Going Through the Change

by Samantha Bryant

  The problem was there just wasn’t really a good way to get a grip on the thing. Linda stalked around the piano, thinking. She moved to one end and sort of hugged the piano, one arm along the dusty back that had been against the wall and one arm along the front where the music would have sat. She squeezed her arms toward each other, thinking of a pair of tongs or maybe a pair of pliers. She stretched one leg out behind her and pulled the piano toward her chest. To her great surprise, the instrument shifted in her grip, and suddenly, Linda was standing in her dining room with a piano in her hands. “Hah,” she cried aloud. “Hah!”

  She walked toward the front door, with a sort of shuffling step, leading with the hip, leaning the piano toward her chest so as not to damage the walls. Once she cleared the doorway into the living room with its higher ceilings, she sort of shrugged the piano up higher so she could take more of the weight on her shoulder. This is easy! she thought.

  Linda set the piano down when she got to the foyer, leaned against it, and contemplated the door for a moment. She hadn’t ventured out much yet. In fact, she’d been a hermit since it happened, afraid to be seen by the neighbors if she did so much as weed her garden. Where was she going to go with the piano?

  She opened the door a crack and peeked out. No one. A little wider. She poked her entire head out and didn’t see anyone. It was ten o’clock in the morning. No one was home. Everyone was at work or school or running errands. There was no one to see her. Even Cindy Liu, the soap-making lady who lived a couple of houses up and kept the strangest hours in the neighborhood, didn’t seem to be moving around.

  Linda reached up and pulled the little ratchet on the screen door that held it open, enjoying the added inches of height yet again. She could put the piano in the truck and sell it at Ms. Taylor’s junk shop three streets over. David’s truck was in the driveway. He had taken the Honda when he went to stay with his sister, Isa. He’d said he needed some time to think. Linda said she understood. It wasn’t exactly true, but she knew it wouldn’t have helped to beg him to stay or try to make ultimatums.

  She frowned, thinking of David at Isa’s house. She didn’t like the idea of him under his sister’s influence. She hated to think what kind of assumptions Isa was making about what was wrong in their relationship and how she might pressure David. David swore he wasn’t telling Isa anything, that he just kept telling her he didn’t want to talk about it, but Linda knew that wouldn’t stop Isa from making up her own theories about what was wrong in her baby brother’s house.

  At least David was still coming over every night. He wouldn’t look Linda in the eye most of the time, but he made sure she had groceries and clothes she could wear. Each night, he sat across the table from her, drinking the mug of chocolate she made for him. Linda was sure he was aching in the same way she was, lonely and confused and angry.

  Last night, he’d said he missed her, asked if she thought her condition was going to last forever. Her heart had leapt with hope, but she had to admit she had no idea how long this was going to last. She didn’t even know what had made it happen in the first place. He’d nodded thoughtfully and sipped his chocolate without saying anything else.

  Linda rubbed her jaw and found it rough as if she hadn’t yet shaved today, even though she’d already shaved twice. She snorted. Wouldn’t Isa be surprised to find out what was really coming between her and her husband after all these years? Not another woman—not even another man, not exactly.

  atricia rushed out of her boss’s office, so furious she could hardly see. Why did he do these things to her? It was bad enough he insisted on calling her Patty, no matter how many times she corrected him. Patricia, please. But an intern? It was a good thing she had a thick skin.

  Patricia rubbed at her forehead as if she could reach the headache forming somewhere deep behind her right eye. She had worked for this man for how long now, twenty years? A good ten years before that for his predecessor. He knew damn well she preferred to work alone and absolutely detested any kind of group project or partnership. Yet, this was the third time he had assigned her an intern to mentor. Always women, too. Or really, girls. Skinny little milksops with no real backbone. He actually used the word nurturing, like she was a freaking wet nurse. Didn’t he remember that she had sent the last one home in tears? And this one was his own niece. She was going to have to coddle the ninny.

  It made her skin crawl just thinking about it. Literally. Damn that scaly skin. She’d have to stop and see Cindy about more of that nasty cream for those patches on her shoulders and arms tonight. The cream, she had promised, would alleviate the itching and let her skin finish its metamorphosis, whatever that was supposed to mean. Sounded flaky to Patricia. What was she, Madame Butterfly?

  The cream had made things less itchy, but, at the same time, the patches of skin seemed to grow thicker and had spread onto her shoulders. It was affecting the fit of her blouses.

  On the phone, Cindy had advised patience, talking about menopause as a process, and one that shouldn’t be shunted aside with drug regimens, but Patricia wasn’t a patient woman. She wanted results, yesterday if not sooner. She wished the whole Change would just happen already. She didn’t need this transitional time of wonky periods and skin flare ups. Cut to the chase already. She wondered if Cindy had anything that could just jump her ahead in the process. Nothing wrong with a good shortcut.

  When Patricia got back to her office, the intern was sitting in the little chair outside the door. She stood when Patricia approached. The girl had already reached out a hand, a big insipid grin on her milky white face before Patricia was anywhere near the reach of a clammy and weak handshake. Patricia held up a manicured hand in return, “Not yet. I’ll call you when I’m ready.” She shouldered past the little twit, threw her folio on her desk, and thundered over to the coffeepot by the window.

  She was so enraged she slopped coffee on her sleeve. “Damn it,” she yelled.

  The door creaked open behind her, and the twerp peeked her head in. “Ms. O’Neill?”

  Patricia turned and glared.

  The girl came in, uninvited. “Here, let me see that.” She reached for Patricia’s sleeve. “Ah, on this lovely ecru jacket! Is this Armani? That’s going to stain.” The girl set her little beaded purse down on Patricia’s desk. “Take it off.”

  Patricia stared at her. The girl stood with her hand out, waiting. “Give it to me. I’ll get it taken care of.” The girl reached out a little limp hand but smiled at Patricia with such startling confidence that Patricia obeyed, shrugging off the jacket and letting her take it.

  The girl nodded. “I’ll be right back.” She bounced out of the office, leaving a scent of something floral behind her. Patricia snorted to herself. She probably couldn’t make it worse.

  Patricia sat down at her desk to wait. She was typing away at a report on her laptop about thirty minutes later when she heard the door click open again. She looked up, and there was the intern, holding Patricia’s jacket in a dry-cleaner’s plastic bag in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other hand. “The barista downstairs says this is your drink.” She placed the coffee just beyond the stack of papers at Patricia’s right hand. “And the dry cleaner across the street has emergency service for ten dollars. You can pay me back later.”

  Patricia smiled in spite of herself. “Thanks.”

  “Now, Ms. O’Neill, what on earth is wrong with your shoulders?”

  Patricia’s smile disappeared. She stood and put on the jacket. She threw the plastic covering towards the garbage can and missed. The intern picked it up and tossed it in. Still kneeling, she looked up, all wide-eyed concern. “Seriously, Ms. O’Neill, that looks like it hurts!”

  Patricia buttoned her jacket and smoothed it and then stared at the girl silently. She had best let this go. Running her dry cleaning was one thing. Picking up the coffee was nice. But they were not friends. “What did you say your name was?”

  The girl fluttered a bit. “Oh, I’m Suzie. I assumed Uncle Mike had
already told you about me.”

  “Suzie, huh?” Patricia sneered. “Not Susan? Sue?”

  “Nope, I’m Suzie,” she said brightly.

  “That’s enough for today. Be here at eight o’clock tomorrow.” Patricia sat back down and focused her attention on her computer screen. She could feel the girl looking at her but decided to ignore her. Eventually, she really did lose herself in her work. When she looked up, the girl was gone. Patricia was surprised to find that she was disappointed.

  inda pulled up in front of the used furniture shop on the avenue and sat behind the wheel for a minute. Would Ms. Taylor recognize her? Linda had shopped here many times. Dawn Taylor, the shop owner, lived in the neighborhood, too, and while she and Linda weren’t friends, they were friendly.

  They talked about their children when they ran into each other at the weekend market in front of the library. Dawn was always worried about her son finding a nice girl to settle down with, and Linda was happy he had never caught the eye of her daughters. Beau Taylor wasn’t interested in nice girls. Linda wondered how such a nice lady had ended up with such a wolf of a son.

  Linda flipped down the truck’s visor and opened the mirror. Her own soft brown eyes looked back at her, but that was the only part of her face she could recognize. Even her jawline was different now. Her nose might have been the same, but it was hard to tell when the rest of the face was so changed. Her cheekbones seemed to have moved higher in her face, her chin elongated, the whole face widened.

  Linda had pulled her long hair back into a tight, low ponytail like she’d seen some of the younger men wearing. Some shorter strands fell forward on her cheeks. That was attractive on a woman but looked strange on her new face. She’d have to grow them out. There was no way she was going to cut her hair short. She tucked the hairs into the ball cap as she pulled it on. It was one of David’s ball caps, a plain blue one with a little green paint on the visor part. She sighed at the sight of her face. No, Ms. Taylor wasn’t going to recognize her. That was a man in the mirror.

  She stepped out of the truck and tugged at her clothes, adjusting the legs of the jeans, and then bent down to check her face in the side view mirror one more time. She smoothed her eyebrows and checked her teeth. It was kind of nice to give up makeup, though she did miss lip-gloss.

  She’d been wearing sweatpants at the house, but felt she should wear jeans if she was going to venture out. They felt strange. Or really, she felt strange. She had a struggle figuring out how to zip up the pants without snagging that thing in the zipper. Somehow, it always seemed to be in the way, dangling out the front flap in the boxer shorts or reacting to a change in the air and stiffening for a moment.

  She’d already figured out that sitting worked differently, and that men weren’t exaggerating about how much it hurt to take a hit to the cojones. David had tried to advise her on proper hygiene and care, but they had both been so embarrassed by the conversation that they had ended up talking about baseball instead.

  Simply walking in jeans made Linda oddly aware of all her new parts. And they itched. She wondered if that was normal. If normal was a word a person could use for any part of this. She was starting to get all the jokes about the Lower Brain and other head. Sometimes, it really was like that thing had a mind of its own. It always wanted attention. Just like a man.

  Linda smoothed the soft, gray T-shirt over her hips, wondering if she should’ve worn one of the button-down shirts David had brought her. She hoped she didn’t look too disreputable. She took a deep breath and opened the door to the used furniture shop. A little bell above the door rang. Linda waited by the door, not wanting to chance moving around too much in the crowded shop. She was always underestimating her size and bumping into things, and Ms. Taylor wouldn’t appreciate it if she broke the little ceramics and dishes lining the tables near the door.

  Ms. Taylor came out from the back of the store, pulling a work apron over her head and leaving it by the cash register. “Can I help you?” Ms. Taylor smoothed her hands over her hair and tugged her blouse down, displaying her impressive cleavage more prominently. Her voice was honeyed, and she gave Linda a very obvious once-over. Linda was shocked. Maybe Beau wasn’t so unlike his mother, after all.

  Linda took a step backward, bumping her head on the bell dangling at the top of the doorframe. “Um, yeah,” Linda said and then coughed, like she could make her voice sound like her own if she only cleared her throat. “I’ve got a piano in the truck. Can you take a look?”

  “Does it play?”

  “Yes. It probably needs tuning, but it works.”

  “Okay, honey. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Ms. Taylor laid a hand on Linda’s elbow and gestured toward the door. Linda wondered if this kind of thing happened to her husband when he was out without her. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to hold onto Ms. Taylor’s hand or something, so she just turned and led the way to the truck.

  Standing on the sidewalk, Ms. Taylor stood on tiptoe to look at the piano in the truck. “It doesn’t look too bad, on the outside at least.” She smiled back over her shoulder. Linda put her hands in her pockets and looked at her feet, trying to remember to stand centered on her two feet and not leaning into one hip. She was pretty sure Ms. Taylor was flirting with her, and she didn’t know what to do with that. She’d never been on the receiving end of this kind of attention before.

  Ms. Taylor moved to the back of the truck and lowered the tailgate. “Give me a hand up?”

  Linda moved to her side and offered a hand. Ms. Taylor took it daintily and steadied herself as she stepped into the truck bed. She lifted the keyboard cover and plunked out a little bit of Für Elise. “Piano lessons when I was eight,” she said, winking at Linda. She climbed to the back of the truck and held out a hand for an assist.

  When Linda offered her hand, Ms. Taylor bent forward and took her arm, resting a hand on one of Linda’s shoulders and the other on Linda’s bicep. “Little help?” she said, her face suddenly awfully close. Linda could smell Ms. Taylor’s perfume, something floral that she wore a little too much of.

  Linda lowered her hands to Ms. Taylor’s waist and lifted her easily off the truck, pulling her into the air and putting her down as quickly as she could and nearly tripping over the curb as she backed away. Her arms flailed for a moment, and she bit her tongue to keep from squeaking in surprise. Men don’t squeak, she reminded herself. She tucked her hands into her back pockets, feeling all elbows and awkwardness, and hoping the pose looked appropriately masculine. “You are a strong one, aren’t you?” Ms. Taylor said, admiration in her voice. “Yeah, I’ll take the piano. I’ll give you two hundred dollars?”

  Linda nodded.

  Even though there was plenty of room to get around Linda without touching, Ms. Taylor managed to bump her breasts against Linda’s elbow, causing Linda to pull her elbows in on herself. She fought the urge to rub the spot where she’d been touched. That thing in her pants stirred a little. Díos mío.

  “Pull your truck into the alley behind the shop, and I’ll have my son come help you get it out and into my back room,” Ms. Taylor called over her shoulder, pushing one hip out in a pose Linda recognized as one designed to highlight the view from behind. Linda knew she didn’t need the help, but thought she’d better accept it all the same. Normal people couldn’t pick up pianos alone.

  hen Patricia arrived at seven forty-five the next morning, Suzie was already sitting outside the office waiting for her. “Didn’t we say eight o’clock?” Patricia asked, mock confusion in her voice.

  “Yes, but I believe early is even better than prompt,” Suzie answered.

  Patricia barked a short laugh. “You might just do okay then. Let’s get started.”

  Patricia had spent some time thinking it out the night before and had chosen a few tasks she didn’t enjoy very much herself but still needed doing—some filing, some running different things around to different parts of the building, and reading the reports from the various project groups
that reported to her to see where her attention was needed today. She spent only ten minutes explaining and then settled in at her desk and ignored the intern. She figured even if Suzie screwed it all up, none of it would take her long to fix.

  She was surprised to look up from her work only an hour later and find Suzie standing by her desk. “Do you need something?” she asked, unconsciously scratching at the scaly patch on her upper arm. It itched, but she could hardly even feel her own nails digging at it. She hadn’t made it to see Cindy the night before. She’d have to go today after work. She stopped scratching when she saw Suzie staring.

  “No. I’m done,” Suzie said. “Your filing system could use some revamping, though. You might consider digitizing some of these old files that only exist as paper so they can be search-able. The tech department can set me up a scanning station for that this afternoon if you’d like me to take care of it for you.”

  Patricia liked the idea of a long-term project that would keep the little twit out of her hair. She liked even better that Suzie had already checked on how it would be done. She liked a self-starter. Maybe this girl had some promise after all. Patricia thought about her old friend Cindy and how no one would suspect the steel lining her backbone, either. Books, covers. All that jazz. Though the cover of this particular book was very blonde, very wide-eyed, and very young. That would take some work on her part to get past. “Okay. That could be useful. What about the errands and the reports?”

  “I used the in-office courier service to return the items to their owners. As for reports, it seems like the teams are mostly on track, but, reading between the lines, I think Marcie Henderson is bullshitting you. She doesn’t have her deliverables, and she’s just hoping you won’t ask for them today. Looking back at old reports, she’s very good at never actually saying she has things ready but leaving it open for you to assume she does.”