If You Only Knew
Page 50
“Mmm-hmm,” my sister says.
“And why now?”
Why indeed.
“Well, I’ll be forty in a couple weeks,” Rachel says, her voice shaking a little.
“You look great for forty!” The double-edged compliment—forty is when you look old and haggard and flaccid, but you hardly do! “The most important thing to remember is that this should be for you. If it makes you feel better about yourself, why not go ahead, right? You have three daughters, it says here, so like most women, I bet you put yourself last.” She smiles kindly. “This would be something just for you to enjoy for years to come.”
Rachel looks reassured. I don’t roll my eyes. But I want to.
“Let’s have a look, then,” Dr. Louper says.
For the next fifteen minutes, Rachel is examined as if Dr. Louper is about to buy a racehorse. I’m surprised she doesn’t ask Rachel to turn her head and cough, frankly. My sister’s stomach, breasts, thighs, ass are pinched and poked and lifted. “So we’ve got sagging here, a little drooping here, some cellulite here. And of course, the loose skin here—you had triplets, so no wonder! You’re a superhero!”
“She is indeed,” I say.
Dr. Louper smiles. “We can do a little tummy tuck and get rid of that little bit of extra skin, move your belly button up to here, tighten everything up so you look like a teenager, because honestly, you don’t have that much extra weight.”
“She has no extra weight,” I say, unable to stop myself.
“Your sister’s right. And then for your breasts, I’d recommend a breast lift to get the girls back where they were, maybe some subtle implants if you’d like to go a bit bigger.” She smiles reassuringly, but I can’t get Eggplant Woman out of my mind. “And while we’ve got you on the table, we can do a little lipo on the thighs. You barely need anything. But a lot of women these days are doing that and then having some of the fat injected into their labia to plump things up down there.”
Yes. So Rachel can enjoy that for years to come, because what woman doesn’t fret over this? After all, don’t we all walk around with mirrors in our panties, making sure our labia looks plump enough? I try to fix my face, but I’m fairly sure my disgust shows.
“We can even do a little vaginal tightening to enhance sexual pleasure for both you and your husband.”
My sister bursts into tears.
Thank God.
“Please give us a few minutes,” I say, taking my sister in my arms. The doctor looks confused, but takes her evil clipboard and leaves.
“Rachel,” I say, hugging her tight. “Oh, my poor honeybun.”
She’s really sobbing now.
“You don’t need anything changed about you,” I say, my voice shaking.
“I know,” she whispers. “I just can’t... I can’t help... I hate myself for coming here, but I can’t help it! Emmanuelle is so beautiful, Jenny! She’s so scary beautiful! She’s Maleficent beautiful.”
I want to say so what or who cares or that shouldn’t matter. But of course it does matter to my sister. “I bet she’s not that beautiful.”
“She is,” my sister says.
“Well, she has a very ugly vagina,” I say, and my sister bursts into that mixture of laughter and crying. “And she’s a whore,” I add.
My sister gives me a watery smile. “I’m so glad you say all the things I can’t,” she says, wiping her eyes.
Dr. Louper opens the door. “Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes,” Rachel says. “I’m sorry. I’m just not ready for this.”
“That’s completely understandable. You have to do this for the right reasons,” the doctor says kindly. “Come back if you ever change your mind.”
* * *
I take my sister out for an early lunch and tell her about some of my clients—the Russian girl who wants to wear a dress completely covered in Swarovski crystals, no matter that it will be so heavy she’ll barely be able to walk in it; the bride with the EE bra size who wept when I told her it would be no problem to make her a dress.
“And Kimber? How did that go?” Rach asks.
“Oh, interesting appointment, that one. Mrs. Brewster wants her in a long-sleeved, high-necked ball gown. Not a centimeter of skin showing anywhere. The pictures she brought in were so ugly my eyes bled. Kimber is being an incredible sport about it, but I doubt very much it’s her dream gown.”
“Jared is really crazy about her. Kimber, that is.”
“Well, she lights up every time she says his name.”
“Think they’ll last?” Rachel says, toying with a lettuce leaf.
“I do, actually.” After so many brides, I have a good sense about these things.
“Do you think Adam and I will last?” she asks.
“I...I don’t know. Do you think so?”
“I have to give him a chance,” she says. “Right?”
I think of her tears an hour ago. Of the STD panel and the five days it took for the results to come in. “No, Rachel. You don’t. You deserve better.”
Gratitude flickers across her face, fast as a hummingbird, and then is gone. “I love my life,” she says, her voice so soft I can barely hear her, and it just breaks my heart.
Then she perks up, or fakes perking up, more accurately. “You have a date tonight! Jimmy Grant, right?”
“And why now?”
Why indeed.
“Well, I’ll be forty in a couple weeks,” Rachel says, her voice shaking a little.
“You look great for forty!” The double-edged compliment—forty is when you look old and haggard and flaccid, but you hardly do! “The most important thing to remember is that this should be for you. If it makes you feel better about yourself, why not go ahead, right? You have three daughters, it says here, so like most women, I bet you put yourself last.” She smiles kindly. “This would be something just for you to enjoy for years to come.”
Rachel looks reassured. I don’t roll my eyes. But I want to.
“Let’s have a look, then,” Dr. Louper says.
For the next fifteen minutes, Rachel is examined as if Dr. Louper is about to buy a racehorse. I’m surprised she doesn’t ask Rachel to turn her head and cough, frankly. My sister’s stomach, breasts, thighs, ass are pinched and poked and lifted. “So we’ve got sagging here, a little drooping here, some cellulite here. And of course, the loose skin here—you had triplets, so no wonder! You’re a superhero!”
“She is indeed,” I say.
Dr. Louper smiles. “We can do a little tummy tuck and get rid of that little bit of extra skin, move your belly button up to here, tighten everything up so you look like a teenager, because honestly, you don’t have that much extra weight.”
“She has no extra weight,” I say, unable to stop myself.
“Your sister’s right. And then for your breasts, I’d recommend a breast lift to get the girls back where they were, maybe some subtle implants if you’d like to go a bit bigger.” She smiles reassuringly, but I can’t get Eggplant Woman out of my mind. “And while we’ve got you on the table, we can do a little lipo on the thighs. You barely need anything. But a lot of women these days are doing that and then having some of the fat injected into their labia to plump things up down there.”
Yes. So Rachel can enjoy that for years to come, because what woman doesn’t fret over this? After all, don’t we all walk around with mirrors in our panties, making sure our labia looks plump enough? I try to fix my face, but I’m fairly sure my disgust shows.
“We can even do a little vaginal tightening to enhance sexual pleasure for both you and your husband.”
My sister bursts into tears.
Thank God.
“Please give us a few minutes,” I say, taking my sister in my arms. The doctor looks confused, but takes her evil clipboard and leaves.
“Rachel,” I say, hugging her tight. “Oh, my poor honeybun.”
She’s really sobbing now.
“You don’t need anything changed about you,” I say, my voice shaking.
“I know,” she whispers. “I just can’t... I can’t help... I hate myself for coming here, but I can’t help it! Emmanuelle is so beautiful, Jenny! She’s so scary beautiful! She’s Maleficent beautiful.”
I want to say so what or who cares or that shouldn’t matter. But of course it does matter to my sister. “I bet she’s not that beautiful.”
“She is,” my sister says.
“Well, she has a very ugly vagina,” I say, and my sister bursts into that mixture of laughter and crying. “And she’s a whore,” I add.
My sister gives me a watery smile. “I’m so glad you say all the things I can’t,” she says, wiping her eyes.
Dr. Louper opens the door. “Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes,” Rachel says. “I’m sorry. I’m just not ready for this.”
“That’s completely understandable. You have to do this for the right reasons,” the doctor says kindly. “Come back if you ever change your mind.”
* * *
I take my sister out for an early lunch and tell her about some of my clients—the Russian girl who wants to wear a dress completely covered in Swarovski crystals, no matter that it will be so heavy she’ll barely be able to walk in it; the bride with the EE bra size who wept when I told her it would be no problem to make her a dress.
“And Kimber? How did that go?” Rach asks.
“Oh, interesting appointment, that one. Mrs. Brewster wants her in a long-sleeved, high-necked ball gown. Not a centimeter of skin showing anywhere. The pictures she brought in were so ugly my eyes bled. Kimber is being an incredible sport about it, but I doubt very much it’s her dream gown.”
“Jared is really crazy about her. Kimber, that is.”
“Well, she lights up every time she says his name.”
“Think they’ll last?” Rachel says, toying with a lettuce leaf.
“I do, actually.” After so many brides, I have a good sense about these things.
“Do you think Adam and I will last?” she asks.
“I...I don’t know. Do you think so?”
“I have to give him a chance,” she says. “Right?”
I think of her tears an hour ago. Of the STD panel and the five days it took for the results to come in. “No, Rachel. You don’t. You deserve better.”
Gratitude flickers across her face, fast as a hummingbird, and then is gone. “I love my life,” she says, her voice so soft I can barely hear her, and it just breaks my heart.
Then she perks up, or fakes perking up, more accurately. “You have a date tonight! Jimmy Grant, right?”
