Simon's getting his face fixed, at least that's what he told her last night.
She tried to remove his decision with red wine but the unpleasantness of the situation didn't go away. He was jolly this morning, asked for bacon and eggs and a side of orange juice spiked; something that he hadn't asked for since the accident.
She, however, was not jolly this morning. Her feet clapped slowly against the tile floor and her head felt like some young child had just been given a drum set for the first time. She felt dry and hollow, brittle, even, on the inside. She thought about taking up bulimia again about twenty-seven times, "I could lose some weight before he saw me again. Maybe enough to keep him."
That car wreck did him a good one. It took some vision away, some muscular mobility. Some days, she had to help feed him, because there was only so much his twisted, cute face could manage.
He wasn't so threatening after that. He wasn't like a man. He was, a stick, or what do they call it? Vegetable?
She didn't have to worry about his pecker, either. He was without drive. He couldn't make himself go with a girl. A dysfunction caused by psychological blockage. He didn't say much, either.
But getting better, that might change that for him. There was that old girl friend of his, Candy, Cindy, I'll-Blow-You-Right-Here-Right-Now, he'd want her. That job with the state four-hundred miles away, he'd want that, too. Oh, and that stack of pornography in his closet, he'd go straight for it.
He'd want those things and more.
He would drink, he would feel like a human, he would gripe and complain, he'd say she wasn't good enough.
He would see right off how fat she was, he'd go to be with Candy, or Cindy, or Caroline, she forget her name. He'd never be back here.
She scrambled the eggs and they sizzled in the pain. They took shape as she split them, the warmth turned them clear, white, and then a bright yellow. She imagined them to be Simon, going from nothing to something. He'd be all bright and yellow, too. Hell, he'd practically be a happy, bobbing sunflower.
The hot, scalding splatter of bacon practically made her scream as it jumped onto her skin. She took it out of the pan, its edges black, and assembled the breakfast onto the plate. Two bacon pieces parallel to each other on the left-hand side, two eggs sunny-side up on the right.
She filled the tall glass with vodka then adding the orange juice, and took a sip for toxicity. She held back from spitting in it.
"Who did he think he was, drinking vodka in the morning, and being all happy about leaving me? What gave him the right to fix himself and leave me broken and behind? I wouldn't be good enough for him then, I wasn't good enough now, but after this, he wouldn't have to stay! Some skinny blond thing would scoop him up, nurse him back to health by working his love stick up and down! Up and down! The little whore."
She gripped the fork, the plate, and the glass, and stomped her way to his room. The television got louder and louder as she approached.
He was in bed, yellow pillows tucked under his neck and back. He was propped up like a little china doll. He had the tiny lamp on that his mother gave him when she died last year, it had beaded stuff on it.
She thought it was trashy.
"Here you are, all beautiful. You've brought my breakfast." He motioned his arms open, very slowly, and his lips twitched in an unnatural way when he smiled.
She slid the bib around his neck, rocked his body upright so he eat even more comfortably, and placed the plate in his lap, and the drink near the lamp, onto a coaster.
"Thank you so much, for this. I appreciate your work. You know, when I get better, we'll go out and have meals. You won't have to cook anymore. We can say, to hell with cooking, lets go get steak!" His face curled up, and his lip twitched again. His eyes shined brightly. He wasn't looking downward today. He was happy about the procedure he would soon take part in.
"They say they’re gonna put some skin from other places -- no, not that place, you dirty woman, and reconstruct it. They have photos of how I used to look, they're gonna recreate it as best they can. Facial hair and everything."
She felt like throwing up. Facial hair? She didn't like facial hair. It reminded her of something; her father when he got too playful, when she couldn't get away, and he pulled up on --
" -- Costs you, me, nothing. Some fine agency has forked the dough. I think the company is involved somehow, but they don't tell me anything anymore. I'm outta the loop, even though I watch the news. I have trouble hearing certain frequencies in that ear, I think." He laughed at himself.
He thought she was listening, but the words came to her and stopped.
Sometimes, she gets this way, and I have to wake her up.
She perked up immediately, and only barely remembered the memory of her father with the facial hair, too rough.
"Would you be so kind as to fetch some of my prescriptions out of the cupboard?"
She nodded and walked out to the kitchen. Her mind was blank. She barely remembered the instruction. "What did he want? Prescription?" She repeated "Prescription. Prescription. Prescription. What does that mean?"
Her hands flew widely through the cupboards, boxes, little boxes, plastic containers, it all looked so confusing.
She felt as if she wasn't herself, she felt as if someone else was with her.
She saw her arm grab a bottle, open it into her hand, and run to the bedroom. She was shaking, her body was in pain, and her mind was running. She practically threw the pills at him, and fled the room.
"Facial hair. Facial hair. Rubbing. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts."
She could hear him laughing, and the television was making the appropriate noises in the background. The clink and clank of his fork against the plate was audible.
"Rubbing. Rubbing. Rubb --" she kept repeating, looking for connections, over and over.
I tried to suppress the thoughts. Finally, I had to shut her off.
Down the hall and to the right, I walked into her bedroom, and pulled the suitcase out from under the bed. I grabbed the nightgown she liked, and the nightgown I liked, one white, and the other fiery red with a v-neck scoop, socks for her, nylons for me. The bland package of blue, pink, white, assortment of makeup she wore on occasion, and the red, black, brown, assortment I had practically used up.
I grabbed the small bound book she used for a journal which consisted of childish scribbles that she liked to fantasize about and consider as art, and the box of jewelery from the vanity table.
I took the hair-binding contraption she wore out of my hair, and stuffed it a pack. In a few short minutes, I had gathered together everything I had wanted.
I threw the bag over my shoulder, walked into his room and turned off the television. News casters stopped their endless yammering and the house was quiet.
He was gone, stretched out on his bed like a cat. His tortured face looked quite peaceful. Light shone in from outside. He looked like he was taking a mid-morning nap.
"We just can't be afraid of men anymore, you see? Poor Simon, I wish you could have been an exception. I kind of liked you."
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