A Girl Becomes a Comma Like That (15 page)

The leeches themselves were clean, medicinal. They'd been starved for months prior, with just this feast in mind. They'd be determined enough, hungry enough, he hoped, to stimulate the blood, to bring it up through her body and into that makeshift breast—which, by the way, was beautiful, perfect, it would be a shame to waste a breast like that.

“She agreed to this?” I said.

“Yes.”

“She's okay with this?”

“As okay as can be expected,” he said.

“God.”

“I'm on my way in there now to begin the therapy—but wanted to let you know.”

“You're going in there with bugs
now?”
I said, horrified. My friends' eyes widened, their mouths dropped.

“It's one bug, actually. One leech at a time.”

“Can I see her?”

“I'd let her sleep through this first treatment. She's fine,” he said. “They're medicinal,” he repeated.

 

It was midnight, and Ruby's Room wasn't crowded. The three of us sat in a booth, drinking our third beers of the night. A group of men sent over shots of tequila. One man, an unlit cigar hanging from his cracked lips, delivered them to our table. His face was red, especially his nose. There were visible cracks, fissures, in the corners of his mouth. I thought that perhaps he worked outside, on a boat. Perhaps he made buildings. Perhaps he fished leaves, dead flowers, and insects from swimming pools.

The man set the tequila directly in front of Angela, as if all three shots were for her. He looked into her eyes. Angela stared back.

Claire shot me a look.

Finally, I interrupted the tension, saying, “Thanks, thank you,
thanks.”

He looked at me, pointed out his buddies with a nod. “Thank
them,”
he said, the cigar bouncing. I looked over at the men, who were sitting in a booth across the way. I couldn't make out one face. From where I sat, they were a sea of beards and caps and grins.

“I heard your big laugh,” the man said to Angela. “And, well, I had to meet you. A girl with a laugh like that is some kind of fun, and I mean that sincerely,” he said.

“Some kind of fun, huh?” she repeated.

“I'm buying whatever you want next—for you and your friends here.” He wagged his cigar good-bye before turning back to his buddies.

Usually, I didn't drink tequila, but now there I was with an empty shot glass in front of me, a slice of lime sucked dry, and that distinct taste still on my lips. After the cigar guy left, Claire scooted her tequila in Angela's direction, and now Angela was stacking the two empty shot glasses on top of each other. “I'd forgotten what this stuff tastes like,” she said.

“I don't want to remember,” Claire said.

Angela was telling me that she'd have opted for the reconstruction herself. “I think it's important to stay whole,” she said.

“Even with the leeches?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“Not me,” Claire said.

“I saw a television show recently where a man lost his ear,” Angela began. “And this beautiful doctor—my, he was gorgeous, a prince—anyway, this doctor put the ear on ice—or was it already on ice? Either way,” she said, “they saved the ear like you'd save a trout or something. Then he sewed it back on. It's amazing what they can do these days.”

“I missed that one,” I said.

“Well, it was like what's happening with your mom,” Angela continued. “They used leeches to get the blood going. They're hungry fuckers, that's for sure. They starve them to get them ready. I read about it in
Time.”

“It's cruel,” Claire said, shaking her head. “We're all the goddess's creatures.”

Angela rolled her eyes. “Creatures?”

“Yes, and we all have a place in this world.”

“Right now,
their place
is at my mother's breast.”

“We're talking about leeches, here, Claire,” Angela said. She pulled my empty shot glass her way and balanced it on top of the others, making a precarious ladder.

Claire, huffing and sighing, removed the shot glass. She looked at Angela, who was then smiling and waving across the bar at the cigar guy. I picked up my beer and took a big swallow.

“What do they do with them once they're fed?” Claire asked.

“I think they toss them into a bin to die, or they die on their own. I don't remember that part of the article.” Angela paused. She looked around the bar. “Not even one attractive man in here.”

“What about the cigar guy?” I asked.

“He's not attractive,” Angela said.

“Well, then, why—”

“Because he likes me, Rachel—because he likes what he sees, at least.”

Claire shuddered. “I'd hate those leeches on me,” she said, changing the subject or not changing it at all. “I'd hate—” she began, but Angela cut her off.

“I'd do what your mom did,” Angela said. “I'd choose surgery, even with the leeches. I mean, what's the alternative—walking around without a nose or ear or breast?”

“For my nose or ear, yes,” Claire said. “For my finger, of course, but for a breast, no way.”

“What's the difference?” Angela wanted to know.

“If a body part that's basically just flesh and fat turns on you, if it's sick, who wants it?”

“You can say that now,” Angela said, “because you're a lesbian.”

“I'm not a lesbian. I have a girlfriend, but I'm not a lesbian,” Claire said.

“In my book, you're a lesbian, Claire. You can call yourself bi or whatever, but to me—”

Claire interrupted her. “What does my sexual preference have to do with any of this anyway?”

“Back in high school, you would have chosen the reconstruction—when you were straight or pretending to be.”

“I wasn't pretending.”

“Come on you two, don't fight,” I said.

“We're not fighting, we're discussing,” Angela said.

“It's okay, Rachel,” Claire said.

“Now that you're with women, Claire, you don't have to look as good. You don't have to worry about pleasing men,” Angela said.

I laughed.

“That's ridiculous,” Claire said, looking at me.

I stopped laughing. I wasn't about to get in the middle of this.

“It's not ridiculous,” Angela argued. “Listen, men get pleasure visually, from seeing. Everyone knows this—you know this, Claire. And you'd admit it if you were honest.”

“Claire's honest,” I tried.

“I'm honest,” Claire said. “And lesbians want to look good for their partners. You don't know anything about it.”

“I thought you said you weren't a lesbian,” Angela said.

Claire shook her head.

“It's not about vanity, it's about a man's judgment. It's why you lesbians get to be fat, it's why gay men live at the gym. Not that you're fat, Claire, you're fine. I'm talking about a majority here. Think of your new girlfriend. What's her name—Leona, Lora?”

“Lora,” I said. “She's very nice.”

“That's right, Lora. I'm sure she is nice, sweet as can be, heart of gold and all of that, but I bet little Lora's ass is as big as mine—and I bet she doesn't have to worry about her ass because she's
nice
, because you, Claire, don't care one way or another about her ass. If it spread from one end of this bar to the other, I bet you wouldn't complain.” Angela picked up her beer and finished it off. She exhaled heavily. “I want another,” she said. “You, Rachel?”

“Just water.”

Angela swung her legs out of the booth and stood. “What if I bring you one last beer and you nurse it for the rest of the night?”

“Okay,” I said.

Angela turned, leaving us alone. “She's nuts,” Claire said. “I can't believe what comes out of her mouth.”

“She likes to talk.”

Claire leaned across the booth. “I wouldn't have the reconstruction even if I was straight. I'm not judging your mother or anything, I just wouldn't have it myself.”

“Who knows, Claire. I wanted my mom to wait another year because I'm afraid of the cancer coming back.”

“I'm not judging her,” she said again.

“I want my breasts,” I said. “I'm scared of them, but I'd want them back if they took them from me. I don't know what I would do—what choices I'd make.”

“You'd get on with things, Rachel, that's what you'd do. You wouldn't worry about the cosmetic side of all of this when your survival was at stake. I know you, Rachel.” She paused. She looked around the bar. “Did you see that guy's lips, those cracks?”

I nodded.

“He freaked me out.”

“I know.”

“I mean, is the size of someone's ass so important?”

“My mom thinks all three of our asses are big.”

“Your ass isn't big,” Claire said. “You're in proportion.” She was quiet a minute. “Wait, your mom said
my
ass was big?”

I nodded.

“I'm a size five—what's she talking about?”

“She says that our asses are big compared to the rest of us. She calls us shapely.”

Claire smiled. “Your mom's a funny one,” she said. “And anyway, you don't have to kiss someone's ass. You kiss their lips. And Angela's new friend, his lips are gross. Lora's lips are soft.”

“Good point,” I said, laughing.

“That guy had skin hanging from his lips, and he thought he was okay, just fine, and it was—Angela doesn't care what his lips look like. She's just happy that he likes the way she looks. He's a dry-lipped beast,” Claire said, laughing, and then the two of us were laughing, drunk and silly, and couldn't stop.

I pointed over at Angela, who had just turned from the cigar guy's table and was heading back to the booth with drinks. Claire caught her breath. “She's right, you know. Angela's right. I hate it when she's right,” she said.

“Who's right?” Angela said, putting the beers in the middle of the table, two more shots of tequila, and a napkinful of lime.

Claire was quiet.

“Let's drink,” Angela said. She climbed into the booth, and then raised the shot glass in the air. “Let's toast.”

I reached for mine.

“Don't be mad at me, Claire.” Angela was talking to the back of Claire's head because Claire had twisted around and was now facing the bar. “You like that bartender? Her name is Stephanie. She likes men and women. Mostly women, I think. I could introduce you to her. Want me to?”

Claire ignored her.

“Okay, be mad at me, but be mad later. Let's cheers to Rachel,” Angela said, bringing the shot glass to her mouth.

I joined her.

“To Elizabeth,” Angela said. “To Rachel's mother, mother of us all, mother of all God's creatures, and, and—”

“And?” I said.

“And to her breast-saving leeches,” she continued.

I nodded.

“And mostly, certainly, always, to survival—to whatever the fuck it takes,” Angela concluded, smiling.

Claire picked up her beer.

The three of us toasted, glasses clinking, then leaned our heads back and swallowed.

9.

Angela had offered to spend the night at my mother's apartment so I wouldn't wake up alone. Moments ago, she had slipped out of Ruby's Room's back door with my spare key, a naughty smile on her face, and the man with the dry lips on her arm. I told her to go ahead and take my room, that I'd sleep in my mother's bed. Claire, after a ridiculous amount of reassurance, after I had promised to take a cab and ignore last call, finally called Lora to pick her up.

I left the booth and moved to the bar. Now, it
was
last call and I didn't ignore it but ordered one more beer. It was one-thirty bar time, which gave me twenty minutes or so. Adam Anderson, whom I hadn't seen in years and hadn't missed, was sitting next to me, drinking a cup of coffee.

In the late eighties, when I was a student, he taught anatomy and biology part-time at the university. He wasn't my instructor. I didn't meet him in a class, but at a poetry reading—one of his own. Ten years ago it was his abortion I'd had when the two of us didn't like each other enough to chance the combination of genes. Now he was full-time, a professor, he said. He was surprised that I was teaching on campus myself now, in the building right next to his—and even more surprised that I hadn't stopped by to say hello.