When I'm Not Myself

by Deborah J. Wolf

  Cara had dragged her daughter to a half a dozen shrinks, drove her back and forth to AA meetings, sitting obediently in the parking lot of the high school until the meeting was over and she could drive Katie home again, silence settling over the car. The situation improved some, on and off, and Cara convinced herself they were finally on their way to sobriety.

  But Katie was a highly functioning addict. Her grades had declined, but she wasn’t failing; and her demeanor was, for the most part, manageable. And that made it harder and harder to know when she was using again. She’d get clean and stay that way for a month or so and then, like a bad habit, she’d go back to Jack’s bar and start all over again.

  Cara picked up her cell phone, doubled around the block and dialed Mel’s number.

  “ ’Lo?”

  “Bella?” Cara asked Mel’s daughter, her only child.

  “Hey, Auntie Cara. Whatcha doing?”

  “Hi, sweetie, not much. What’re you doing over there?”

  “Laundry. I can’t stand that damn Laundromat, you know, and I’m down to my last pair of thong underwear.”

  “Too much information, Bella, too much information. Those things’ll give you yeast infections. Do yourself a favor and buy some granny panties.” Cara imagined Isabella standing in a thin T-shirt and her last pair of thong underwear, iron-flat stomach, long legs like her mother. Beautiful, stunning Bella. Tall, thin—almost too thin—almost, if you weren’t so taken with every other aspect of her. She was Melanie all over again, only with every advantage, every option Mel never had. Isabella had graduated from Stanford with an art history master’s and at twenty-two had only just moved out of her mother’s flat.

  “God, Auntie Car, as if.”

  “Where’s your mother, child?”

  “Hang on.”

  “Hey, lady,” Mel’s voice singsonged into the receiver, settling Cara instantly.

  “Tie that girl up, Mel, tie her up.”

  “I know, I know.” Mel sighed, sinking down into her favorite chair, a worn leather library lounger that sat in the corner of her loft under soft reading lights. Mel went there sometimes to review her proofs, sheets of photos that she had spent the day taking. She said she liked studying them under the loop with the softer light; that it told her how a shot might hang in a room somewhere, the way it might change with the light. “What’s up?”

  “The usual. Four lunches, four sets of homework, four crabby kids who spent the weekend maneuvering the land mines between their father and his hormone-laden girlfriend.”

  “Cara, you know what you need?”

  “What?”

  “You need a night out.”

  “Mel, I need a life out.”

  “Does Jack have the kids this weekend? Come into the city. Bring Leah and Paige. It would do you all some good.”

  “I cannot argue with that.”

  “Cara,” Mel said softly, very much unlike herself, “you know something else? It wouldn’t kill you to start seeing someone.”

  “Enough with the black leather couch, Mel. I don’t know what drudging all this up with some shrink is going to buy me.” Cara bristled at the suggestion she couldn’t quite get her head around. She’d taken Katie to enough counseling sessions to know that she wanted no part of it. Besides, she was trying to move on from her relationship with Jack; she really had no desire to talk with anyone about it.

  “No. I mean, yes. Yes, I think you should see someone. A therapist, sure, absolutely a great idea. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, see someone. Go out on a date, for Christ sake. Meet somebody. Get dressed up; go to dinner, maybe a movie. You’ll be amazed at how much better everything looks and feels and seems.”

  “Four kids, Mel. I got four kids. I got three loads of laundry to do before I clean up the house, pull a bunch of shit together for the PTA and bake cookies for Claire’s Brownie meeting. Later I get to untangle fourth-grade word problems and glue together pieces of Styrofoam for Luke’s project on the Milky Way. After that I get to haul Katie and her A+ attitude over to another AA meeting. A date? You want me to go on a date? I can barely find time to shave my legs and pluck my eyebrows. Besides, who in the world do you think would find me remotely attractive?”

  “It’d do you some good, Cara,” Melanie said smugly, for the second time in five minutes. “Anyway, about Saturday. See if you can make it happen.”

  5

  “You cannot possibly be serious.” Leah stood firm, tennis-shoed feet planted squarely on the hardwood floor in Mel’s flat. She had yet to remove the jeans jacket she was wearing—ancient by anyone’s standards—but had already started to complain about their plans for the morning. Her auburn hair had been cut shorter than normal and she pushed it back away from her face, running her fingers through it to spike it up a bit.

  “No, I’m not kidding, and don’t even bother taking off that jacket, sister; we’re leaving. I’m not canceling my wax appointment. Even for you guys. We’ll be in and out in fifteen minutes.” Mel turned on the heel of her Bettye Muller pump and headed into the kitchen to ditch the coffee she was drinking. “On second thought, Leah,” she yelled from the kitchen, “for Christ sake take that ridiculous jacket off and go find something in my closet that’s slightly more presentable. Something out of this decade, would you?”

  When Mel poked her head out from the kitchen, Leah was staring down the front of her pink cotton blouse and fidgeting with the oversized silver buttons on her jeans jacket. Mel had hurt her feelings, something it seemed she was doing on a regular basis. Leah flaunted indignation, but sauntered down the narrow hallway toward the back of the flat and came out a few minutes later in a camel-colored soft suede jacket Mel knew she’d been envying. It was cut too long for Leah’s short frame, but no matter, the new jacket was a dramatic improvement. Leah felt a bit more fearless, walked a little taller as she slung her chocolate leather bag over her shoulder, her sunglasses perched high on her head. She stopped in front of them and turned twice as if she was on a runway.

  “Much better.” Mel nodded her head in agreement, a hand on her hip. “Okay, ladies, we’re outta here. I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment with Macey.”

  “Seriously, Mel, what is it you find necessary about the whole waxing thing?” Cara reached in her bag for the oversized key ring that was weighed down by two plastic photos: soccer pictures of each of her boys. She dangled the keys noisily in her hand, waiting on an answer as they all walked out of the flat.

  Mel had regaled her friends for years with stories about her bikini waxes. Cara was both curious and repulsed at the same time. Despite how hard Mel had tried she had been completely unsuccessful at recruiting any of her friends to go with her.

  Mel threw her head back. “Shaving! God, my friends are still shaving! And DOWN THERE. Ladies, honestly you have got to come of age!

  “How many times am I going to have to explain this to you, Cara, before you fling off your panties and try it for yourself, huh? Nothing to it, really. A million, zillion times better than that damn pink disposable razor you’re probably still using every day. God, those things are so archaic. What if you cut yourself down there? It’s not exactly somewhere you could put a Band-Aid.” She shuddered at the thought. “One day you’ll have a wax and walk out of Macey’s salon feeling like a sexy new woman. I’m telling you; you’ll be hooked on the first visit.”

  “It’s not even summertime, Mel, that’s what I don’t understand,” Leah said as they all piled into Cara’s van. “It’s not even like you’re sporting a bathing suit right now. Jesus, I go half the year without shaving at all. Bush city.”

  “Oh, God, Leah, it’s not about wearing a bathing suit. It’s about sex, for Christ sake. It’s about feeling your absolute most sexy when you’re in the moment.”

  “Like that’s something I need to be concerned with. Hardly. Andrew’s in town long enough to drop his dirty clothes on the floor and repack the wash I’ve done. He doesn’t look twice at me, never mind my c
rotch.” It was true that Leah and Andrew had grown apart, never much of a couple to begin with. She saw him infrequently, his job keeping him on the road more often than he was at home.

  “Okay, Mel, you get your way today. I’m game.” Cara smiled as she pulled out of her parking space. “Today I’m in your capable hands. How bad can it be? I’ll give it a shot.”

  “My girl! Really?” Mel screamed, delighted. She threw herself back against the seat, kicking up her heels and startling all of them so that Cara swerved in the middle of the narrow street. “I knew you’d come around one of these days. Okay, Cara, first the wax, then some new jeans, for God’s sake. I don’t even want to know where you got that pair, but Christ, they are out. Wax, lunch, then shopping at the Centre. Certainly we can find you something, anything, better than those pathetic old blue jeans. They’re actually BLUE, Cara. No one wears jeans that are blue anymore.”

  Cara stared self-consciously at her jeans, both comfortable and familiar. They were faded and broken in in all the right places; she’d had them for years. Cara shook her head. She should have figured Mel would have an issue with something she had on, Mel nearly always did. She ran her hand over the fabric, thinking about how many times Katie had pleaded with her to buy some new clothes, something somewhat more fashionable that wouldn’t embarrass her when Cara dropped her off in the mornings or showed up on campus late in the afternoon.

  “P-L-E-A-T-E-D! Cara, my God, they are PLEATED. Absolutely no one wears pleated pants anymore.”

  “You’re going to try to get me to wear those ridiculous low-rise jeans, aren’t you?” Cara asked. “The ones that barely cover your hips and expose your butt crack. Those damn jeans that Katie and Bella wear, huh?”

  “Hello. Welcome to this century. Of course. It’s not as if you can’t wear them, Cara. Especially now. Look at you, there ain’t nothing left to your poor little body. You are thinner than you’ve ever been.”

  “Amazing what a separation will do for you.”

  “Well, for Christ sake Cara, it’s not doing you any good in those jeans. God, enjoy it. Make the most of it, Cara, flaunt it. Put it to good use; you might actually find someone who appreciates it.”

  “Okay, Mel, here’s the deal. You can take me wherever you want. You can pull whatever you want off the racks. I’ll try on twenty pairs if you want. But I’m telling you right here and now that there ain’t a pair of low-cut jeans—blue or not—in all of San Francisco that are going to look good on this body. You have no idea what those damn things do to me. My butt grows wider, my stomach flabbier. They pinch across my midsection and cut off my circulation. They are doing a disservice to women. All women. There’s not an adult out there who can wear them,” Cara complained, but stole a sideways glance at Mel, who would look absolutely perfect in exactly the pair Cara had described.

  “You can wear them, Cara. And I’m going to prove it to you. Little low-cut number, a new belt, a clingy little top and you’re all set, woman. Trust me on this.”

  “Forty-three, Melanie. Don’t forget. I’m forty-three.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mel let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “Forty-three. Check, I got it. Forty-three. Not to be confused with sixty-three.”

  “Um, Cara?” Leah chirped from the passenger seat.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You know it’s a rare day when I actually agree with our resident psychotic who still thinks she’s eighteen years old, but I’m with Mel on this one. You realize she will have you transformed within the day, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Leah. Why the hell do you think we’re here?”

  When they arrived at the studio Macey looked positively fabulous in a black tank top and jeans that landed six inches south of her navel and were held together by a pink belt with a rhinestone butterfly buckle. She was tall, unbelievably thin, and everything about her was manicured, from her eyebrows to her toenails. Macey smelled of organic fruit, sweet and ripe. She bent and flowed like water when she moved, graceful and giving. Her face actually glowed when she opened the door to the loft on Union Street, and something about her made you instantly want to befriend her. Candles and incense burned from the shelves and the small round tables were littered with copies of W, Esquire, Essence, and InStyle magazines. Macey was quick to embrace Mel, then stood back and took the rest of them in.

  “You’ve got to be Cara,” she said, pointing out Cara. “Mel talks about you all the time.”

  “I am, yes.”

  “I’d have known you anywhere. I swear, Mel”—she looked over and nodded—“you weren’t kidding; she looks fabulous.”

  “I told you.” Mel was quick to go to Cara’s side and wrap her arms around her friend’s waist, hugging her tightly, possessively. “She won’t believe me, though, Macey. I’m dragging her straight to the Centre for an extreme makeover after this. I mean, look at this figure. And look at these jeans!” Mel shook her head, refusing to let the jeans issues go. “By the time I’m done with her, she’s going to be transformed. Oh, and we might even be lucky enough to convince her that a good wax can change your entire perspective on life. You up for a virgin?”

  “Oh, Cara, really? I’d love to. It would be an honor, really,” Macey exclaimed with a little squeal, giving Cara the once-over before continuing the hugging with Leah and Paige. “There’s tea there, ladies. Or water, if you’d rather. Make yourself comfortable; we won’t be long.” She took Mel’s hand then, warmly. “Let’s do this, Mel,” she said to her, fondly. “We have plenty to catch up on. C’mon . . .”

  The walls in Macey’s reception area were painted the palest honeydew green, accented in an electric orange that normally would be a shock to the system. Here, in the small room, where sliced lemons, oranges, and limes floated in a pitcher of ice water and the smell of gardenia floated in the air, everything felt welcoming, even warm. Mel had been coming to Macey for a couple of years; her studio had become something of Mel’s second home. These days Macey knew more of Mel’s secrets than even her closest, oldest friends did.

  Leah shuffled her weight anxiously from her left foot to her right, and Paige sat rigidly, cautiously, on the edge of an oversized chair in the corner, her right foot tapping wildly with the music, and not quite sure what to do with the rest of her moving parts.

  Mel shrugged off her lambskin jacket and tossed it on a chair. “Let’s go,” she said.

  Macey took that as her cue and they set off, locked arm in arm, down the narrow hall to a room in the back.

  From over her shoulder Mel called to her friends, taunting them, “You can watch. If you want, that is.”

  Cara shrugged her shoulders at Leah and Paige. “Why not? I might as well know what I’m in for.” She ducked behind Mel into the treatment room and squeezed into the far corner. The room was tiny, not made for three people, never mind Paige and Leah, who had abandoned the idea of diplomacy and made their way to stand just inside the door frame. Despite a small table fan that worked to stir the air, the room was stifling. White weightless chiffon curtains swayed ever so lightly. The windows overlooked the quaint, eclectic shops on Union Street, but only streaks of sunlight crept in through the narrow strips between the windows and the blinds.

  “Just leave the door open,” Mel said. “It’s too hot in here to close it. God, Macey, it’s always so hot in this room.” She peeled away her clothes without another thought, dropping hot-pink cargo pants and black lacy thong panties in the chair in the corner. Mel’s legs were endless, toned and tan. She was an exhibitionist, comfortable in nothing more than her own skin.

  “God, Melanie, I never tire of looking at that thing.” Macey motioned at Mel’s backside where a gorgeous vine ran from the base of her ass up her sacrum. Absentmindedly, Melanie ran a hand over it, tracing the outline, the area that had long scarred over and left behind nothing but an imprint.

  She had acquired the design one afternoon in the Haight. She was seventeen, the spring of their senior year, and she and Cara had cut school early, taking the t
rain into the city, hell-bent on tattoos. When they got there, Cara had chickened out, but there was nothing she could do to convince Mel otherwise.

  “Above my bikini line,” she had told the stringy, long-haired tattoo artist who’d clearly had plenty of practice, his own body covered in more colors than there were names for. “Make sure you can see it if my T-shirt lifts like this,” Mel instructed him, inching up the tight-fitting cotton tank top she was wearing. She didn’t want it to be missed, not by anyone who might be looking.

  The tattoo artist had eyed her hungrily, and positioned his large, grimy hand just above her ass, steadying her body. His thumb ran inside the thread of her thong, pushing it down.

  She blinked back the tears the minute he touched her skin with the needle.

  Mel hiked herself up on Macey’s table and sprawled out as if she was ready to spend the afternoon sunbathing in the nude. Leah shifted her weight from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable, and tried to find something else to divert her attention. Paige concentrated on the canisters of cotton balls, Q-Tips, and a very tall jar of colored gumballs that Macey handed to Mel. She took two, a pink and a green, and popped them in her mouth, chomping down to break their hard shells.

  “Gum’s a good idea,” Mel said to Cara. “It helps to have something to chomp on when that first rip goes.”

  Cara shuddered and swallowed hard, immediately regretting her decision. She wondered if it would be too late to change her mind.

  “Don’t let her fool you, Cara,” Macey said encouragingly. “She’s a pro.”

  “It’s not that bad, guys. You know me; I’m a wimp. Do you think I’d do this if it hurt that bad? But c’mon,” Mel said, full frontal, “it’s worth it, you’ll see.”