We All Love the Beautiful Girls

by Joanne Proulx

  The mother gives me a kind smile and plunks her daughter down at this table where she starts playing with these amputee dolls. In my new world, such things exist. Amputee magazines. Legless children. Families of mutilated dolls, floppy, woolly-headed jobbies, like something a Mennonite might make. And get this, the dolls are fitted with tiny prosthetics, except for the mother doll who just has two little stumps sticking out from under her dress.

  The woman sits down a couple chairs over. She looks nice. She might be someone to talk to. Someone who might convince my dad not to kill me. This is my first Glenmore visit, I could tell her. Okay, technically it’s, like, my eleventh. First time actually inside. Eleventh time onsite. This is where I’d want her to nod, to encourage me to keep going. The other times my mom or dad just dropped me off, right, and I’d pretend to go in but I’d actually go hang out in that little clump of trees at the edge of the parking lot, you know, where the smokers go to smoke. Why didn’t I come in? Well, it’s complicated. You know, the whole amputee thing. It’s hard for someone my age. I know it’s not great for your daughter either, but seriously, they strapped a hook on me in the hospital. And you know I can’t, like, walk around with a hook sticking off me. I can’t touch a girl with a hook, not that it’s a huge problem ’cause the girl broke up with me. Yeah, it sucks. And heartache? It’s a real thing, like someone taking a two-by-four to your chest. Pain. Suffering. Those might be the words. But she kissed me last night for my birthday. A pity kiss. A goodbye kiss. A kiss kiss. I don’t know. Like I said, it’s complicated.

  The girl playing with the dolls looks about three or four or five, sunny-blond ponytail, cute I guess, except for the legs. She’s thumping one of them against the table, plastic hitting metal, a hard, hollow beat. I try not to notice when she rips the prosthetic limb off the boy doll, a little BE dude like myself. So now his little meat-stump is poking out of his little plaid shirt, and I can almost feel his pain when she wrenches his arm backwards, dislocating soft limb from soft socket. Her tongue pokes out the corner of her mouth as she wrestles a figure-eight-type harness onto his shoulders—I recognize all the gear from the hospital—jams his tiny test socket over his tiny residual limb, fits his freaky little plastic hand onto the socket, feeds the phony cable from the shoulder harness to the hand.

  Then she rips it all off and starts again.

  And I want to yell, like, hey, why don’t you play with your own doll, the mother doll, her legs are right there under the table. I’m half out of my chair, all set to yank the boy doll out of her hand and give her shit hollow leg a kick so she stops banging the table, I’m all ready to drop onto my knees and grab the mother’s missing parts and shove them into her hand so she’ll leave the boy doll the fuck alone, and I’m actually standing over her, I actually have hold of the doll when someone says, Finn. Really loudly. Finn. I look over and see my dad with this half-stunned, half-angry look on his face. Can you come in here, please?

  Everyone’s staring at me. The girl on the floor and her mom in her chair and the receptionist in her window and my father in the doorway and I’m like Sure, absolutely, no problem, so no one knows that the amputee boy standing in the middle of the room was about to yank an amputee doll away from a little amputee girl because that’s just fucking nuts, you know? Like there’s no explaining that to anyone. I mean, something like that? Something you can’t even explain to yourself?

  —

  MIA POINTS TO the far end of the closet and David pulls the measuring tape to the wall. “Higher,” she says, doing her best to ignore the ties dangling from the hanger behind him. “There. Just under the rod.”

  David’s closet is bigger, wider—she just measured it—a wider stretch from bar to bar. Dimmable recessed lights strip the ceiling, Berber carpet cushions the floor—easier on the knees than hardwood. Michael’s knees. David’s knees. Her knees. My god, she has to stop thinking like this.

  She thinks maybe the pot kicked something loose inside her. Or diving naked off the dock, the feeling of levity she’d had in the air, or, or…she doesn’t know. She hasn’t had sex in a while. Last night at Finn’s birthday, when Michael leaned across the bar, she’d been ready for that kiss. But when she went upstairs later, in her swingy dress and her sexy underwear, he’d been snoring, his iPad fallen flat on his chest. And, well, here she is now, in another man’s walk-in closet.

  Thus far, the day hasn’t been wonderful. On the way over, she’d stopped at Wild Oat, the vegetarian café near her studio. Treated herself to a coffee and a sandwich, thirteen dollars in total including tax and tip. But she’d forgotten to transfer money from the credit line into chequing, and when she tried to pay, her debit card was declined. Loath to use her Visa in case it too was rejected, she’d scrambled toonies and loonies together, while outside on Main Street a bylaw officer slapped a ninety-dollar parking ticket under her wiper.

  Mia snaps the tape into its housing and scribbles the measurements into her Moleskine. They’re doing built-ins in the closet. David’s new king-sized bed takes up so much of the master, other than bedside tables and perhaps one comfortable chair, Mia doesn’t want anything else cluttering up the room. Definitely no dressers.

  “Do you need me to stick around?”

  “No,” Mia says, “of course not.” She has a key to the condo, she can lock up…it’s just she thought they might have a drink after she finished figuring out the closet. Grab some dinner. Get high. See what happens. It’s Friday night, after all, and even though she should probably get home—she’s shooting that freebie wedding tomorrow—she’s in no rush.

  Since arriving at the condo, Michael’s phoned her twice. She let the calls go to voicemail. The one text she’d read in the lobby was enough: an incoherent rant about Finn’s appointments at Glenmore, what she knows about his missing hand. What doesn’t she know about Finn’s missing hand? She looked after it for months. Wound Care 101. And the nurse, Cathy, was right. It got easier but it was never easy. Mia turned off her cell; whatever it’s about, this latest crisis can wait.

  David bends and retrieves a loosely coiled mat from the corner.

  “Yoga?” she says.

  “Hot yoga.”

  “Oh,” Mia says, “the unpleasant kind.” She begins fingering one of his ties, a rise in her chest, well aware of what she’s about to do. Flirt, with a handsome single man, not thirty steps from his very comfortable bed. “I had fun last week. With you.” Her eyes flicker to his. “Biking. At the river.”

  “I can’t believe I never swam in it before. And you and that tree!” He laughs. “Once you ditched the ratty underwear, well, who knew my designer was such a hottie?” Grinning, David clutches the yoga mat to his chest. “Except for the old-lady bush.”

  “What?” Mia practically doubles over. “What did you say?”

  “The old-lady bush. No offence, but these days girls are keeping things a little trimmer down there.”

  Mia whips her notebook at him. He bounces it away with his spongey mat and ducks out of the closet. He’s lucky she wasn’t holding the tape measure. She would have dinged it off his forehead.

  “I’ve gotta go,” he yells. “There’s a razor in the bathroom. It’s a straightedge, so be careful.”

  “Fuck off, David.”

  “I am. Right now. Fucking off. And congratulations. Peter’s agreed to mediation. Date’s set for September.”

  —

  THE RAZOR Is in the top drawer of the vanity, next to a shaving brush and a crumpled tube of toothpaste. She flicks her wrist and the blade swings smooth out of the handle. She lifts her arm and presses the four-inch gleam of silver against her throat. Considers herself in the mirror. Maybe, she thinks. If she were a different sort of person.

  She sets the razor on the vanity and lifts the front of her dress. Black silky underwear stretches low across her hips, all pubic hair hidden away by lace. She’s been wearing pretty underthings all week. David shamed her into it, so he’s part of the reason, but not all of it. Yester
day when she took delivery of his new bed, she’d put on her loveliest bra and panties knowing he wouldn’t be around. Even just now in the closet, she had no real expectation he’d lift her dress. She’s never cheated on Michael, and is pretty sure she’s not about to start now.

  So what’s she doing in this sexy underwear? She isn’t sure. All she knows is she likes the way it makes her feel: alive to sex, the possibility of sex, the way it brings sex closer. She can’t believe all this yearning and confusion is about David. That he would have such power. Most of the time she likes the condo better when he’s not in it.

  Mia pulls her dress over her head. Tosses her bra onto the toilet. Wriggles out of her underwear. She picks up the razor and considers herself again, the inverted triangle of hair pointing like a furred arrow between her legs. When she stood naked on the dock, he’d been critiquing her. Even as she dove, joy-filled, into the water, what he saw was her old-lady bush. And what else? Her thickening thighs? The droop of her tits? The soft crinkle of her belly skin?

  She should have masturbated in his bed, been the first to moan at his altar. She should have taken his credit card on a shopping spree, bought herself some shoes, a plane ticket to Paris. Instead, she ordered him a $13,000 couch. Digging through her wallet for change to pay for a fucking sandwich, that shiny rectangle of plastic looked mighty tempting.

  Elbows jutting, Mia sweeps up her hair. The razor rests cool against the back of her neck. Her breasts rise. Her stomach stretches smooth. In the mirror, her areolas are plummy red, although still lighter than they were when she breastfed Finn.

  Is she beautiful? What does it even mean? What does it even matter? She is forty-seven years old. She will be fifty-seven, sixty-seven, seventy-seven, if she’s lucky she will be eighty-seven years old. What will they make of her then? She is dying flesh and brittling bone like every other person on the planet. She is a mother, a wife, a woman, an old woman with an old-woman bush.

  She pitches the razor onto the vanity. It skids across the countertop and clatters into the sink. Chin lifted, she gazes at herself in the mirror. Fuck you, she thinks. She needs to find some women friends.

  —

  “SO, YOU KNEW about the prosthesis?”

  Perched on the edge of their bed, Mia brings one knee to her chest, wraps her arms around her leg and starts undoing the long satin lace on her sandal. “Yes. I knew.”

  Michael paces in front of her, striding the length of the bed. “For how long?”

  “Dr. Sullivan told me.” Mia stops fiddling with the ribbon that wraps up onto her ankle. “When Finn was in the hospital.”

  Michael staggers to a halt. Seasons have changed, the planet has tipped closer to the goddamn sun, Mia’s known about the missing prosthesis for—what?—five months and never said a word to him. And neither has Finn.

  In the car on the way home from Glenmore, Michael hadn’t raised his voice or confronted Finn in any way. He’d even been civil with the psychologist, a pink-haired twit without the brains to pick up a phone and call the parents of a freshly amputated kid who’d been AWOL since day one. But now, in his own bedroom, alone with his wife, he wants to let loose a swampy scream. Five months! The trip to the mall, the kiss at the bar, their entire marriage, all of it, everything feels like a betrayal. He wants to kick a hole through the roof, send shingles flying, tarry black rectangles that warn the neighbours: things are not right with the Slates.

  “Finn said it was taken from his room,” Mia says, switching legs to undo her other sandal. Michael watches the silky black lace slither loose from her ankle. David’s no doubt seen those fucking shoes. “I thought it would turn up.”

  “Yeah? Well, it hasn’t. Jesus Christ, Mia, what else haven’t you told me?”

  “Can you please stop yelling at me?”

  “I’m not yelling.” But he is. He knows he is. Christ, maybe Dirk’s right. Maybe he is going to kill someone. He forces himself to slow down, to breathe.

  “It was a hook, by the way,” Mia says, kicking off her sandals.

  “What?”

  “The prosthesis the surgeon gave him. It was a hook. Like, you know, Captain Hook. At least that’s how Finn described it.”

  Michael falters, tripped up by the image of a gleaming metal hook where his son’s hand should be, his skin, his bones, his flesh and his blood. “That doctor was a fucking idiot.”

  “No, Michael, he wasn’t. He just made a mistake.”

  “Why are you defending him?”

  “Why are you attacking him?”

  Michael reels again. His brain’s a scramble—Christ! what are they even fighting about? Their son. He loves their son. He wants to protect him. Wants him to have the best chance at life. Why is that so hard to understand?

  “Have you seen him? The kid is skin and bones. And today? He was fighting with some girl over a doll.”

  “What?”

  “In the waiting room. At Glenmore. He was trying to rip this doll out of her hands.” Mia gives him an incredulous frown. “I told you he was messed up. I told you we had to get involved.”

  She stands up, grabs her sandals by the laces and throws them into the closet. “Why don’t you just go and talk to him. I’m sure he’s as upset as you are.”

  Just go and talk to him. She makes it sound so simple.

  Michael sits down on the bed.

  It should be simple. Finn is upset. In the psychologist’s office, he hadn’t said a word. Looked like he was going to cry on the way home in the car.

  Michael leans forward, elbows on knees, and grabs at his hair. Just go talk to him. And say what? That he doesn’t give a shit about the bill—they’ll figure out the money—but he is pissed off about the lying?

  He tries to picture himself in Finn’s room, maybe sitting on the end of his bed. Saying, saying—that what’s most upsetting, Finn, is you’ve been going through some big stuff, and it’s obviously been a lot to handle. Your mom and I are sorry we couldn’t help you more. But you are the strongest person I know and you will make it through. No problem. I believe that with all my heart. Your mom and I will always be here for you. No matter what. You should never be afraid to talk to us. We’re not perfect, but we love you.

  It should be so simple. I love you. Michael exhales the breath he’s been holding.

  “Hey.” Mia sits down beside him and, slinging an arm over him, drapes herself over his back. “It’s going to be okay.” He sniffs, twitches, lets go of his fistfuls of hair. “I’ll go talk to him,” she says, her chin digging into his shoulder. “You already kept it together in the car.”

  —

  SORRY IF YOU heard that.

  My mom’s in my doorway looking really tired, like it’s a ton of work to stand up. Even her weird bangs are crooked. I probably look just as bad, what with the meat-stump exposed. It’s hot in my room, so I discarded the plaid. I think about sticking it under my pillow, but that feels like a lot of work.

  Sorry about Glenmore, I say. I thought we had insurance.

  We do. But you have to show up for the appointments. Or cancel ahead of time.

  Sorry.

  Sorry I’ve been such a shitty mother lately.

  Sorry I’ve been a shitty son.

  You haven’t.

  Neither have you. Although I guess she sort of has. Like, I told her not to worry about me but I never said anything about never being around. Or getting rid of everything in the house. The other day I opened the closet and there was, like, one towel on the shelf.

  You know you can talk to me about anything. Or your dad.

  I know.

  She pushes her hair around a bit. Stares at the map over my bed. I just lie there waiting for her to notice, but of course she doesn’t.

  You know Cathy, the nurse who looked after you? I’m shooting her wedding tomorrow.

  Yeah? I say, sounding as numb as possible.

  Do you ever think about the hospital? What you told me about your hand being somewhere beautiful. About understandin
g things you hadn’t before.

  No.

  Never?

  No. Me, in the hospital. Ha. All pumped up on love and morphine. I don’t say any of this out loud.

  You want to get out of here? Go for a bike ride or something? Get some dinner downtown?

  Dad ordered pizza.

  Oh. Okay. She tries to smile, but it only makes things worse. She walks out of my room. I watch her heading up the hall. I hate her for a second because her feet are bare.

  I didn’t rip the doll out of her hands. It just comes out. I surprise even myself. My mom stops, turns partway around. It’s just, it’s…she was mistreating it.

  And that bothered you? she asks.

  Yeah, I say. It bothered me.

  She comes back. Of course she comes back. Move over, she says. When she lies down beside me, my body tips toward hers. She lets out an epic sigh, then nudges my hand. It’s possible—she’s lying on my good side.

  She hooks my baby finger with hers and gives it a squeeze. Shitty day, she says.

  Shitty, shitty day.

  I’ve managed to avoid my dad since the Glenmore debacle yesterday morning, but when I push through the swinging door, he’s there, loading dishes into the dishwasher.

  Hey.

  Hey. He clatters in a handful of utensils, plunks in a couple of plates. Still lots of stuff on the counter. Apparently my parents were too busy arguing about me last night to clean up.

  I grab a box of Vector from the cupboard and start making myself some dinner.

  You just getting up? He’s trying to sound friendly, but there’s an edge to his voice.

  No, I say. It’s, like, six o’clock. I’ve been up for a while. A brittle tinkle when the flakes hit the bowl and me praying he doesn’t ask about the fucking doll. Where’s Mom?

  Shooting a wedding. For that nurse. From the hospital. My dad swings the dishwasher closed. He splashes a pot into the sink and takes a scratchy cloth to it while I glug milk into my bowl.

  I yank open the utensil drawer. No spoons, I tell my father. He jerks his chin at the dishwasher, sets the pot in the drying rack. I pull a dirty one out of the basket, some damp crustiness caked in the hollow. When I try to hand it to him, he steps away from the sink.