Channeling Barbie
(continued)
By Linda Oatman High

The breast form has arrived. I haven't tried it on yet. But I've held it in my hands and squeezed it and pretended that I'm a guy who doesn't know that what's inside is made of foam. I've even named the thing: Mary, short for mammary. Her last name is Hooter. Mary Hooter is teardrop-shaped. I thought that was appropriate.

Mary Hooter has been in residence for three days now. She's draped over the top of the paper towel rack. Adds an anti-Martha Stewart look to the kitchen.

On the third day, I go into the kitchen for a handful of Raisinettes. Mother is wearing Mary Hooter on her head. She's got a bedsheet wrapped around her body, a demented version of designer chic. Liz Claiborne on Geritol.

I go back to writing but Henny-Penny is in hiding. My muse is dead. Instead of suicide or the afternoon soaps, I choose to write a song instead. It's called "Jesus In A Red Corvette." I'm afraid that I'm getting religious. Here's how it came out:

Harry saw Jesus
in a red Corvette;
Said, "Yo, Lord,
Has the end come yet?"
Jesus was driving
with the ragtop down;
On the red battered dash
was a flashing golden crown.
Freshening the air
was a Playboy girl;
The garage door opener
was a gate made of pearl.

(chorus)
Jesus put the pedal
to the medal
in his red Corvette;
The rain was pourin' down
and the crown got wet.
Jesus walked on water
and his feet stayed dry.
Mother Mary was home
baking a cherry pie.

Harry saw Jesus
in his dreams that night;
The sky was black and starless,
but the moon was bright.
Jesus was flying
with his hair let down;
He lit up the skies
in his white glowing gown.
When Harry was jolted
from his warm silver sleep,
he grabbed tight his dream
so a piece of it he'd keep.

Scary, huh? Harry is my ex-husband. A shrink could have a field day with this, I know. Mother Mary might be associated with Mary Hooter. The Corvette might be the guy that Mother flashed with Barbie's butt. The garage door opener made of pearl might be something about Mother, whose name is Pearl. Jesus' white flowing gown might be the hospital gown I wore for a week after the surgery. The Playboy girl represents my former sexy self. Or Mother's Barbies. That's what a shrink might say. But what do shrinks know? My theory is that they got into the business to figure out their own messed-up selves, for free.

I hope I'm not turning into a Holy Roller like the lady next door. I can see me now: Mary Hooter tucked beneath my conservative church dress, I'm handing out pamphlets and annoying the hell out of people on Sunday afternoons.

I rip the song into shreds and go back into the kitchen. Mother is gone, and Mary Hooter is on the table.

I pick her up and tuck her into my special mastectomy bra. Now I'm a real woman.

Mother has thrown all of her Barbies into the trash can. I don't know what's up with this. For some reason, I feel vaguely responsible. Guilty. Funny how that Mother's Guilt thing reverses itself into Kid Guilt when the Mother reaches old age. Payback time, I guess.

One of the Barbies has coffee grounds on her prom gown. Another has potato peels in her hair. I don't want to dig any further. But I do. I rummage deep and retrieve all of the Barbies. Mother comes into the kitchen and watches, silently. She's crying.

"It's all right, Mother," I say. I drop the dolls into the sink, then drown them in hot water and dish detergent. "I'll clean them up. They'll be ok."

Mother dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her coroner's office sweatshirt. "They don't want to go to the old people's home," she says. Her eyes look right through me. Her voice is flat and resigned.

"I'm ready to go," she states. "It's time."

My heart rises into my throat. "Time for what?"

"A nursing home," Mother says. "One of the nice ones, with Bingo and a beauty salon and crafts. One that doesn't stink."

"One that doesn't stink," I repeat. "Oo-kay." I'm shaking as I rinse the Barbies and prop them in the dish drainer.

"I want you to keep my collections," Mother says. "And when you're old, give them to your girl. What's her name?"

"Chloe." My heart is beating hard. I'm dizzy. I have to sit down. This is like when you've been wishing for a divorce and your husband says no and all of a sudden he says yes. It's a shock, even though it's what you want.

"What made you decide this?" I ask.

Mother looks at me. Her eyes are like marbles.

"Barbie told me that it was time," she replies. "Real ladies know when to give up."

I'm driving Mother and her belongings to the home. I've convinced her to take both the Barbies and the coroner's collection. In the backseat, one of the Barbies is straddling the Black Mariah car.

"Promise that you'll come and visit?" Mother asks. She looks so little, slumped on the seat beside me. I have a flash of all the years she drove me to places: dance class and guitar lessons and baseball practice. Everything reverses. Soon, I'll be changing her diapers.

"I'll come and visit, Mother."

"When?"

"As often as I can."

"It's not polite to not keep a promise." Mother is staring at her lap.

I reach over and pat her hand. "I'll be there."

We pass a yard with at least a dozen pink plastic flamingos. Mother turns her head to watch until they disappear.

"I always wanted one of those," she says.

"I'll get you one. You can keep it in your room."

Mother nods. I whip the car around in an illegal U-turn, going back to the flamingo yard. I'm going to get her a pink flamingo, right now.

Putting the car in park, I jump out and run across the yard. I scan the flamingos. Stealing requires quick decisions.

"This one," I mutter, and yank it from the ground. I carry it back to the car, running, the pink plastic bird thumping against my leg.

I leap back in and take off, expecting a lecture from Mother. But she says nothing. Somehow, this is worse than the lecture.

"Well, Mother," I say, "you've got what you've always wanted."

The house is too quiet. Mother's room is too empty. I'm not writing very much. My muse has kicked the bucket for good, I'm afraid. Oprah will have to just move me back a few years. Henny Penny will wait.

Mother's been gone for one week. Not gone, but not here. There. Someday, she'll be gone for real. In a different place.

I keep dreaming about her. Sometimes in my dreams, she looks like she did thirty years ago. In my dreams, she's having a good time. I wonder what a shrink would say about my subconscious state of mind.

Mary Hooter is annoying me. I'm always aware of her. It's like when you have a stone in your shoe.

I've noticed men looking at me in the past three days: in the Giant store, in line at the post office, at the doctor's office. I think it's because of the new hairstyle and the makeup. Or maybe it's because my left breast is slightly lopsided.

Maybe I'll get me a ballroom gown. Dance while I still can. And then I'll curtsy and thank the man. Hell, I'll curtsy even if there is no man. Dancing by yourself isn't so bad.

Manners are very important. A real lady is always polite. I vow to never again call Harry a dickhead.

It's raining, misting, but the sun is coming out. I look through the streaked window of my anti-Martha kitchen. There's a rainbow, the first one I've seen in a long time. I go outside, soaking in the shine of the springtime sun. A man in a car honks as he drives by. I smile. I wave, like Miss America on the runway. I'm so polite.

And then I reach inside my shirt, discreetly. This is kind of like when I was nursing Chloe. You reach in there very discreetly.

Fumbling for Mary Hooter, I yank her from the mastectomy bra. There. Lopsided or not, this is a real woman. I've survived cancer, for God's sake. I don't give a hoot about two boobs. I've survived divorce. I've survived parenting and I'm not having any more babies. I've survived being a daughter. I only have one mother.

Aiming at the rainbow, I throw the breast form up into the newly-blue sky.

"Nice knowing you," I call out as Mary Hooter is lifted by the wind. I say this in a polite tone.

Mother taught me well.

1  2