Such a Pretty Face (27 page)

Out of the swirls and curls and tiny, twisting, spiraling crayon marks came a chair. It was my wooden chair, although it had morphed into a chair in three different colors of red, a chain wrapped around the back, handcuffs lying on the seat, and two detached arms on the floor. I thought of the blood flower upstairs in that room when I saw those arms and had to run outside and sit in the corn by myself for a while.

Helen morphed, twisted, elongated, shortened, stretched, and zigzagged each chair she drew. The background was one of two things: She drew weather, thunder and lightning, rolling clouds, or a sunny day that somehow, in some sneaky way, foretold something ominous. Or her backgrounds were full of squiggles. Long, short, fat, thin, all mixed together forming a moving, fluid, disturbing background.

The background of those pictures was a hint of what was going on in Helen’s mind. The hint was enough to scare us all to pieces.

Helen was relatively calm for a few weeks. We even talked about the baby.

“There’s something in there,” she whispered to me while we walked around the farm one morning, feeding the horses, petting the cats, and watching the corn sway. She pointed at her stomach.

“I know,” I whispered. “It’s a baby.”

She nodded at me, quite serious. “Someone tried to take it out before it was baked. It’s not baked yet. When it is, it’s coming out.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“It’s a baby. It’s crying right now.”

“Why is it crying?”

“It’s crying because it’s lonely and scared and its head is filled with mean people fighting and telling it what to do. Bad things.”

“That’s sad.” I wanted to cry for the baby.

“Yes, it is. It’s a baby and a few bees.” She sighed, then squished her yellow floppy hat down on her head. She was wearing two bathing suits over a ski outfit. It was warm out.

I did what Grandma did then. I changed the subject. “I’m glad you’re home, Momma. I like your hair.”

She raised her eyebrows, confused. “You do?”

“Yes, it’s pretty.” It was pretty. Helen was pretty. If she wasn’t wearing a confused, angry, demented, drugged-out, or fizzy expression, and if you could ignore whatever weird outfit she was wearing, you would say that Helen was gorgeous. She had high cheekbones and full lips and a small nose.

“Hmmm…” She stopped and stared at me. “You’re a girl kid that’s mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. I’m your daughter.” My voice caught. I knew she had a sickness in her head, I got it. Grandma and Grandpa always answered all my questions about that, but it still hurt. I was only seven, and I played hopscotch and four-square.

“You like my hair?”

I nodded again. “It reminds me of gold.”

“Your hair is black and you have a dent in your cheek.” She touched it, then stroked my hair. “Pretty.”

That night Helen cut off her hair and gave it to me in a Baggie. “I have a present for you,” she said. Then she kicked a chair and said, “Command Center says you’re an octopus in disguise!”

I burst into tears.

Portland, Oregon

S
aturday morning I was a totally hungover chicken from my previous night’s work. Saturday evening Mr. Pingle greeted me with tremendous excitement, his high-pitched exuberance cutting right through the fog of my chicken hangover like a sumo wrestler grabbing onto my cranium. I held my head tightly.

“Cluckers!” he declared. “You’re already in chicken mode, I can tell! Already thinking as a chicken!” He clucked at me, louder and louder, and I pressed my hands to my head tighter and tighter. “You, I think,” he told me proudly, quietly, so as not to offend any other employee there, “are the best chicken we’ve had. There’s something so authentic about you! So authentic!”

He pushed his glasses up on his nose and grinned at me.

“Thank you, Mr. Pingle. I appreciate that.” I stomped my chicken feet.

“Here ya go, Stevie.” He held out the chicken outfit. I closed my eyes. “I love it, your concentration! I’ll be quiet so you can situate yourself, grow into your role, think as a chicken thinks.”

He helped me into the chicken outfit, the big red feet, the feathered body, the chicken head, and, to his credit, he didn’t speak.

When I was all chickened out I grabbed the sign he held out to me—
CHICKEN DINNERS ONLY
$8.99!—and headed out to the street. I danced, I jived, I waved, people honked. I jumped off the sidewalk to avoid being hit by a swerving pickup, ran away from a group of drunk teenagers who tried to take off my head, and tripped over a stroller. The mother hit me with her purse.

At the end of my shift, I went home and flopped into bed, visions of chicken feet and mommies with feathers hitting me with purses dancing through my head.

The Atherton case dragged on, as did the depositions of anyone having anything remotely to do with Danny’s operation, the protocol for these operations, safety guidelines, oversight, the doctor in charge of the unit, president of the hospital, and so on.

We learned later that Mrs. Atherton was being sent to a clinic for a week for exhaustion. She had been hospitalized two nights before when she’d collapsed. I pictured her life, caring for Danny round the clock, not sleeping, desperate in those dark night hours, praying for a miracle, the miracle unresponsive. I thought of the medicines she had to administer, the IV that needed changing, and the constant threat that her dear son, the one who loved dragon stories and baseball and music, would die in their dining room, in his hospital bed, and on the other end of the spectrum, her horrified fear that this would be his life forever. Her grief and her anger and the stress that this entire lawsuit must be taking on both of them had me glued to my chair, staring into space and hurting for her.

I thought of the father, working his plumber job. He had recently been hired to work at a hardware store, so he was doing that, too.

I thought of the three other young boys and how their lives had been affected by this tragedy, and again I wondered how a country that could spend hundreds of billions of dollars on wars and war machinery to kill others can’t figure out a way for a young boy to get all the medical care he needs,
and deserves,
without the entire family collapsing financially.

And I thought of that paper. The Dornshire letter.

I knew what to do.

I so knew what to do.

After work I changed into blue jean shorts and a purple T-shirt. Zena had invited me to watch her roller derby competition, and I was going to eat a salad before scooting off to watch women try to kill each other.

For a minute I paused in front of the mirrors on my closet doors.

I still could not believe I could fit into shorts.

The body staring back at me, slender, with legs that had curves instead of globules of fat and dimples and wrinkles, still shocked me. Part of me would always believe that the mirror was an illusion. To go from being 320 pounds to 150 pounds was nothing short of a mind-blowing miracle.

Or a few cuts here and there and a stomach band during my first surgery, and another surgery, more risky, that whacked off many pounds of sagging skin that used to be puffed out with fat.

My weight after the operation slipped off like water on a water slide. I could drink only liquids at first, then pureed food, soft and moist foods, and not much of it or I would get dumping syndrome and vomit. I lost 40 pounds in three months. I lost more than 100 pounds the first year, and my face emerged from my fat.

I did not expect my operation to solve everything in my life, but my diabetes poofed into thin air, my blood pressure is normal, I won’t need knee or hip replacement surgery, I can breathe when I walk, I don’t feel another heart attack is imminent, and I do not ache or puff when moving. All incredible. Each day I’m grateful. Breathing is sweet.

But there have been more than physical differences in my life. The difference in how people treat me is stunning…and hurtful and aggravating and frustrating. And nice, too, if I can disregard the fact that when I was heavy they probably would not have paid any attention to me at all.

When I weighed 320 pounds I was constantly waiting for attacks from strangers, Herbert, acquaintances, coworkers, you name it. People say the rudest things to heavy people. “Have you tried this diet? My cousin did this…. You’re going to die if you don’t do something…. You have such a pretty face; if you lost weight it would show…. God, you’re fat…. She’s gross…. Why is she eating a hamburger…. She’s taking up way too much space on this planet…. I cannot believe that fat butt…. tub o’ lard…. Oh, my God, I’ve never seen thighs that big…. She can barely walk…. Her arms are the size of my waist…. Eww!”

It’s devastating. You try to build your armor up, but all those comments bypass the armor, each and every one, like sharpened spears.

Now, at five foot seven and a hundred and fifty pounds, I suddenly count, as if I didn’t before when I was heavy. Strangers chat with me downtown, my neighbors call me in for lemonade, and the checkers at the grocery store or waiters in restaurants regard me with friendly smiles instead of disgust.

Eileen tells me all the time that I cheated in order to lose weight, but here’s how I see it: We have surgery and go under very sharp knives for all sorts of things: appendectomies, heart operations, brain operations. Many times the surgeries, health issues, and injuries that Americans have are caused by being overweight, smoking, drinking, doing drugs, or being involved in accidents caused by our own stupidity. They’re preventable problems we bring onto ourselves. We undergo procedures to live or to improve our health. I did it for both.

What was I supposed to do? Stay that size my whole life and, possibly, die decades earlier than I would normally have? Continue to live in pain, unable to breathe right because some people out there would think I had cheated to lose weight? Try another diet that didn’t work, would never work? Was it my fault I was addicted to food? Yes, I thought instantly. Yes, it was my fault.

And no.

You try going through what I went through and you might find yourself addicted to something, too. There was no way I could look inward until I looked outward and fixed what soon would have killed me: my weight.

I had done that.

Somebody doesn’t approve? Somebody thinks I took the easy way out by getting bariatric surgery?

Their problem.

Not mine.

It was Eileen’s problem, not mine.

I had scars, the scars would never disappear, but I figured that was life. I had scars on the inside, scars on the outside.

Doesn’t everyone? And, in some way, don’t the scars make us stronger? Even if the scars caused us near-mortal heartache? Don’t they?

I had to admit, I was still standing. Still upright.

And I was wearing a pair of blue jean shorts.

Wasn’t that something?

That night I cheered until my throat was raw.

Roller derby is not for wimps. The building was jammed with rabid fans. We watched Zena tackle another skater she was ticked off at.
Tackled her to the ground.
Then those two rolled—
rolled
—on the floor while their teammates cheered them on. Zena was penalized and threw a fit. We booed, then we laughed. We waved at Zena. She smiled and waved back, cheerful, happy.

Zena’s team didn’t mess around. The stay-at-home mothers obviously had a lot of aggression because they skated as if they were at war against the ravenous lions in a bloodthirsty Roman arena. The brain surgeon was no slouch. At the end of the night she might well be operating on someone’s head that she herself bashed in.

It was so much fun.

I don’t even remember who won.

“You gotta try this, Stevie!” Zena yelled at me after she crashed into the side, face-first. She smiled her huge smile. It took up half her face. “You’d love it. You can kick some ass!”

Oh, I couldn’t.

I couldn’t!

Jake was coming home the next day. His bridge-building work had taken more time than expected. We’d been calling and e-mailing and texting. All these modern ways to communicate. “I want to take you up to Trillium Lake, Stevie. Have you been there?” I had not. “You’ll love it.”

But if Jake had said, “I want to take you out to a vacant lot and dig a hole to Germany and fill it back up,” I would have said yes to that, too, and loved it.

I could hardly dare to believe that I might,
might,
have met someone special.

But would he think I was special once he knew about my past? Would he think I was special if he ever saw a photograph of me at 320 pounds? How would he feel about the anchor scar on my body? How would he feel about someone bad in bed?

My doubts slid onto me like a landslide down a ski slope until the snow was choking me.

“Can you take a day off work when I get back?” he asked.

Could I? I never took a day off. I rarely took vacation days. Work was me; it made me feel safe. “Yes, I can,” I heard myself singing. “Yep.”

When he returned, we drove up to Trillium Lake at Mt. Hood. It sparkles, it’s blue, and it’s surrounded by trees with Mt. Hood rising in the background—a white, pointed gift for Oregon. There’s a trail around the lake, and we started off on that. Honestly, it’s so pretty you feel as if you’re part of a postcard.

“What are you hiding from me, Stevie?” he asked partway through, taking my hand. Oh, stop, my fluttering heart!

I automatically gripped his fingers tight.

“I know there’s something. I can tell.”

We stood together, right next to the blue water, fishermen in the center of the lake, the sun casting white diamonds on the water. “Can I tell you another time?”

He turned me toward him, tilted my chin up with his hand. “You sure can, honey, you sure can. Tell me when you trust me.”

He is so darn sharp.

And he is such an outstanding kisser. There is nothing better than a kiss at Trillium Lake, with Mt. Hood glowing in the distance, especially when you’re being held firm and warm against a giant of a man, his lips soft and sexy, and you’re melting.

I corralled a group of men with a cement truck who were working down the street. I told them where I wanted cement, they poured it in a circle, and I paid them in cash. While they were pouring I pounded china plates to medium-sized pieces.

I placed the pieces inside the circle—biggest pieces in the center—and worked outward. The cement guys stayed for a while. “Are you an artist?” one asked. “I wish,” I told him.

When I was done, I was crying, my hands were shaking, but I felt…better.

I was acknowledging what had happened, but in a pretty way, a peaceful way.

I touched each piece of china.

They reminded me of the tea parties that me and Sunshine had with our stuffed animals. I let myself think of those happy memories, tried to block out the rest, and sat there, the wind breezing on by, my wind chimes tinkling, a distant lawn mower humming.

I sat there.

That night I dreamed of her.

We were sitting in a cave having a tea party with our stuffed animals, who had come to life. The monkey with the pink polka-dotted dress was, indeed, prissy, lifting her pinkie finger when she drank her tea. The giraffe was a tomboy, elbows on the table, a baseball hat on her head. The polar bear was very scientific and talked about the Arctic ice. We all wore crowns on our heads and ate gingerbread men and women.

And then Helen came, dressed in black, no expression on her face, and she took Sunshine and stuffed her in the teapot while she sang “Amazing Grace.”

I tried to pour Sunshine out, but she was stuck. I tried to lift the lid, but it was nailed on. Helen said, “Command Center did it, I didn’t.”

I could hear Sunshine begging me to save her, then gurgling. She was drowning in the tea. She couldn’t breathe. I smashed the teapot on the table and the giraffe, polar bear, and monkey cried because inside the teapot there was nothing, nothing at all, not even Sunshine, and the giraffe said it was my fault for not saving Sunshine, and I knew she was right.

I woke up crying, my hands shaking as if they were being electrocuted, my heart pounding.

Do you ever get over the trauma of your childhood? Is it possible? Does it stalk you forever or are you eventually able to sleep normally?

I stared up at the Starlight Starbright ceiling and tried to breathe. I needed more than a wish fulfilled. I needed a miracle.

The next day in Pioneer Courthouse Square I asked Zena if she wanted to go to Lance’s Hard Rock Party.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll come as one of the KISS men. One of them grew up here. I’ll be the female Oregon contingent of KISS. Cool and rad, I’ll be there.” She linked an arm around my shoulder. “But you have to promise me, Stevie, that you’ll join the Break Your Neck Booties roller derby team.”

“Uh. No.” I handed her some pumpkin bread.

“Uh,” she mocked me. “Yes. Say yes, Stevie. Say yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She handed me some grapes. “When are you going to dare?”

“Dare?”