Your gift...
Lucy shuddered.
Her grandmother was already up and
back with a pretty red and pink gift bag, a small badly wrapped
present, and two other boxes with silvery wrapping.
As long as there was nothing with a
wagging tail in the bag, she would be happy.
Her grandmother handed her the bag
first. Under the pink tissue paper Lucy found a card with a big
heart on it, and Tweety Bird swinging on its perch in the middle of
it.
It was from her mother, and there was
a twenty dollar bill tucked into the card.
Sorry I’m not there. Had to
pick up a double.
Love you sweet
girl.
Mom.
Lucy set down the card and the money,
and then reached back into the bag. At the bottom was a pair of
four inch, pink leather Jimmy Choo knockoffs. But they made Lucy
smile. They were heels, and girly and something like what she wore
when she used to go out on dates.
“
There’s something else in
there.” Her grandmother gave the bag a playful shake.
Lucy reached into the pink tissue
paper again and found a small cell phone.
“
It’s one of those pre-paid
phones. There’s over three hundred minutes on there. Your brother
turned it on for us...” She halted. Part of this gift was from her
too.
Lucy should’ve known that her mother
wouldn’t think to get her something practical.
“
Turned it on for Lila, I
mean.” Having her grandmother call her mother Lila never failed to
shock her. Her father had always called her Elle.
Daddy...
She was certain neither of the two
remaining presents were from him. He hadn’t called, written, or
asked about her the entire six months since his arrest. And the
last time she’d seen him in court, he’d completely ignored
her.
Lucy shook the memory of him as he
walked out of the courtroom, in the custody of bailiffs and an FBI
agent, from her mind. How her heart had stopped beating, and she’d
dug her fingernails into her palms until they’d bled.
Anything not to cry.
Next was the badly wrapped
present—from her brother, Seth. Under the wrinkled paper was a CD
she used to have—Kelly Clarkson. It had “Behind These Hazel Eyes”
on it.
So he knows me enough to
know my favorite song...
She was
surprised.
Too bad I don’t own a CD player
anymore.
Finally came the two silvery boxes—one
long and slim, the other a bigger, almost weightless box. Both were
undoubtedly from her grandmother.
Lucy tore into the thin package first,
and under the box lid she found a perfectly faded pair of vintage
Calvin Klein jeans.
“
Maggie down at
Fashion Again
helped me
find these. I asked what was the... most chic thing she had for a
girl your age.”
Lucy leaned over and kissed her
grandmother on the cheek. “Thank you. They’re perfect.” She noticed
that they were her size... her size now, with the five pounds of
Big Macs and French fries on her hips and ass—an unwanted bonus
from her job.
She willed what that meant out of her
thoughts. Who cared what size she was? No one anymore.
She reached for the second package and
tore into it, wanting something to do with her hands as she tried
to push all the thoughts out of her head before they made her head
too heavy and she couldn’t hold it up anymore.
She opened the box and looked down at
the small, fuzzy, key lime green teddy bear that looked up at her
with his arms outstretched. She gasped as her memory caught up with
her eyes. The familiar amber glass eyes, the cute little upturned
snout, the small green heart in the middle of its chest.
As Lucy scooped it out of the box, its
soft, soft fur caressed her fingers. “Mr. Gordo...” she
whispered.
“
I forgot you even left him
here, back... well, whenever it was.”
Third grade. I was
eight.
“
Found it in my cedar chest
a couple weeks back… I thought you’d like to have it
back.”
Lucy didn’t realize she was crying
until she felt her tears splash as they fell on her hands, and onto
the green bear’s soft fur.
“
Lucybean—” her grandmother
tried to say more, but Lucy jumped up, gave her a quick kiss on the
cheek, and then ran up the stairs, her vision a blur. She bolted
into her little room and pushed the door closed with all her
weight. She stood there as she swiped at her eyes and tried to
catch her breath.
But the mere sight of her bed—her
grandmother had made it up fresh with faded yellow sheets and a
good heavy blanket—made the tears flow harder, and her breath come
in gulps and gasps. The world pressed down on her again,
threatening to grind her into dust. She staggered toward the bed
and then tentatively lay down, letting her beaten and bruised body
slowly sink into the soft old mattress.
As she wept into Mr. Gordo’s
soft green fur, she prayed that weight would crush her.
Please... take all this pain away.
~*~
It was almost a nice way to wake up...
almost. Gentle morning light spilled through the curtains on her
window, amber and yellow that warmed the room. Lucy’s eyes were
sore as she opened them, her vision fuzzy as she blinked. She had
big time cotton mouth, and as she licked her parched lips she
tasted her grandmother’s icing, just a hint. But then she turned
her head to look at her alarm clock. Her head, her neck, her
shoulder ,and arm, all ignited in a fiery chorus of pain. Her good
hand shot up to hold her head and she felt something soft and
fluffy against her forehead. She pulled her hand away and looked at
Mr. Gordo.
At least you’re
here...
Lucy set him down on her bed, and then
pulled herself up until she was sitting with her legs dangling off
the side. She still had on her Dr. Scholl’s. When the throbbing in
her arm and shoulder cooled, and the room stopped spinning, she
took a deep breath.
Something
stinks!
And suddenly she realized it was
her.
The special
sauce...
Lucy groaned as she pushed off the bed
with her good arm and stood, wobbly on her feet. Her head started
to spin again, and the rest of her body ached. She trudged to her
bedroom door, pulled it open and walked slowly down the hall, her
hand braced against the hall wall every so many steps—her head was
really threatening to fall right off her poor tortured
neck.
Then, just a few feet from the
bathroom door, she felt the bottom of her stomach give out, and
then heave. Lucy ran through the open doorway and hit her knees in
front of the toilet. A gush of vomit leapt up out of her and made a
sickening splash as Lucy’s hands gripped the cold porcelain of the
toilet.
Lucy hated throwing up. Her mind
always screamed for someone to help her, to call an ambulance, for
she was always certain she was going to die. But for the first time
ever those thoughts didn’t even occur to her.
I’m eighteen.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and
reached with her sore arm, and through the pain pressed down on the
toilet’s handle and flushed.
I can handle
throwing up all by myself.
Lucy was tempted to just lie down on
the cool linoleum and curl up in a little ball, maybe curl up
around the bottom of the toilet, just in case she had to puke
again. But it was Sunday, and she wasn’t off on Sundays. That meant
she would have to go back to McDonald’s, back to her disgrace. The
thought was almost more than she could bear.
Maybe I’ll just call
off?
She pulled herself to her feet holding
on to the nearby sink.
I don’t think
they’ll really be expecting me... hell, I don’t even think I’m in
shape even to get on the bus...
Her mind lost the thread of what she
was thinking. She was peering into the ancient oval mirror bolted
to the wall over the sink. Even with fuzzy patches, and more than a
few streaks where the silver backing had peeled over time, she had
a perfectly clear view of herself in that mirror. And the view
wasn’t good.
She took a deep, shuddering breath as
she tried to comprehend that the girl in the mirror was
her.
The girl looking back at her didn’t
resemble her in the least. Never mind the tacky blue polo shirt
plastered to her, sticky and cold with special sauce. This girl had
some major problems. Her hair was a greasy, tangled mess. The ends
were fried at least an inch, her lustrous mane of mahogany hair now
a mousy, faded-out brown, caused by sun damage and no central air,
unfiltered tap water, and supermarket hair product.
Her skin was pale and sallow, and not
only were her eyes bloodshot, but they had ugly dark circles under
them. And there on her chin, puffy and red, with a volcanic looking
white head, pulsed her very first zit. She’d been going to a
dermatologist since she was twelve; she’d thought she would always
be immune.
As she pried her gaze from
that horrid pimple, she gapped as she realized she wasn’t just five
pounds overweight. No. She was at least ten pounds—which was
absurd, especially after she’d just barfed up half her bodyweight.
Yet, as she turned and gazed at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t
deny it. Her flat belly was gone. Her perfect,
perky—
real
—breasts
had lost their perk, and were actually starting to sag. She turned
and looked to her rear end. The ass she used to put a finger to and
make a sizzle sound through her teeth about, just drooped—large
enough that her cheap black slacks seemed on the verge of
splitting.
Whatever little strength she had left
drained out the bottom of her feet. She leaned against the sink,
her arms holding her up, but just barely, and tried to breathe. But
every time she looked into the mirror she just couldn’t take in any
breath. Her eyes started to burn again, and tears welled up in
them.
This isn’t me...
She gripped the edge of the sink.
This can’t be me...
Despair flowed cold and dark through
her veins. It was almost welcome, that cold. At least it was making
her feel numb, whereas the sight of herself in the mirror was
making her nauseous, and the burning in her head down through her
arm was enough to make her scream. She wanted that cold despair to
wash over her, make her pass out, make her vanish from sight, from
the world.
This can’t be
me...
Then who is it?
whispered a mean little voice in her head.
Who’s this disgusting, pathetic creature staring
back at you from the mirror?
The voice cackled with cruel
delight.
I thought you’ve never met a
mirror that didn’t like you? This one, it’s safe to say, hates your
guts!
She something flared in her head. Not
the wicked ache and pain, nor the dizziness from before. No, this
was different. This was hot and sharp, and wonderfully familiar.
This was her getting pissed.
That heat bloomed with utter
annoyance, and a red slash of anger, as it traveled down through
her body to her chest, and then radiated through her cold, aching
limbs, replacing the chill of despair in its wake.
She looked down at her hands, the
chipped, uneven nails, the gnarled cuticles, the grit and gunk
embedded underneath. Lucy clenched her teeth as she balled up her
hands into fists, and then beat them down hard on the sink counter,
staring with utter hatred at the personal-grooming-impaired girl in
the mirror.
That’s. Not. Me.
The mean little voice in her head
started to say something, but Lucy clamped her mind down on
it.
Get out of my head, you
stupid, fat, ugly cow!
Lucy pulled off the band that held her
hair back in a ponytail. Then gently she pulled the special sauce
gooped polo shirt off over her head, and holding it out in front of
her for a moment of contemplation, she pressed her foot down on the
pedal of the small, lidded trashcan and tossed the thing in,
letting the metal lid drop with an emancipating clang.
She kicked off the Dr. Scholl’s and
then stripped off the black slacks, and her under-things. She
crawled into the shower and let the hot water cascade over her
sore, tired body. It felt better than good. Lucy couldn’t remember
the last time she’d just stood under the rejuvenating hot spray of
a shower, with no time constraint. Usually someone was knocking on
the door, telling her to hurry up. Or she was dashing around,
trying to make her bus, so she could get to work on
time.
But as she stood under that water now,
a thought started materializing in her mind, like mist turning to a
blazing neon sign—a huge, blinking Times Square sized sign. Lucy
could practically hear the low, deep buzz that sign emitted every
time it crackled to life.
And it read: I QUIT!
I quit...
The thought just echoed in her mind,
the thought turning from a mere whisper to the chant of a Super
Bowl stadium crowd.