Sweet Memories (28 page)

“I’ve missed you,” he said quietly.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“I wish I could be there. I'd take you to dinner and then out dancing.”

The memory of being wrapped in his arms, with her breasts crushed against his corduroy jacket came back in vivid detail and made her body ache with renewed longing to see him again.

“Brian, nobody’s ever sent me flowers before.”

“That just goes to show the world is filled with fools.”

She smiled, closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool kitchen wall. “And nobody’s ever plied me with flattery before either. Don’t stop now.”

“Your teeth are like stars ....” He paused expectantly, and her smile grew broader.

“Yes, I know—they come out every night.” She could hear his humor blossoming as he went on to the next line of the time-weary joke.

“And your eyes are like limpid pools.”

“Yes, I know—cesspools.”

“And your hair is like moonbeams.”

“Oh-oh! I never heard that one.” But by this time they were both laughing. Then his voice became serious once more.

“What were you doing when I called?”

She watched her fingertips absently smoothing the kitchen wall. “I was in my bedroom, writing a thank-you letter to you for the roses.”

“Were you really?”

“Yes, really.”

It was quiet for a long time. His voice was gruff and slightly pained when he spoke again. “God, I miss you. I wish I was there.”

“I wish you were, too, but it won’t be long now.” “It seems like six years instead of six weeks.”

“I know, but school will be out by then, and we’ll be able to spend lots of time together ... if you want.”

“If I want?” After a meaningful pause, he added sexily, “Silly girl.”

She thought her heart might very well erupt, for it seemed to fill her ears and head with a wild, sweet thrumming. To her amazement, his next words made it beat even harder.

“I wish you could feel what’s happening to my heart right now.”

“I think I know. The same thing is going on in mine.”

“Put your hand on it.”

Only a faraway musical bleep sounded across the telephone line as Theresa digested his order.

“Is it there?” he asked.

“N ... no.”

“Put it there, for me.”

Timidly, slowly, she placed her hand upon her throbbing heart.

“Is it there now?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Tell me what you feel.”

“I feel like ... like I’ve been running as hard as I can—it’s like there’s a piston driving in there. My hand seems to be lifting and falling with the force of it.”

After a long moment of silence he said rather shakily, “That’s where I want to be, in your heart.”

“Oh, Brian, you are,” she replied breathily.

“Theresa?” She waited, breathlessly. “Now slide your hand down.”

Her lips dropped open. Her skin prickled.

“Slide it down,” he repeated, more softly. The tremor was gone from his voice now. It was controlled and very certain. Her hand dropped to her breast. “And that’s where I want to kiss you ... again. And do everything that follows. I’m sorry now that we didn’t do it in Fargo. But when I get back, we will. I’m giving you fair warning, Theresa.”

The line went positively silent. Theresa’s eyes were closed, her breathing labored. Turning, she pressed her shoulder blades and the back of her head to the wall. His face came clearly to mind. She moved her hand back to her breast and riffled her fingers softly up and down. The tiny movements sent shudders of sensation down the backs of her thighs. The thought of the surgery sizzled through her mind, and she opened her mouth to ask him what he would think if he came back and found her with beautifully average breasts, but ones that might not be able to show response.

“Theresa,” he almost whispered, again sounding pained. “I have to go. You finish your letter to me, and tell me all the things you’re feeling right now, okay, sweets? And I’ll see you in six weeks. Till then, here’s a kiss. Put it wherever you want it.” A pause followed, then his emotional, “Goodbye, Treece.”

“Brian, wait!” She clutched the phone almost frantically.

“I’m still here.”

“Brian, I ....” Her throat worked, but not another sound came out.

“I know, Theresa. I feel the same.”

She would have known he’d hang up without warning. He was a man who never said goodbye.

__________

“I’
M
 
GIVING YOU FAIR WARNING, THERESA.”

His words stayed with her during the following days while she continued weighing the possibility of undergoing breast surgery. She had a second talk with Dr. Schaum. He told her the time would be perfect, just when school ended for summer vacation, a time of low stress and less social contact—both desirable. She had learned that her insurance 
would
 
cover the cost of the surgery because of the prognosis for late-life back troubles. She’d received a brochure from Dr. Schaum explaining the surgical procedure, what to expect beforehand and afterward. The discomforts could be expected to be minimal, but they were the least of Theresa’s concerns. Neither was she especially bothered by the idea of giving up nursing—babies seemed so far in the future. But the possibility of losing an erogenous zone made her reluctant, and at times depressed, especially when remembering Brian’s lips upon her, and the wonder of her own feminine response.

She grew short-tempered with her family and also with her students as the weather warmed. The children’s temperaments grew feisty, too. Fights broke out on the playground, and tears were often in need of swabbing. While she performed the duty, Theresa often wished she had someone to swab her own tears, shed in secret at night, as the decision time came closer and closer. If she was going to have the surgery, the choice must be made and made soon. In two weeks summer vacation would start, and three weeks after that, Brian would come home.

She thought of greeting him in a cool, cotton T-shirt—green, maybe—with a new trim profile of her choosing. How amazing to think she could actually choose the contour of breast she preferred! The surgeons didn’t even make both breasts the same size anymore, but made the right larger than the left if the woman was right-handed, and vice versa, just as nature would have done. When nipples were replaced, they were lifted to a new, perky, uptilted angle that would remain attractive for the rest of her life.

The idea beguiled.

The idea horrified.

I want to do it.

I can’t do it. What would Brian say?

It’s your body, not his.

But I want to share it with him. To the fullest.

You still can, even if the sensation doesn’t come back.

I should at least discuss it with him.

On the basis of one weekend in Fargo that ended unfulfilled, a bouquet of roses and a seductive phone call?

But he said he wanted me to be exactly the same
 
when he came back!

Supposing you’re even better?

Dear God, they’d cut my nipples off.

Not totally.

I’ll have scars.

That will disappear almost completely.

But I loved being kissed there—suppose I lose the feeling?

Chances are you won’t.

I’m scared.

You’re a woman—the choice is yours.

__________

A
 
WEEK BEFORE VACATION 
she made her decision. When she told her parents, Margaret’s face registered immediate shock and disapproval, her father’s a gray disappointment that the body he’d bequeathed his daughter had turned out to be less than suitable.

As Theresa had expected, Margaret was the outspoken one. “I don’t understand why you’d want to ... to fool around with the body you’ve been given, as if it isn’t good enough”

“Because it can be better, mother.”

“But it’s so 
unnecessary
 and such an expense!”

“Unnecessary!” These were all the arguments she’d been expecting, yet Theresa was deeply disappointed in her mother’s lack of understanding. “You think it’s unnecessary?”

Margaret colored and pursed her lips slightly. “I should know. I’ve lived with a shape like yours all my life, and I’ve gotten along just fine.”

Theresa wondered about all the hidden slights her mother had suffered and never disclosed. She knew for a fact there were backaches and shoulder aches. Very quietly the younger woman asked, “Have you, mother?”

Margaret discovered something important needing attention behind her and presented her back. “What a ridiculous question. Movie stars and playgirls tamper with their shapes, not nice girls like you.” She swung around again. “What will people say?” Theresa felt wounded that her mother, with typical lack of tact, could choose such a time to voice the fear uppermost in her mind—which was how it would affect herself. She cared so much about the opinion of outsiders that she let its importance overshadow the reason her daughter had come to this decision. With a sigh, Theresa sank to a chair. “Please, mom, dad, I want to explain ....” She did. She went back to age fourteen and described all her disenchantment with her elephantine growth, and explained all that Dr. Schaum had predicted for her future. She omitted the details about her sexual hangups, but explained why she’d worn the sweaters, hidden beneath the violin, chosen to work with children and disliked meeting strange men.

When she finished, Margaret’s eyes moved to Willard’s. She mulled silently for a minute, sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said to the tabletop. “I don’t know.”

But Theresa knew. She had gained confidence by confronting her parents about the trip to Fargo, and she was very certain the surgery was the right thing for her. She sensed her mother softening and realized her own self-assurance was changing Margaret’s opinion.

“There’s just one more thing,” Theresa went on. She met Margaret’s questioning eyes directly. “Could you get the day off that Monday of the surgery and be there at the hospital, mother?”

Perhaps it was the realization that the young woman who was slowly but surely snipping the apron strings still needed Margaret’s maternal understanding. Perhaps it was because there’d been times in Margaret’s life when she’d wished for the courage her daughter now displayed. She squelched her misgivings, forced the squeamishness from her thoughts and answered, “If you’re bound to go through with it, yes, I’ll be there.”

But when she was alone, Margaret leaned weakly against the bathroom door, compressing her own bulbous breasts with her palms, overcome by pangs of empathetic transference. She opened her eyes and dropped her hands, breathing deeply, admitting what courage it took for her daughter to make the decision she had.

__________

O
N
 
MEMORIAL DAY, 
Theresa washed her hair by herself for the last time for at least two weeks; she wouldn’t be able to lift her arms for a while after the surgery. She packed a suitcase with one very generously sized nightgown, and three brand-new pairs of pajamas, size medium. She harnessed herself into her size 34DD utilitarian white bra, but packed several of size 34C—not blue, not pink, not even lacy; those would have to wait. She’d be wearing the smaller, sturdy white bra day and night for a month. She dressed in a size extra-large spring top, but packed a brand-new one, again size medium, that looked to Theresa as if it had been made for a doll instead of a woman.

The following morning, Margaret was there when they rolled Theresa into surgery on the gurney. She kissed her daughter’s cheek, held her hand in both of her own, and said, “See you in a little while.”

__________

THREE AND A HALF HOURS LATER, 
Theresa was taken to the recovery room, and an hour after that she opened her eyes and lifted a bleary smile to Margaret, who leaned close and brushed the thick, coppery hair back from Theresa’s forehead.

“Mom ....” The word was an airy whisper. Theresa’s eyelids fluttered open twice, but her eyes remained unfocused.

“Baby, everything went just fine. Rest now. I’ll be here.”

But a limp, freckled hand lifted and dreamily explored the sheets across her breast. “Mom, am ... I ... beautiful?” came the sleepy question.

Gently restraining Theresa’s hand, Margaret felt tears sting her eyes. “Yes, baby, you’re beautiful. But you’ve always been. Shh .... ” A drugged smile lifted the corner of Theresa’s soft lips.

“Brian ... doesn’t ... know ... yet ....” The lethargic voice hushed into silence, and Theresa drifted away into the webbed world of sleep.

__________

LATER THERESA WAS LUCID 
and alone in her hospital room for the first time. She’d been warned to limit all arm movement, but could not resist gingerly exploring the mysteries sheathed beneath the white sheets and contained within the new, stiff, confining bra. She stared at the ceiling while moving her hands hesitantly upward. As they came into contact with the greatly reduced mounds of flesh, Theresa’s eyelids drifted closed. She explored as a sightless person reads braille. She knew the exact pattern of the incisions and found them covered with dressing inside the bra, thus she imagined more than felt their outline. The stitches ran beneath the curves of both breasts, contouring them like the arcs of an underwire bra. That incision was bisected on each breast by another leading straight upward to encircle the nipple.

She felt no pain, for she was still under the influence of the anaesthetic. Instead, she knew only a soaring jubilation. There was so little there! She lightly grazed the upper hemispheres of both breasts, to find them unbelievably reduced in breadth. And from what she could tell, blind this way, it seemed her nipples were going to be as tip-tilted as the end of a water ski. She felt a surge of overwhelming impatience to see the revised, improved shape she’d been given.