The Woman Who Didn't

by HC Michaels

17 Days Before The Break

  Theo lay by Skye’s side all night, waking every time she stirred, ready to call an ambulance if needed.

  He eventually slipped into a deep sleep, disturbed only by a strange buzzing sound coming from the ensuite. It wasn’t a sound he’d heard before.

  It was five o’clock, the time he usually got up to do some work in his den before climbing back into bed to wake Skye. He’d slip his hands inside her camisole and run his thumbs across her nipples, waiting for them to harden at the exact moment she opened her eyes. She was always ready for him. He’d heard enough men complain about their wives to know this wasn’t normal. Rin certainly hadn’t been like that. Just one more reason to be thankful for being married to a woman like Skye.

  Lately though, he’d been letting her sleep. It would be selfish of him to wake her when she so clearly needed her rest.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, opening the door to the ensuite, barely able to believe what he was seeing.

  Skye was standing in front of the mirror, wearing only her underpants, holding a pair of clippers in her hand with a pile of blonde hair at her feet.

  “What does it look like?” she said, sliding the clippers across her scalp. The left side of her head was completely bald. The right side still had patchy clumps of hair hanging on, stubbornly refusing to fall out. “Oh, Theo. I can’t stand looking at it any longer. You must’ve seen how much has been falling out. Better to get it all off in one go. Then I know what I’m dealing with.”

  He thought she’d start crying, but she didn’t. She just kept on with the clippers, turning her head to try to see the back of it. She was just so damn brave. His heart swelled with love.

  “Babe,” he said, taking the clippers from her. “Here, let me do it.”

  “Thanks.” She offered him a weak smile before bending her head towards him so he could continue what she’d started.

  He took a deep breath. This wasn’t a job he’d ever expected to have to help her with. Her hair was one of the things he loved about her. How depressing to have to shave it off. But still, it was only hair. It would grow back. The most important thing was that she got better.

  He ran the clippers across her head in lines, evening up the patches as long strands dropped to the ground.

  Soon the job was done, and he was left staring at the back of her bald head. It reminded him strangely of when Amber was a baby. It made her seem kind of vulnerable. He ran his hand across her scalp, already missing her silky hair.

  He looked in the mirror and saw she had her eyes closed.

  “It’s okay to look. He bent to kiss her bare neck. “You’re still beautiful.”

  She opened her eyes, blinked at her reflection, then turned to bury her head in his chest.

  He held her tightly.

  “It’s okay, koukla,” he soothed, using the Greek term for little doll. She was so tiny and loveable. He had to stop himself from squeezing her in half. “You’re amazing. You really are amazing.”

  She wriggled from his arms and pulled him towards their double shower, turning on the water until steam billowed into the room.

  When she slipped out of her underwear, he saw the scars from her surgery. Two thin, pink lines, one on each side of her lower abdomen. He was sure he had matching scars on his heart.

  “I want you,” she whispered in his ear as she tugged at his tee-shirt. “I need you to show me I’m still a woman.”

  He willed himself to go hard. What was wrong with him? She was still beautiful. She was still his wife.

  She slid his shirt over his shoulders and tugged at his boxer shorts, sending them falling to his ankles.

  If she noticed the state of affairs in his groin, she didn’t say anything. Instead she urged him towards the shower and pressed her naked body to his, her large breasts pushing up against his chest, water pooling in her cleavage.

  Although his eyes were glued to her, a more crucial body part below his waist was failing him. Or was it his brain that was failing him? Whatever it was, he wished it would get its act together. He might have a much younger wife, but he prided himself on his ability to keep pace with her.

  Stupid old man, he told himself.

  She slid down his body, kissing his chest, then his stomach, her lips trailing across his front as warm water caressed him from behind.

  He felt a stirring and reached for her, his hands finding the back of her bald head. The stirring disappeared as quickly as it’d arrived.

  He closed his eyes and moved his hands to her shoulders, not wanting the humiliation of her mouth on his flaccid penis. Normally he thought of it as his cock, but he couldn’t possibly call it that in this pathetic state.

  She ignored him, her kisses continuing south as her hands found him, followed quickly by the warmth of her darting tongue.

  The stirring returned with force as she took him into her mouth.

  He groaned as much with relief as the sheer pleasure of the moment.

  His cock was back, crowing proudly from the rooftop as the sun lit the sky.

  Cock-a-doodle-doo!

  Skye found her leather Polo Ralph Lauren skinny jeans were starting to gape at the waist, despite being an already minute US size 0. There was no smaller size she could go down to.

  She’d completely lost her appetite. It’d been pulled into a black hole along with her hair and Theo’s sex drive. That blow job in the shower had been one of the most embarrassing experiences of her life. It wasn’t echidna sex. This time he was more like a turtle with his dick trying to decide whether or not it was safe to poke its head out.

  He was making her feel so unattractive.

  She went to her wardrobe and opened a large drawer that she’d filled with hats, wigs and scarves. Some of the hats she had before, but she’d recently splurged on some new additions. There was a Burberry beanie for colder days, several Nerida Fraiman turbans and three fedoras by Rag & Bone. She preferred Givenchy when it came to scarves and had ordered several of their new designs to add to her collection, thinking they’d come in handy on warmer days when she didn’t feel like wearing a hat or a wig.

  She kept her wigs on a shelf above the drawers, draped on mannequin heads like some kind of serial killer’s wet dream. They were so realistic, although she’d stopped short at buying the type made from real hair. It seemed so unhygienic to walk around with someone else’s hair on your hair. It took finding a hair in your soup to a whole new level.

  She’d ordered three different lengths of blonde hair and one with long, dark locks just in case she felt like something different. Or more to the point if Theo felt like something different. Given last night’s proceedings, that was looking like a strong possibility at some stage.

  She selected the longest of the blonde wigs and added a cream fox fur headband as extra security. The wig wasn’t going anywhere with that headband in place. Plus, it looked cute with the cashmere sweater she was wearing.

  “Hey babe,” said Theo, leaning on the doorframe, wearing his suit.

  “Hey, yourself.” She walked over to him and tipped her head up for a kiss. “Like my new hair?”

  He pressed his lips to hers and she swooned. After all these years, he still made her stomach flip.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, reaching out to touch her wig. “My little snow bunny.”

  Her stomach flipped again, and she realised it wasn’t Theo making her feel like this. She was going to throw up.

  “Just a minute.”

  She ran to the ensuite with her hand over her mouth, making it to the toilet just in time to retch up its meagre contents.

  “You should stay in bed today.” Theo handed her some tissues.

  “I’m only dropping in on Mum,” she said. “Just a short visit to bring in her magazine and the brownies I baked yesterday. I won’t stay long.”

  “You’re getting very thin.” His eyes swept down her body. “Are you eating enough?”

  “I’m eating plenty.” She used the tissu
es to wipe both the lie plus the vomit from her mouth, then leaned over the basin to take several large gulps of water.

  “I’m really worried about you,” he persisted. “You don’t look great.”

  She felt his hand run tentatively down her back. “I thought you said I looked beautiful a minute ago.”

  “You did. You do!” His voice went up an octave. “Beautiful, but unwell. Really unwell. You’re very pale.”

  “I just threw up. Of course, I’m pale.” She stood to face him.

  “Let me make you breakfast before I go,” he suggested, not seeming to want to leave her like this.

  “No. You must be exhausted. You were up half the night watching over me like some kind of bodyguard.” She turned to the mirror and adjusted her wig.

  “I was worried about you. I still am,” he said. “You really should eat something to settle your stomach.”

  “Linda will make me breakfast. You can call her and check up on me if you like.” She poked her tongue out at him, trying to convince him.

  “I don’t know...” He kissed her on the top of her head. It was the top of her wig actually, which felt fairly strange.

  “Stop it, you big worry wart. I’m going to eat breakfast, then see Mum, then I’ll come home and rest. I promise.” She adjusted the sleeves of her sweater, making sure she looked more put together than she felt.

  “Do all cancer patients dress like that?” Theo asked, a frown crossing his face as he took in her outfit. “You only had chemo yesterday.”

  “Since when have I been like everyone else?” Skye put her hands on her hips. “Just because I have cancer doesn’t mean I have to dress like I have cancer. Besides, the side effects usually settle down on day two before kicking in again on day three. I may as well get out of the house now while I still feel okay. And I’d prefer to look as normal as possible. I’m still me, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I kind of noticed that, especially in the shower.” He grinned sheepishly. “Thanks for ... umm—”

  “Theo!” she chided. “Since when have you ever thanked me for ... that?”

  This was getting even more serious than she first thought. What had happened to the man she married?

  “Sorry, I ... ”

  “Get to work.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Go save the world.”

  Just as long as he saved her from this awful, awkward conversation, she’d be happy.

  “I’m going, I’m going,” he said. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  She wiped her lip gloss from his cheek. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

  “Bye, babe. Love you.” He turned and went to the door.

  “Love you too,” she called after him, as she reached in the bathroom cabinet for her pills.

  Her head was throbbing. This whole cancer business was so much more difficult than she’d imagined.

  Clara ate her brownies, licking her fingers so the last of the crumbs would stick to them. Her cheeks felt sticky. She’d ask one of the nurses to help her clean her face later.

  She opened the ballet magazine on her table. It was nice of that pretty lady with the silly headband to bring it in for her. She’d have to ask her what her name was next time.

  A memory bubbled at the front of her mind and she glanced at the photo of Skye on her bedside table. It was a shame her daughter never visited. She was too busy being married to Dean, she supposed.

  She sighed. If she were married to Dean, she’d be busy, too. He was one very handsome man.

  She knew nobody believed he’d painted her feet with glue, but he had. He really had. She knew it because she could feel it—not the actual glue, which had long ago washed off— but the truth of it having happened weighed on her. It was a nasty thing to do. He must’ve been trying to make sure she couldn’t run away from the nursing home. How disappointing. She was sure he loved her.

  Sometimes she dreamt he was sitting by her bed, watching her. She’d try to wake herself up so she could talk to him, but her eyelids were always too heavy.

  There was very little she was jealous about when it came to her daughter, but Dean was an exception. Skye was lucky to have him. She’d give anything for Jacques to look at her the way Dean looked at Skye.

  She sighed and turned back to her magazine. There was a photo of a ballerina, mid-arabesque. She looked beautiful. Maybe it was a photo of Clara. She’d been a ballerina.

  Her hand trailed to the belt of her dressing gown and she undid it, staring down with fascination at the protruding belly in her lap. No, the photo wasn’t her. Her slender body had been buried under her dementia along with her mind.

  The buttons of her nightgown were straining from the effort of keeping closed. It felt like a boa constrictor was wrapped around her waist. She undid a few buttons and watched her rolls of flesh spill out. That was better. She could breathe at last.

  A teenager walked into her room. His face wasn’t familiar. Clara didn’t like faces that weren’t familiar. They made her feel crazy. She wasn’t crazy. Definitely not crazy.

  He sat next to her bed and stared at her. She stared back.

  He was a fat boy. She’d never liked fat boys. Especially boys with little pudgy breasts like this one had. He wore a baseball cap, which was another thing she didn’t like. It was disrespectful to wear a hat indoors.

  “You have something on your face,” he said. “Would you like me to clean it up?”

  “Go away.” She screwed her face up at him.

  He was still staring at her like he was expecting her to do something interesting. Did he think she was going to jump out of bed and perform the dance of the sugar plum fairy? Maybe she should. It’d been ages since she’d done that. She was sure she’d be able to remember all the steps if she tried.

  “I’m a big fan of your work,” he said.

  She poked her tongue out at him, but he only smiled.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  She was fine. More than fine, but that was none of his business. Why should she tell him how she was?

  “Go away, go away, go away!” Her voice took on a high pitch and she felt a scratch at the back of her throat.

  “I just wanted to talk.” He put his hand on her arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I think you’re a wonderful ballerina, that’s all. I’ve seen your videos on the internet.”

  She spat and watched her saliva land on the back of his hand.

  He moved his chair back a few feet, but remained steady, wiping his hand on the leg of his faded jeans.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’m just a big fan.”

  She started to cry, not sure what was causing the tears. Fans used to visit her all the time. Some of them still wrote to her. The nurses read her the letters sometimes.

  Not many fans had visited her in the home. They’d forgotten about her along with the rest of the world. This boy was a novelty. An unwelcome one at that. He was confusing her, reminding her about how many details of her life she was unable to retrieve. She needed him to leave.

  “Go away,” she said, baring her teeth like a frightened monkey. If he wouldn’t go away when asked, she’d have to scare him away. She made a screeching noise to go with the monkey face.

  “Are you happy?” he asked, when she paused to take a breath.

  Happy! What a strange question to ask. Nobody had asked her that for at least twenty years. What did he care if she was happy?

  She continued to screech until he stood up slowly and backed out of the room, staring at her from the safe distance of the doorway. It took some people a while to get the hint. Clearly this wasn’t one of her most intelligent fans.

  Her stomach groaned and she felt her bowels open, spilling into her pants. The nurses had started putting her into grown-up diapers. She knew how to go to the toilet, the problem was she’d get up to go and halfway to the bathroom she’d forget where she was going, until it was too late. She didn’t mind wearing these things. It was better than the
puddles that would otherwise end up at her feet.

  “Fuck off,” she said to the boy, taking things to the next level. She never usually swore. It surprised her she even knew how to. The word had slipped out so easily.

  The boy glanced down the hallway, but his feet remained planted.

  She reached into her pants and pulled out a handful of liquid shit, flinging it towards him. She missed and it splattered on the carpet in front of him.

  That did it. He took off.

  She rose from her bed and pulled her nightgown over her head as she walked to her small bathroom, wanting to stand in front of the mirror like she’d done so often in her youth.

  She was surprised to see the image staring back at her. Her hips looked wide and her belly sagged down so far she could barely see her diaper. She raised her arms in the air and studied the flaps of skin that hung so loosely they looked like they might slide off her body and fall to the floor.

  She stepped closer, wanting a better view of her face. Her hair was grey and greasy. When was the last time the nurses had washed it for her? It’d been months. Years maybe. Her face was wrinkled and a soft pad of skin billowed underneath her chin, making her neck disappear.

  Perhaps this mirror wasn’t real. It could be one of those circus mirrors. Maybe Dean was playing another trick on her.

  Then she caught sight of her eyes, recognising them in an instant. Her eyes hadn’t changed. They weren’t affected by the mirror. The mirror was real.

  The old Clara would have screamed in terror at this realisation, but not the new. The new Clara howled with laughter.

  “You’re hideous,” she said, not caring in the least.

  In the muddled, hazy world she lived in, she was offered a brief moment of clarity. Her looks weren’t important to her because she was no longer the person she once was. She was different now, as much on the inside as on the outside.

  That boy had asked her if she was happy and the truth was that she was. She was happier than she’d ever been. The new Clara may not be beautiful, but she was acutely aware of the preciousness of life and the importance of living in the moment.