’ll need. Powder, shampoo, soap – have yourself a nice long bath, and help yourself to my closet, sweetheart. There’s a real pretty blouse that I think will fit you. It’s way too long for me in the arms. You’ll see it on the bed.” Her words sounded like thoughtful suggestions, but I knew well they added up to a direct command.
“But,” I started.
“Since after all – ” she burst.
“What?”
“We’re having a special guest tonight.”
My mother had that familiar frantic look in her eye, after years of dealing with my obstinate refusal to play girl. She was waiting for me to protest that I was, in fact, not a doll.
I just sighed, “Special guest?”
“Yes.”
“Do I know this person?”
“I think so.”
“I’m so tired, Mom. I’ve been cramped up all day.”
“I know, sweetheart. A harmless little dinner and then you can go to bed.”
She hugged me again, and I knew my choice in the matter was gone. This was a place where I’d always had to acquiesce, and tonight would be no different.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Buying the dinner rolls.”
“Right.”
I walked upstairs and into my parents’ room; something felt very different. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what the difference was, so I sat on the bed until it came to me. My father was missing from the room, not just his possessions but also his very essence.
The bathroom counter – once cluttered with both perfume and aftershave bottles – was almost bare, except for an old bottle of Chanel and a toothbrush holder that held only one brush. Now only my mother’s things were here; even the grey shower curtain had been replaced with vertical pastel stripes.
Everything smelled completely of her.
I took a long, hot shower and conditioned some life back into my hair. I picked up the mushroom-colored blouse that had been laid out ever so neatly on the bed. My mother had passed it off as hers, but I knew instantly that she had bought it specifically for me. I clipped away the Jane’s Boutique price tag, and slipped it on over my bare breasts, which were well into their downward sag. I searched my duffel bag for a bra, but only found two of the sports variety. Myboobs looked like thick pancakes under a silk blanket. I tried on my mother’s bras, but my C’s were quickly lost inside of her giant D cups.
Then I tried on my mother’s dress slacks but every pair was three inches too short. This would normally be the time when I’d end up wearing a pair of my father’s pants, cinched up tight with a pretty belt and a long top left to hang loose over the way-too-big crotch area.
That left me with one final option, and it was the worst possible. I wanted to run downstairs and offer my mother a thousand dollars to let me wear one of her warm fluffy housecoats. But I couldn’t.
It was time to break out the wool. I slowly stepped into one of my mother’s school-marm skirts. It was too large around the waist and I was tempted to create a new hole to loop around the button, but I had nothing sharp except my angst, so I knotted a Disney-inspired sash around the whole itchy thing. Then I put my hair up in a tight bun, and applied a little of my mother’s powder and rouge to my face and neck.
I studied myself in her oval ivory mirror, and was reminded of my days as an extra in a really bad period piece – around the same time I’d discovered that the screenwriter isn’t exactly the most valued person on a movie set.
Humiliating as this dress-up nonsense was, it was far easier than the epic battles my mother and I had fought any time I’d resisted such maidenly garb. I could have solved this indignity if I’d possessed even a modicum of
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