Pieces of Hate Page 5
“You can’t be serious, Margaret!” Lynda hissed, leaning forward. “You have to go to that reunion, I mean . . . well, you just have to!”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Cut the false modesty. You know exactly why. Because you’re going to make them sizzle with jealousy. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Fat and homely Margaret shows up at the reunion and makes the eyes pop out of all those balding heads, makes hearts pound above all those beer bellies, makes all those former cheerleading sex kittens green with envy. For someone who can hold a grudge for so long. how could you possibly resist such an opportunity? I mean, can you imagine how Albert Huffman would react?”
“Albert Huffman? Your old boyfriend?”
“Oh, stop it. You know we didn’t even do it, Albert and me.”
“You didn’t? But I thought you said — ”
“I was just being nasty, Margaret. And I’m sorry. But the reason we didn’t do it was that he was a loser, a real zero. You could’ve done so much better.”
“Hah! I couldn’t even do worse back then.”
They began to do all the giggling and dishing they had never done as girls. They talked about Becky Gilbert, a cheerleader who had talked Mark Gepper, a butcher’s son, into filling Margaret’s locker with pig’s feet.
They remembered Daryl Cotch, the quarterback, and Amelia Turner, captain of the cheerleading team, who had been The Couple at school in those days, who had always joked about Margaret whenever she was in earshot; Amelia would say things like, “Stop looking at her, Daryl! I know you’re lusting after her! If I ever catch you two together, I’ll kill you!” and Daryl would say, “But she’s just so gorgeous, Amelia . . . so sexy . . . I can’t keep my eyes off her. She’s incredible!” Then, everyone around Margaret would laugh.
They laughed about Brandon Lyons, who was rumored to be the most well-endowed male at school; Brandon had been as handsome as he was empty-headed, and he knew he could have any girl on campus. He was forever tormenting Margaret in public: “How come you don’t seem to be interested in me, huh, Maggie? All the other girls are. They can’t wait to get to my love pump! Hey, how about this — you can think of it as a big fat sausage, huh? Does that sound good? You can think of it as food! Maybe a gigantic popsicle! Would that change your mind?” There were others, and Margaret and Lynda laughingly roasted them all.
Marty Cullen came up, as well. While Margaret was busy being the school fat-ugly girl, Marty was stuck with being the school nerd-fairy. He’d been tall and painfully skinny, with an Adam’s apple nearly as big as his chin. His bony, long-limbed clumsiness had been as much of a joke to everyone as Margaret’s girth and homely features. As far as Margaret knew, he’d never had a single date during his high school years; he’d been a loner, stumbling from one class to the next, trying his best to avoid everyone else, as afraid of them as she had been. The boys called him everything from “weasel” to “fag”; the girls, of course, didn’t need to call him names, using far more subtle, and no doubt more cruel and painful, methods of torture. But Margaret remembered Marty as being very smart. He’d helped her with a couple of classes in which she had not exactly excelled, such as math and science. Especially math. He’d been a whiz at numbers.
“Come on, Lynda,” Margaret said as their laughter died away. “Maybe I’m not fat anymore, but I can promise you that nobody’s going to put a sash over my shoulder and hand me a bouquet of roses. There’s a lot of mileage on this body, and my odometer just happens to be my face.”
Lynda shook her head slowly as she nibbled on her lower lip. “You need a reality check, girl.” She spun around on the mattress and stood on the opposite side of the bed, grabbing the I.V. pole with her right hand.
“What are you doing?” Margaret asked, a hint of panic in her voice. “Are you even supposed to be out of bed?”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Come here.” She went to the sink beneath and to the right of television set. Turning to Margaret, she beckoned with her left hand. “Come here to me.”
Cautiously, Margaret stood and went to Lynda, keeping a distance of about two feet.
Lynda laughed. “What’s the matter, afraid of me, or something? Come here, in front of the mirror.”
Margaret felt her heartbeat speed up, remembering all those times Lynda had made her stand in front of a mirror so she could point out to Margaret just how fat and ugly she was.
Lynda put an arm around Margaret’s shoulder and pulled her over to the mirror. Standing behind her, Lynda put her hands on Margaret’s shoulders.
“Now look at yourself, Margaret,” Lynda said, smiling. “Am I wrong? Was I lying? No, I wasn’t wrong. You’re beautiful. I mean, aside from a little runny mascara, you are really a knock-out.”
Margaret’s jaw slowly went slack as she stared at her reflection. She flipped the switch to the left of the sink and a light came on above the mirror. She looked even more dumbfounded as she leaned over the sink, bringing her face close to the mirror.
Her skin was beautifully, youthfully, and unbelievably smooth. She touched two fingertips to the flesh beneath her right eye which, very recently, had been puffy and baggy. It was not puffy and baggy now. Even the tiny wrinkles on her eyelids and around her eyes and the crow’s feet at the corners were all gone. The wrinkles around her lips had disappeared, and her lips looked full, though a bit chapped.
“My God,” Margaret breathed, touching her face with both hands now, moving her fingertips over her skin gently, in wonder. “My . . . God.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t be that shocked. You had to know how great you looked, Margaret.” Lynda was still smiling, but her smile began to melt away as she stared at Margaret’s shocked expression in the mirror.
You’ve been given something that will keep you well, dear, Mrs. Watkiss had said. Is this what she’d meant by “well”?
It was true, Margaret thought. Everything she said was true . . . and my face proves it.
“Margaret? Are you all right?”
“Fine, yes,” Margaret whispered as she stood up straight, never taking her eyes from her reflection.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Um, look . . . I came over to the mirror, like you asked. Now — ” She turned around and faced Lynda, who took a step back. “ — I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”
Lynda nodded cautiously. “Okay.”
“Go lie down. On your bed. I’m going to sit in that chair. And we’re going to hold hands.”
“What?”
“We can talk or watch TV or listen to the radio, whatever you want, but we . . . are going . . . to hold . . . hands. Understand me?”
“Are you sure everything’s . . . okay?”
“Never better,” Margaret said with a big smile. It was the kind of smile she couldn’t control, couldn’t hold in, and it felt wonderful. “Just do it. And don’t ask questions, okay?”
Lynda returned to her bed and Margaret to her chair. And they held hands. Tightly.
And as Mrs. Watkiss’s nose whistled behind the drape, Margaret felt a swelling inside in her chest that she had never felt before. It was a happy feeling, giddy, even a little magical.
She squeezed her dying sister’s hand a little harder . . .
10
Lynda had drifted off during the first half of an old Barbara Stanwyck tear-jerker, which was now swelling with music in its final scene. Before that, they’d watched part of the news, then the shopping channel for a while, making fun of the merchandise as well as the bloated prices. Lying on her side, Lynda’s limp hands were clutched firmly in Margaret’s. They’d only let go so Lynda could change positions on the bed and change channels with the remote, and to occasionally scratch her head through the bandana; in fact, she’d clawed at it furiously every few minutes. Otherwise, their hands had been locked together ever since they’d left the mirror over the sink.
And still, Mrs. Watkiss’s nose continued to whistle steadily beyond the drape.
She was awakened suddenly by the footsteps of a tall, slender, handsome young man — thirty-five at the oldest — who entered the room wearing a white coat, with part of a stethoscope dangling from the right pocket, and holding a clipboard in his right hand. He had thick, curly, dark brown hair, lovely brown eyes with long, thick lashes and a healthy tan.
“Oh,” he said, his eyebrows shooting up high. “I didn’t realize Lynda had a visitor.”
Sitting up straight, but still holding Lynda’s hands, Margaret said, “I’m her sister. Margaret.”
He smiled and nodded. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Plummer.”
“Really? So, which are you? A doctor or a plumber?”
He chuckled and looked away with an almost boyish bashfulness. “I came to see how she was doing,” he said, looking at the clipboard.
They spoke quietly to one another.
“She’s asleep,” Margaret said.
“Yes, I see. That’s to be expected.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why is that to be expected?”
“Um . . . how much do you know about her condition?”
“I know she has cancer, and that she’s, you know . . . dying.” Her voice dropped to a broken whisper on the last word.
“Well, yes, that’s a fairly accurate, if abrupt, description of her condition. Her sleeping is a reaction to the chemotherapy, and the — ”
“Dr. Plummer!” Lynda said happily, raising her head from the pillow with a smile. She pulled her hands away from Margaret’s and sat up energetically, curling her feet beneath her in the Indian-style position she’d taken earlier that day. Reaching up to scratch her head through the bandana, she said, “This is my sister Margaret. Margaret, this is my doctor, Dr. Plummer.”
Dr. Plummer’s lips twitched and his chin dropped as he stared at Lynda. His dark brown eyes were wide as he said, “Yes, uh . . . we met.”
“Oh, good,” Lynda said. “Sorry I was asleep. We were watching a movie I’d seen before, and I just drifted off.” This time she took both hands to her head, digging her nails into each side furiously.
Blinking rapidly, Dr. Plummer asked, “So, Lynda, how do you . . . feel?”
“Pretty good. In fact, believe it or not, I’m feeling kind of hungry. I was feeling hungry earlier, and I thought it was just a false alarm, but I really think I could use some Jell-O, or maybe some soup.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “In fact, soup sounds good. Something hot.”
“You’re . . . hungry.” He was not asking a question.
Lynda nodded, smiling.
Dr. Plummer walked around the bed and sat on the side opposite Margaret. “Okay, let’s have a look.” He pressed his fingertips under her jaw, then asked her to lift her arms and felt her armpits. His eyes widened as his brow lowered, and his jaw dropped slowly, opening his mouth behind closed lips. Then he touched her face here and there, as if he were fascinated with it, as if it were a completely foreign object, something he’d never seen before.
Lynda reached up with both hands again to scratch her head, squinting as she did so.
“You’re scratching a lot,” Dr. Plummer said. “Do you have a rash?”
“I don’t think so. My head’s just itching. It’s been driving me crazy.”
“It’s probably the hair,” Margaret said casually.
Dr. Plummer turned to her. “Hair? What hair? She’s on chemo.”
“Well, she’s got some peach fuzz under that bandana,” Margaret said with a gesture of her hand. “It’s probably making her head itch.”
“Oh, no. That can’t be.” He looked at Lynda again, his lips parted. He reached up, removed the bandana and dropped it into Lynda’s lap.
Her head was covered with a thin layer of salt and pepper down.
Dr. Plummer muttered something to himself that was unintelligible, but which had the sound of a very soft curse. He lifted a hand and ran it over her head slowly, his jaw hanging low once again.
“Your hair’s growing back,” he said, his voice breaking.
“Really?” Lynda asked, reaching up to feel for herself. “Is that bad?”
Ignoring her question, Dr. Plummer began to page through her chart his eyes scanning the pages carefully. He frowned down at the chart for a long time, chewing a lip, then: “You’re still on chemotherapy.”
“Yes, I am,” Lynda said.
He looked at her again, reached up and touched her scalp again. “And your hair’s growing back.”
“Is that bad, Dr. Plummer?”
“Well, it’s-it’s-it’s not bad, really, just . . . unusual.”
“Why?”
“Well . . . it’s just thuh- that . . . you lost your hair due to a reaction from the chemotherapy, which affected your follicles. The hair doesn’t grow back until weeks after the chemo has been discontinued. But . . . you-you-you have hair.”
“Really? So, what do you think? Should I go to the beauty parlor? Have it styled?” She laughed.
Dr. Plummer did not. He leaned away from her and stared at her as sternly as a teacher sizing up a troublesome student. He licked his lips, then plucked a pen from a pocket and made a note on the chart.
“I’m scheduling you for a test,” he said. “Tomorrow. Nothing painful, don’t worry. Just . . . a test.”
Lynda’s smile disappeared. “Is something wrong, Dr. Plummer?”
“Uh, no. No, you have nothing to worry about. It’s just that your body is behaving in, uh . . . a rather uh-unorthodox manner.” He lifted his eyes from the chart and stared at her rather suspiciously. “How do you feel? Physically?”
“Well, I feel good. In fact, I feel better than I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe because I’m so happy that Margaret showed up, I don’t know. But I feel really good.” Her smile returned, then became a big grin.
Dr. Plummer smiled as well, but his was forced and stiff. “I’m glad. You’ll be having this test tomorrow morning, first thing. I’ll be in to see you as soon as I get the results.”
“You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
Not that I can see. Not at all.” He stood. “You were serious about that soup?”
“Oh, yes. It sounds delicious.”
“I’ll see that you get it.” He walked around the bed toward the door, then stopped and turned to Margaret. Speaking distractedly, as if his mind were elsewhere, he said, “Nice to meet you. I’d like to get together for a talk tomorrow. Is that okay with you?”
“That’ll be fine,” Margaret said.
He left smiling, but with a puzzled frown.
“Well, I wonder what that was all about,” Lynda said, rubbing her palms together absently, energetically.
“Maybe it’s something good,” Margaret said, feeling that swelling in her chest again.
“Maybe, who knows? So, anymore good movies on?”
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“What’s that?”
Margaret looked out the window to see that the sky was darkening, the day ending.
“We’ll find a good movie,” Margaret said, “then we’ll hold hands some more.”
Lynda frowned at her. “What is it with you and holding — ”
“I told you. No questions. Agreed?”
Lynda sighed and shook her head, smiling. “Agreed.”
They found a movie. And then they held hands . . .
11
The next morning, Margaret took an invigorating and tinglingly hot shower in her motel room, then scrubbed herself dry with the motel’s cheap, thin towel. Standing naked before the fogged mirror over the sink, Margaret leaned forward and wiped her hand back and forth over the glass, wiping away the
moisture. She glanced at her reflection . . . and then she froze. Her hand was frozen halfway to her toothbrush, her head down, her back suddenly rigid.
Margaret’s head turned slowly back to the mirror, to her reflection. She squinted at her face, leaning forward.
“Holy shit,” she muttered as she picked up her towel and swept it back and forth over the whole mirror, trying to clear it up. Bits of lint clung to the glass, but the reflection was much clearer than before.
She dropped the towel to the floor and slapped her palms onto the Formica on each side of the sink, leaning close to the mirror so she could inspect her face.
It was not her face. At least, that was how she felt initially. It might have been her face way back when . . . back when she was fat, if, of course, she hadn’t been fat. But it couldn’t possibly be her face now, could it? Today? At the age of forty-two? After regular trips to the plastic surgeon? After developing wrinkles and baggy patches before her time because of all those little operations meant to maintain her youth and beauty? She hadn’t looked this good yesterday evening in Lynda’s mirror . . . and she thought she’d looked pretty damned good then!
She began to laugh. She didn’t mean to, but the laughter came out of her independently. She was unable to control it. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.
Lynda had been right.
Margaret would knock them dead at the reunion . . .
12
Margaret took three steps into Lynda’s hospital room with a paper bag clutched in her right hand before she stumbled to a clumsy halt.
Lynda’s bed was empty. It had been made neatly, as if the maid had just left . . . but it was empty.
“Oh, my God,” Margaret groaned. She rushed forward and tossed the bag onto the chair. “Lynda, oh my God!”
An ugly, phlegmy cough came from behind Mrs. Watkiss’s drape.
“She’s gone,” the old woman rasped.
Margaret went to the drape and pulled it back.
“Not dead, just gone,” Mrs. Watkiss said. “For tests, I heard ’em say. You should know better than anyone that she ain’t dead.”