“Aunt Mary has enough bras.”
Mom says this every day since we moved her sister, my Aunt Mary, into an assisted living facility. “I don’t understand why she doesn’t wear one. I’m sure she has one that fits.”
I don’t say Aunt Mary is wheelchair-bound, has fallen twice getting out of bed, and has broken her hearing aids trying to put them in herself. Instead, I say, “Aunt Mary wears a jacket indoors. And a sweater. And a turtleneck. No one notices.” The last part is a lie. Aunt Mary’s breasts rest on her thighs like stacked produce.
“She won’t be able to leave her room when it gets warmer,” Mom warns. “They won’t let her.”
❦
I’m in the women’s underwear section of Macy’s pinching fabric and testing with a grapefruit.
The saleswoman who approaches me is I guess in her thirties. I also guess that this woman’s parents are in their sixties, or at worst, early seventies. This is a new habit: guessing the age and health of people’s parents. I search the woman’s face for mascara smudges or redness, signs she may have recently been crying.
Her makeup looks fine, complexion even. She smirks when asking if she can be of any help.
I return the grapefruit to my jacket. “I need one with the widest straps you have. And no hardware that can rub.” I also tell her I need it to be able to close in the front and Velcro would be perfect.
“Well, I know we don’t have anything with Velcro.”
She takes the bra from my hand and holds it up to my chest. I don’t ask why. “I think if it had something like snaps in front that might work.” I hold out my hands and bend them to imitate the arthritis of my aunt. “But no little hooks.”
She nods with emphasis that makes her bangs shake. “I do have something.” While she’s gone I continue to search for bras with my grapefruit method.
The bra she returns with has large, plastic snaps. I test them. They seem easy, but I know this holds little weight. “I’m just going to buy one for now.”
“OK. I’ll ring you up at the register over here.”
❦
After she drops the bra in the bag, she looks up at me, like my niece would when I babysat and she wanted to tell me a secret but didn’t know how to begin. “You know I have to say, when I lived in the city—I was in my twenties then—well, my girlfriends and I would go to this revue at least once a month. All of us boyfriendless girls would go, and I have to say, you guys are wonderful. I mean, all of you. It’s like each one has their special talent which just needs that right place to come through.” She smiles warmly as if she’s really, really proud of me. I blush and hear myself saying, “Thank you.” I want to tell her the truth, when she hands me the bag. But I feel the heat spreading. I have to leave. I walk quickly through the store, biting the inside of my cheek. Everyone stares. They know. I need a bathroom. One with a stall where I can hide. Or better yet one of those handicapped bathrooms that only one person at a time can go into. Where I can be alone. Where I can cry. ◆
You might also like
