Ivy League Stripper

by Heidi Mattson

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know.” I stood up slowly. Everything still worked, but I was awfully bruised.

  “Can you ride?”

  “Yeah,” I said, still dazed. There was no sense standing there thinking about it. Besides, the thought was too scary. I clicked into rational mode: “Is the bike safe?”

  “It’s fine, sure. We’re only two miles from home.” He handed me the helmet. “Just don’t crash again. This helmet’s no good now.”

  I did it, I got back on, even kicked it over when the button start didn’t work. I was oblivious to my body and whatever hurts it might have.

  A few minutes later we were driving down a long, lighted gravel driveway. We parked the bikes in between green and silver Jaguars in the garage. As I lifted my leg over the bike to get off I felt a horrible deep throbbing pain in my side. I began to shake uncontrollably and cry. I was finally realizing how frightened I was. Roger held me for a minute, then convinced me to take off my helmet. I pulled myself together. We left our wet overclothes draped on the bikes. Roger patted my nicked helmet as we started for the main house. “This saved your life.”

  It was 1:30. His parents were asleep and we tiptoed through the first floor to Roger’s wing. As shaken as I was, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the palatial house. I was walking through an Architectural Digest magazine! It was a Mexican ranch/suburban masterpiece. There were designer curtains, fireplaces, statues, a grand piano, and two living rooms — just on the way to the stairs. “Who plays the piano?” I whispered as we climbed the stairs slowly. “The piano? No one,” he whispered back.

  His bedroom was huge but bare. I stripped down gingerly, eager to be dry but scared to see my bruises. “Maybe your mom can give me a list of the fancy restaurants in the area. I think I should get right to work. I don’t want her to think I’m taking her generosity for granted.”

  “You can ask her yourself in the morning,” Roger said. “Although she may have a surprise for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see. But I’ll tell you this — it’ll help you forget those bruises.”

  He was right. Just four hours after my crash, Julie woke me, asking, “Would you like to go swimming, Heidi?” She grinned down at me, pink lipstick, perfect white teeth, hair upswept neatly.

  “Huh? What?” I squinted at her, pain accentuating my every move. I saw Roger was already up and dressed.

  “We’re going to Eleuthera. We thought you might like a little vacation.”

  I’m dreaming.

  But it was real. They owned a tropical beach in the Bahamas. A limousine drove the four of us to John E Kennedy Airport, a jet flew us to Nassau, Bahamas, and a private charter plane delivered us to their private compound in Eleuthera. I snorkeled, sailed, and swam. We ate spiny lobster and black beans every day. Roger was less moody than usual and Julie and Ted cared for me like I was their long lost daughter. (Their actual daughter was off on a coke binge.) I read for hours every day, slept in the sun, and healed my battered body. Two weeks flew by like a too-short afternoon nap.

  Back in New Jersey I was ready to conquer the world again, only temporarily from Roger’s wing of his parent’s house. I thought if I worked hard I would be able to return to school in a year and be a real student. I swore that when I returned I would no longer be embarrassed to run into my professors, because now I would be prepared for class. I would complete all my reading, not the bare minimum. I wouldn’t be sleepy all day. I would not be split between work life and school life, I would be a real Ivy Leaguer. I even dared to imagine running with the track team, or maybe trying out for crew, the ultimate elitist sport at Brown. Or perhaps I would take up drama again. Mr. Clain, my high school drama coach, had said I had potential.

  Although it hurt my arm, waitressing was the highest-paying work I could get. I found two positions and threw myself into work, but Julie recommended that I start a business. A housecleaning business. She introduced me to several of her women friends, who immediately hired me. I was surprised by the pay, eight dollars an hour, and discovered I loved the independence.

  My clients added up. I quit both waitressing jobs and hired Roger to work with me (and drive us in the truck). But by spring he lined up construction work for himself — he refused to please his parents with the expected corporate career. He had his own job now, so I hired his sister, Teresa. (She had a car.)

  The home life was strained, but by focusing on my goals I succeeded in staying uninvolved. Teresa had habits, dangerous ones, that Julie fretted and tormented herself over. Julie’s high-powered career and intelligence impressed me, but she was bitter about her ungrateful children and alcoholic family. She tortured herself and those around her attempting to fix everything. Ted, Roger’s father, lived in a likable but numbing cloud of self-preservation. He displayed the unabashed sincerity of a sixty-year-old man newly aware of his sensitive side. I was accepted as one of the family and treated well. Although I witnessed a lot of self-defeating behavior, I believed “to each his own.” I hadn’t walked in any of their shoes.

  In the mornings, driving to our first client, Teresa and I would listen to a New York City radio station and see the commuters filing out of the little towns. She told me how she had been arrested for skinny-dipping, the drugs she tried when she was fourteen, and how she wanted to be left alone. “Mom should just butt out of my life …”

  “Teresa, you do still live at home —” I said, interrupted by her reply of “I’m nineteen. I could move if I wanted to!” I shrugged, silently reminding myself why I was housecleaning in New Jersey.

  I still dreamed of being an executive in the city. I practiced being patient. My mom, however, was worried I’d never go back to school. “You’re following a man!” she warned me. The situation was boggling to her. While she wanted the best for me — Brown — she hated seeing me sick and tired all the time. She didn’t have the solution, but she worried: “I just want you to be happy, Heidi.”

  I remembered something she had said five or six years earlier. We were in the kitchen at home, watching the toaster smoke. She turned to me, her eyes gleaming. “I always wanted to fix things. If I had it to do over again, I would repair toasters for a living.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “That’s what I would enjoy,” she said simply.

  “Why don’t you do it now?”

  “No, no. It’s too late,” she said, closing the subject.

  This made me sad for her, and more determined for myself. Mom had been correct. I did appreciate the things I worked for, and I appreciated my parents. They were poor in some ways, but rich in others.

  I saved all I could, but my meager savings were just another drop in the Brown University bucket. I had managed to put away thirty-five hundred dollars, but the bill, after student loans, was thousands more than I had. The university still expected a twenty-five-hundred-dollar contribution from my parents. Worse, the fact that I had saved money would make me less eligible for a scholarship. And I would need more loans. If I did return to Brown, I would be broke again the next year, and deeper in debt. I thought of the possibility of the lawsuit being settled, but Tony warned me otherwise: “It’ll be a year or two, Heidi. Brown isn’t cooperating.” Only temporarily discouraged, I remained on leave.

  I was depressed not to be in school and I didn’t want to live with Roger’s family any longer, so I researched the university system in California. I liked it. I would move my business there and establish residency. If my financial aid didn’t work out in the next couple of years, I could complete my degree at a decent school for one-twentieth the cost of Brown. With a California state university listing and a map I chose the town I would go to: Santa Cruz. Besides sounding exotic, it had a university, was on the ocean, and wasn’t a big city. Roger and I planned a motorcycle trip across country. He would buy another truck and tools in California. And I didn’t own or need more than my motorcycle carried. I was hungry for an adventure.

 
Roger and I arrived in Santa Cruz in December. It was Christmas, but the scenery looked more like a spring-break movie. Beautiful bodies, palm trees, seals, bikinis, skateboarders, and surfers everywhere. Compared to the East Coast, it was a new country. At my insistence we rented an apartment as close to the beach as possible. Sitting on my little cement stoop, I could hear the seals, waves, and children screaming on the roller coaster at the boardwalk. I couldn’t have been happier.

  I placed an ad:

  Ivy League Maid $12/hr.

  Flexible, reliable, and motivated.

  and crossed my fingers.

  Business boomed. It was a very wealthy beach community. Easily and steadily I nurtured Ivy League Maid into a successful operation.

  I found life as a small business owner to be comfortable and satisfying. In only a month I had a good work week scheduled for myself. I was popular, too. By the second month word-of-mouth brought me more jobs than I could handle. I preferred to keep the business personal, and to work alone, so I dropped the less desirable clients. I kept those with easy-to-clean houses, nearby locations, valuable contacts (someday I would be a college grad looking for a job!), and perks such as tennis courts and cars I could use.

  I was making my own way and I was the boss. I jogged on the beach, fed seals from the town dock, planted a garden. I was tan, blonder than ever, and healthy! Life here was good, but temporary; I was going back to school, either at the university in Santa Cruz or Brown. Residency in California, which would qualify me for reduced rates at the universities, took at least a year, but it would be an option. And I knew that I would qualify for more aid once I was officially independent from my parents. This would take another year and a half. I could wait.

  Not that I had a choice.

  I was already obligated to $18,000 in loans. The monthly payments were a constant reminder of how costly my goals and dreams were. The housecleaning business was only a side venture.

  Only two months after I moved to Santa Cruz my resolve was further reinforced by a near tragedy. A routine exam at a local clinic turned up a lump in my left breast. “It doesn’t look good,” the nurse said, “but the odds are with you.” I was twenty-one years old, and there was no family history of breast cancer. I ran an hour almost every day, and I even ate broccoli! Her sober advice to see a specialist frightened me, chilling me to the core.

  I walked home, numb and quiet, the slip of paper listing recommended doctors an enemy in my clenched hand. I saw the homeless hippies sleeping in the grass by my apartment. They were wrapped in colorful rags and motionless. In my state, I thought they were flowers at first. A small part of me was tempted, for a moment, just to fall asleep, deny and forget this trouble.

  My entire family was in Maine, too far away to do anything but worry and run up large phone bills, and Roger was too scared to be of much help. When I told him, he responded, “It’ll be OK, Choopie” (his nickname for me), “I’ve got to go finish up a job.” He either avoided me, and the issue, or murmured vague, meaningless assurances. I didn’t blame him, but I felt very alone.

  What am I doing with my life? If this works out I promise never to be discouraged by the little things again.

  I saw a kind, elderly surgeon, Dr. Nelson, who told me, “It doesn’t look good. We’ll just do a few little tests.” A few tests led to a few more tests. But he, too, assured me, “The odds are with you, of course.” The results of a needle aspiration biopsy, however, made me quite popular in his office. No one there had ever known a twenty-one-year-old with breast cancer.

  It was a struggle to remain controlled. My pragmatic self knew that this could very well be the end of my life. Visions of dwindling, succumbing to cancer, haunted me. My face sunken, all my hair gone, thrown into the trash chunk by chunk, day by day. Things would never be the same.

  “What do I need to do?” I asked.

  “Surgery,” Dr. Nelson said softly.

  “Make it as soon as possible,” I requested calmly. “Let’s do whatever has to be done.” Deep inside I was ferocious and hard. I had never felt stronger or more alone.

  This was the spring I should have been graduating with my class. Instead, what was I doing? Saving penny after penny, hoping against hope that I could eventually finish my Brown degree? No. Cancer had freed me from these worries. I just wanted to live. I wanted to be healthy. I wanted this weight, this oppressive shadow — which wasn’t only hanging over me, it was inside me — to be gone. I couldn’t imagine my life before cancer. If I made it through this I knew I would never be the same person. That would be impossible. It was as though, all of a sudden, every day, every minute of my life had become a gift. More than anything I had ever desired, I now wanted more minutes and more days. I swore I would deserve them, if I should be so lucky.

  I didn’t have health insurance. This didn’t bother me. I was already beyond broke for the tests and doctor visits. The receptionist of my second-opinion surgeon harassed me: “We must have payment at the time of visit. I can’t let you see the doctor.”

  I pleaded with her. “My surgery is scheduled with Dr. Nelson for the day after tomorrow. I need the second opinion now. I have twenty dollars, and I’ll pay the rest as soon as I can borrow the money …”

  Luckily the surgeon overheard us. He gracefully swept me into the office, assuring me, “Don’t worry about the fee.” He introduced himself and shook my hand. I began to cry. He was being so nice.

  “I looked at your pathology report from the lab, and Dr. Nelson’s reports. Let’s take a look at your breast now.” After examining me, he agreed with the diagnosis. He personally escorted me out, saving me from the receptionist and distracting me from a middle-aged woman, also sobbing, in his waiting area. “Good luck,” he said, handing me a tissue.

  The morning of the surgery I suddenly realized the additional debt I was about to incur. I had sold my motorcycle and new helmet, my only posessions. I didn’t own anything else. Roger was rich, but self-centered. I knew better than to think of him for assistance. I thought fleetingly of his mother. Julie had called several times in the previous week to sympathize with me. She had been helpful to talk with, having survived a mastectomy a few years earlier. I was uncomfortable, though, when she told me how she retained the best specialist in New York City. I couldn’t do that. I was lucky to have a general surgeon, old Dr. Nelson, willing to accept weekly payments. She had the connections and the money, but I was too shy to ask.

  Surgery was at one P.M. I had three hours. Ignorant of the stress I was about to endure, I drove a neighbor’s motorcycle to the California State Welfare Office, a few miles from my apartment. The drab interior and long lines were depressing, but the staff was the worst. Numbed to the general public’s misery, the woman who finally, at eleven A.M., looked over my application made me feel like the number I had become. Her cold instructions and rapid-fire questioning brought me to tears of fear and loneliness, which she ignored, a true professional. She was, however, able to offer financial assistance. It would cover only a percentage of future bills, but it was better than nothing — though the humiliation and isolation I felt that morning was hardly worth it.

  I was back home by twelve-thirty, anxious but ready to go to surgery. Roger came home from work to drive me. I don’t recall speaking to him; he was frightened, I suppose. I was terrified and calm at the same time. I couldn’t lose my head. If I did, who would take care of me?

  Dr. Nelson’s receptionist gave me a Valium and seated me in the waiting room. “Tell me when you begin feeling relaxed.” I looked around me. I counted seven senior citizens, all smiling curiously at me. “Hi,” I said. I considered looking at a magazine, but was immediately struck by the irrelevance of anything I would read right now. My fear increased and I took a deep breath to stave it off. Roger couldn’t look me in the eye, so I turned to the lady on my right. She wobbled her head, said, “Oh, dear,” then clutched my wrist. I smiled, pushing away my thoughts on what might be wrong with her. She wore a watch like my mom wor
e. Small, with a flexible band and a second hand. I counted the seconds, wondering what Valium was supposed to feel like. Thirty seconds passed. The lady pulled her arm away, patting my hand as she did. I wanted to say something, but felt I might cry so I didn’t. She looked away when I looked up, anyway.

  “How are you feeling?” the receptionist asked a few minutes later. She stood directly in front of me, ready to escort me in to see the doctor.

  I didn’t know what the correct response was, but I was definitely not feeling relaxed and told her so. “Maybe it didn’t work?” I asked. “Will I be given anything else?” I was beginning to worry.

  “Of course, dear. Why don’t we take a little walk?”

  Roger smiled wanly and the others watched as I stood. I smoothed my skirt. “OK. Let’s go.”

  I was taken to an operating room. There was a nurse arranging little metal tools and another moving tall lights to the bedside. “Hop on up, Heidi. I’m Eve.” I sat on the hard bed, and before I could say anything Eve was talking again. “Let’s get that shirt off you. And bra? Oh, no bra. That’s good. You certainly won’t be needing one when you leave.”