Leggy Blonde: A Memoir (8 page)

As hard as the conditions were, the worst part of the experience was my parents’ impatience with me—and their having gone off the deep end. They were supposed to be responsible caregivers and protectors. When I complained about my fears or raised a doubt about Sai Baba, Dad didn’t want to hear it. The ostensible reason we went to Puttaparthi was to heal me. Back home with all those photos around the house, I realized that my parents lied not only to me, but mostly to themselves. The trip wasn’t about me. It was always about them. They used me as an excuse to follow their latest fad, the newest health craze. They dragged me along, knowing how hard it would be for me to stand.

What if I
had
believed them, and in Sai Baba? Imagine how disappointed I would have been not to regrow my missing foot.

A classic rite of passage for any teenager was drawing a distinct line between herself and her parents. I was so dependent on Mom, I might never have managed to separate from her if not for that trip. I can’t say I came away from the experience a stronger person, but I had become an individual. I had my own thoughts and opinions. My parents forced me to go to India, but they couldn’t change my mind.
As much as it pained me to disagree with them, I took pride in it, too.

A lot of accusations were made about Sai Baba over the years to come, including allegations of sexual abuse. He certainly raked in a massive fortune, and curried political favor in his country. He also built schools and hospitals in the poorest regions in India. Some of his scams have been exposed by documentarians and laughed off by Vegas-style magicians on the Internet. On YouTube, you can see videos of a capsule of compressed ash between Sai Baba’s fingers. When he waved his hands around, he opened the capsule. Presto chango, a handful of ash. People have raised the critical question, “If Sai Baba could materialize gold and diamond rings, why did he give them to the rich and powerful instead of directly to the poor?” You know what? If he really could spit up gold, maybe he would have given it to the poor. But he couldn’t, obviously. He was a fake whose best magic trick was pulling the wool over intelligent people’s eyes.

Over the years, I’ve checked in with Dad about his faith. “So, do you still believe?” I’ve asked him.

For a long time, he did. But after decades of willful delusion, Dad finally let his guru go. He’d seen too much to believe in magic tricks by then. Although he’d hoped and prayed that gods really walked among us, in the end, Sai Baba had been a sham. There are some realities faith alone just can’t change. Dad was embarrassed about all the money he’d spent, for sure. He mumbled a kind of apology to me about forcing me on that trip. And that was enough for me. We all have our own ways of dealing with loss and with life. If I didn’t want anyone judging me, who was I to judge anyone else for their beliefs and coping mechanisms?

M
y first style role model was my mom’s best friend, Sarah. She was six feet tall, gorgeous, sexy, and dressed with the vibrant palette of a peacock. Her fashion coda was cutting edge. As the saying goes, “Talent can hit a target no one else can hit; genius hits a target no one else can see.” Sarah had a kind of style genius. She knew how to make the most of her assets and hide any flaws. I studied her style. She would show up at our apartment in New York or the house in Jamaica in tight scoop-neck dresses, cool jeans and chambray button-down shirts, amazing thick winter sweaters over tights.

In comparison, Mom’s style was impeccable. It was classic and elegant, not risqué and sexy. She looked neat and crisp. Picture Catherine Deneuve in
Belle de Jour,
with a little Jackie O. thrown in. Sarah entered a room like a ball of fire. She reeked of sex. In my high school phase of experiencing first love, first sex, and passion,
I aspired to be as cool and sexy as Sarah was. My mother’s elegant, classic, timeless style was a look I saved for later in life when I became a mom.

Along with inspiration, Sarah gave me reassurance. Every Christmas, Sarah, her husband, Gary, and their son, Bryce, would come to Jamaica for the holiday. Like her outfits, her compliments were way over the top. “Look at Aviva. She’s gorgeous! Look at that body! That tiny waist, those broad shoulders. Does her hair dry like that naturally?” she asked. “Oh, God, she’s stunning,” she’d go on and on. All afternoon, she’d sing my praises.

It was somewhat embarrassing to have my body dissected by my parents’ friends, but my self-esteem was being built. A pioneer in fashion who worked with models all day long found me to be beautiful. The attention made me squirm, but I liked it, too. People weren’t averting their eyes or staring at only the part of me that was missing. They were looking at other distinctions.

“Look at Aviva’s eyebrows,” said Sarah. “She looks just like Brooke Shields.” At the time—the early eighties—there was no greater compliment than being compared to Brooke Shields. I looked nothing like her, but it didn’t matter. My face—my bushy eyebrows—were the topic of discussion. Not the leg.

Sarah and her cohorts might’ve been going overboard to puff me up, but I was fine with the inflated compliments. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a scrawny, geeky kid with big teeth, baby giraffe knees, and a bony chest. But Sarah made me feel pretty.

Beauty was an objective measure. I wouldn’t dare hold myself up to anyone’s beauty standard. Pretty, however, was not a standard. Pretty was a feeling. We all know what it means to feel pretty—and to not feel pretty. Sarah gave me an excellent education by the pool in Jamaica on pretty as an emotion. When I felt it, I stood a little
straighter. Self-consciousness about my leg was replaced by a bashful pride. She showed me how to isolate and strengthen that emotional muscle. I developed it as I grew up, using her stylish example.

•  •  •

My number-one aesthetic goal as a kid was to cover my leg. That meant tights, leggings, long pants—and boots. The prosthesis was bulky around my ankle. It looked like I had one elephant ankle and one gazelle. I couldn’t wear Nikes. The top part of the shoe came up too high. The only sneakers that fit were Keds, which were babyish and uncool. When I was in third or fourth grade, our family went to London for a vacation. My parents took me to the famous British cobbler John Lobb. He made custom lace-up leather boots for me. The look said “Artful Dodger meets Eliza Doolittle.” They were the style of boot Helena Bonham Carter wore at award shows, minus the kitten heel. They were custom made in the finest leather and must have cost a fortune.

I hated them. They were too fancy, and actually called more attention to my ankle than the Keds. My parents insisted I wear them, though. Winter, spring, summer, and fall, I wore those boots. I laced them up for hundreds of days in a row. I was thrilled when they finally started to pinch my right toes and gave me blisters; I could get rid of them.

And shorts: forget it. I refused to wear shorts with the prosthesis. I commend amputees who do. But it wasn’t my style. Shorts didn’t make me feel pretty. They made me feel awkward and conspicuous. When my prosthesis was exposed, people stared at my leg or started asking questions. Covered up, I blended into a crowd.

Even at summer camp, I wore full-length pants. At age nine, I attended the Belvoir Terrace sleep-away camp. It was a posh all-girls
camp in Massachusetts with the best facilities, everything a young girl could hope for. I was homesick and plotted to run away daily. I kept my prosthesis and stump hidden. I slept with my leg on every night and changed in the bathroom alone. It was an uncomfortable, challenging summer. Jeans, boots, and sleeping with a prosthetic on did not help the abrasions or provide any respite from the heat.

I became close to a girl in my bunk named Jessie. One day, she asked me to take my leg off and show her my stump. She actually begged me. I trusted her, so we went into the bathroom. I sat on the toilet seat with the lid down and took off my prosthesis. I expected her to say, “Cool.” She was a tomboy. Tomboys don’t squirm. Much to my dismay, upon seeing my stump, Jessie screamed, cried, and ran out of the bathroom. On the outside, I shrugged. I went into extreme “no biggie” mode and managed to keep the friendship afloat. Inside, I was rocked. It was a life-defining moment. I would never trust anyone again to see my stump without fearing rejection.

Jessie’s reaction reinforced my cover-up obsession. On the soccer field, in the softball dugout, or along the mountain trail, the girl in shorts next to me would look at my jeans and inevitably ask, “Aren’t you hot?”

Yes, in Massachusetts in August, I was sweating buckets. But wearing shorts would have really brought the heat.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Got any stickers?” At nine, I was skillful at changing an awkward conversation topic.

Swimming publically? My rule was: only in Jamaica. The one time I swam at camp, I had to change into a swimming prosthesis in the bathroom, then rush to the lakeshore. Even at the peak of summer, the lake water was damn cold in the mornings. Other girls took their time submerging to get used to the temperature. I jumped right in so
no one could see my leg. Ever jump into a freezing cold lake? Only polar bears would consider that fun.

For three decades, I dreaded warm weather. From May to September, I was a prisoner in my own body. It was partially my own fault, due to my fears and hang-ups. Regardless, I loathed bathing suit season. Other kids counted down the days until summer vacation. I counted the days until fall.

•  •  •

By the time I was sixteen, I was already five foot nine and had really long limbs. Although my arms sometimes made me feel like a monkey, they served me well for high school volleyball. I was the setter and captain of the Fieldston volleyball team. I wore sweatpants instead of little shorts like the other girls on the team. It didn’t matter. Playing a sport made me feel good about myself—strong and sexy. The knee pads even covered my bulky knee where the prosthetic was fastened. I connected in a positive way with my body. (Another sport that helped there? Sex.)

Along with my high school physical breakthroughs, I also emerged sartorially. I got really into fashion, and wrested control of my wardrobe from Mom.

Out: Mom’s style of tailored, classic, clean lines.

In: dresses with leggings, short, tight tube skirts with leggings, and tapered jeans with zippers at the ankle. I had to leave the zippers undone over my prosthesis though. Parachute pants—like clown pants with a small waist, wide around the hips and tapered at the ankles—were
really
in. I couldn’t fit them over my ankle either, so I cut the hem. But I still wore them. I was making adjustments, and making fashion work for me.

Whatever I wore, it was tight, tight, tight. My clothes had to be clingy enough to show my form. I was painfully thin. Anything loose
looked like I was fighting my way out of a tent. The popular girls—a.k.a., the girls boys liked—had big boobs and shapely Paula Abdul thighs. I had zero curves. I was more insecure about being skinny than about having one leg. I tried to gain weight, but I just kept growing taller. I outgrew my prosthesis so quickly, I would have to limp for months while a new one was being made.

I can almost hear women thinking,
Yes, how awful it must have been for her,
being so tall and thin
. But think back to the skinniest girl in your high school class. The girl who looked like she’d been stretched on a rack. The ostrich girl. Now give that girl a big plastic leg and a limp. Get the picture? Blond hair and bushy eyebrows were not going to mitigate that.

Some girls stuffed their bras with socks. I stuffed my thighs with long underwear. I put on two pairs under my jeans to flesh myself out. Instead of changing in the locker room for gym, I took my sweatpants into the bathroom for privacy. The girls thought I was embarrassed to show my leg. Wrong. I was mortified about the long underwear.

I learned the art, the magic, of misdirection. (Maybe I
had
benefited from my summer with Sai Baba.) I could distract people from my skinniness and my leg with clothes and makeup in overdrive. I went full eighties. Madonna was my fashion hero. I did it all. Layered hair with bows, ripped
Flashdance
tops, leggings, multiple belts, leather jackets, and leg warmers, the one fashion trend that worked to my advantage.

I couldn’t wear heels, sadly. I didn’t get a high-heel prosthetic until I was twenty-eight. I went as far as I could with flats. When shoe shopping, I wore a sock over my prosthetic. It put the salesperson at ease not to see too much. I would also make some comment like, “I’ll put the shoes on myself. Thanks. I wear a leg brace.”

Doing it myself was far preferable to letting a salesperson do it.
My mother and I used to pick out some shoes, and then the salesperson would kneel down and attempt to put the shoes on me. He would struggle getting the shoe on my prosthetic foot. Mom would say with sad eyes, “My daughter wears a prosthesis.” I wanted to kill her. The kids next to us would stare and I thought I was going to die of embarrassment. For a shoe salesperson, the experience must have been freaky. Probably like a guy taking home a woman he meets in a nightclub only to be surprised by a penis in her panties.

With clothes shopping, my strategy was to find a private fitting room. In communal fitting rooms, like at Bloomingdale’s, I’d have a friend guard the door. I learned how to dress and undress at lightning speed. I didn’t want my leg to become the center of attention or distract my friends from trying things on. When salespeople noticed my leg, their faces would fall and turn serious. It was like puncturing the fun balloon. I would smile and say, “I wear a knee brace.” And everyone would relax. That was more palatable than a missing body part.

My makeup and hair were flawless. My mom was my role model in that regard. The woman didn’t go to the grocery store without looking head-to-toe perfect. It was an old-school Germanic trait I think. She never let her appearance slip, not until the last few years of her life. I found it sweetly old-fashioned and fabulous that she always reapplied her makeup before my dad came home from work.