Knockers

By Ellyn Oaksmith

"So freaking brilliant that I stayed up until 3am reading (and pointing and laughing) at it." - KindleObsessed.com
"Fun, hilarious, witty and charming! - Seduced by a Book

Molly wants love, she just doesn't want attention. She's going to get both.

Molly Gallagher thrives on staying in the background. As Diner X, Molly is Seattle's anonymous restaurant critic. But when a surgeon gets his charts mixed up, Molly wakes up with unwanted breast implants.

Then they start talking.

Is she having a nervous breakdown? Probably. But the voices, Max and Louise, are sharing a lot of good advise. Even if they bicker like two kids with one Popsicle.

Before Molly can have the implants removed, she's dating a rich charmer and flirting with a quirky artist. Her suddenly fast-tracked career is making her a local celebrity.

But Molly's new life exposes the reason she became so reclusive, a revelation that frees Molly to finally fall in love.

Join Molly on an outrageous adventure where a little madness reveals your inner hero, saves you from your past and drops you into the love of a lifetime.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellyn Oaksmith
• Release date: Jul 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201216948

Ellyn Oaksmith

Ellyn Oaksmith writes funny fiction with twisty plots. She's the USA Today bestselling author of the young adult novel, Chasing Nirvana (2017) and 50 Acts of Kindness, Family Secrets, Funny is the New Sad and Adventures with Max and Louise. Mr. Montana, her short story is part of Killer Beach Reads. Ellyn lives in Seattle Washington with her family where she spends as much time as possible in or on the water or with her nose in a book.

Book preview

Chapter One

Here we go, says the anesthesiologist. Poking the needle into my arm, he withdraws a tiny bit of blood into the clear drug he’s about to shoot into my vein. Red blood blooms in the benzodiazepine. I squeeze Angeli’s hand, grateful to have an ally in the room. She squeezes back hard, too hard. From the bed where I rest, prone in my unisex surgery gown, I can see that Angeli’s brown eyes are scary huge, like melting chocolates. She stares at the needle, transfixed, her lush coffee-colored skin now ashy pale. She clasps my hand until my fingers tingle. I want to say something about my hand being strangled, but the drugis  taking effect. My brain floats three feet above, watching Angeli wobble unsteadily. Her skin fades further to a weird hue, lips purplish white. I haven’t seen her this shade since high school, when we drank all my dad’s Crown Royal and threw up on my mom’s prize Tropicana rosebushes. She’s going to faint.

In the back of my drug-addled brain there is a tug of remembrance, a creeping sense of doom. Why did Angeli quit medical school? Because she was tired of her doctor parents pushing their profession, their immigrant drive, their Indian lives down her thoroughly Americanized throat. That was it, right? Then I remember: she quit because she fainted at the sight of blood.

You’re squeezing my hand too hard, I squeal.

This isn’t happening. I’m shot full of drugs, going down faster than the Hindenburg, and my best friend, the person who is supposed to drive me, tend me, and take the helm while I am out of commission, is teetering like a drunk. My lips numb Lovely soft fuzz fills my brain. I remember some comedian’s quip about why so many people become drug addicts: because drugs are fun. I give Angeli a squishy smile, trying to form a sentence in my soggy brain, something about how she’d better not faint because I need her to look after me. Then Angeli disappears from view. One minute she’s there, and the next, nothing but wall space and a dull thud.

I turn woozily to the anesthesiologist. He looks down at the floor, a deep frown creasing his brow.

Nola, we got a fainter! he yells.  

Panicking, I realize that this surgery, which is supposed to rid me of the scars on my neck and chest, boost my confidence, expand my career, and maybe even jump-start my love life, isn’t going well. And I haven’t even left the pre-op room. The last thing that goes through my head is this: I’ve picked the wrong damn friend.

Medical errors occur in 17 percent of all hospital procedures. Most of them are caused by understaffing, fatigue, lack of communication, and staff error. My best friend caused mine. When it came time to pick my advocate during surgery, it came down to five people: my sisters, Trina and Denise; my best friends, Martin and Angeli; and my dad. Trina was out because I was using her plastic surgeon. She’d spend all her time agonizing over whether or not to get a quick shot of Botox instead of looking out for me. My younger sister Denise is too busy chaining herself to whaling ships and picketing outside the federal building. Besides, she’d view plastic surgery as antifeminist, lecturing me on embracing my scars and wearing them like a badge of courage. My dad, well, surgery would remind him of the worst night of his life, the night I got the scars. Martin was busy covering my job at the newspaper.

Angeli, who never mentioned anything about queasiness at the sight of blood, could easily get someone to cover for her at the Clinique counter at Nordstrom. She seemed the obvious choice.  

I subscribe to the domino theory of life. One bad choice or event triggers a chain of events that then lead to an explosion in one’s life. In this case, Angeli was the first tilting tile. Nurse Nola, who rushed to pick Angeli off the floor, was holding someone else’s chart. In her haste, she dropped the chart on my bed. Three minutes later I was wheeled into surgery with another patient’s chart.

I wake up in the recovery room three hours later feeling as if I’ve fallen off a cliff. It’s not so bad, though, because I’ve landed in a warm pile of drugs. A wan, tired Angeli is at my side, holding my hand, smiling in her surprisingly empathetic way. In a chemical haze, I tilt my head from side to side. The room swims pleasantly as though I’m underwater. Dimly aware of a faint ache in my chest and neck, I float above the pain, enjoying my little high. This isn’t so bad. My surgeon, Dr. Hupta, told me I’d have lots more pain after the drugs wear off. But then he’ll give me more to take home. Easy peasy.

Across from me is a teenage girl with bandages covering her cheeks and nose, sipping from a green juice box. Her mother, in a pink velour jogging suit, flips through a movie magazine. They watch me as I blink my eyes woozily, struggling to sit up. Angeli jumps from her chair to help me.

Here, here, I got it. She presses a button, lifting the bed. As my head becomes level with hers, she whispers in my ear, nodding at the teenager. One guess what she’s in here for.

Before I can answer, a nurse bustles in, her neon white smile fixed. Well, hello there. And how are we feeling after our big day in surgery?

I try to say, Fine. It comes out, Fiiiiaaaay.

The nurse takes my pulse, listens to my heart rate, and hands me a juice box. We need to get your blood sugar up, or you’ll end up on the ground like your friend here when you try to walk.

Angeli rolls her eyes behind the nurse’s back. As soon as she leaves, Angeli whispers about my roommate. Nose job. High school graduation present. Can you imagine? Happy graduation; how’d you like a new schnoz?

Slowly I drink my apple juice, my head clearing slightly. I doubt it went like that. Nice disappearing act back there.

She rolls her eyes and shrugs. Now you know why I flunked premed.

You said blood used to make you queasy, not parallel. I wince as the pain radiates into my neck and shoulders.

Angeli shrugs. I thought I might have improved. We don’t have a lot of bloodletting at the Clinique counter, just makeovers.

Well, now you know. Skip the blood drive.

Yes, ma’am. How’re you doing? Angeli rubs my arm. The surgery took a long time. Two and a half hours.

I’m okay. Kind of woozy. Leaning back gingerly, I hope to relieve some of the pressure on my chest. I just want to go home.

The nurse arrives with a folder of post-op instructions that she hands to Angeli, who nods sagely as she listens, eager to redeem herself. "You’ll need to change the bandages for the first few days twice a day. After that you can go down to once a day. There’s antibacterial ointment for the sutures in this bag and two sets of bandages. Mandy at the front desk will have your prescription for painkillers. We suggest you stay off your feet for at least twenty-four hours. No showers during that time. After that you can cover yourself with a plastic bag to keep the stitches dry.

Our main concern, of course, is infection. The skin is irritated while it is stretching to accommodate the implants, so you’ll need to keep it moist with lotion. We gave you a sample of the brand we like. You can get more at a Bartell’s or Walgreens. The doctor recommends twice-daily massages of the implants for two weeks while the scar tissue forms. This will prevent bunching and irregularities in scarring. You are scheduled for a post-op...let’s see here... The nurse scans her notes.

I hold up my hand. Whoa. Whoa. Hang on a second. Go back. Implants? You said implants.

Yes, implants. Breast implants, the nurse says briskly.

I shake my head. But I didn’t get implants. I had some scars repaired. I wave my hand over the bandages as if this will clear things up.

The nurse purses her lips and reads the chart again, following with her finger. Yes, you did. Tap, tap with her finger. Exactly the kind you and the doctor discussed.

But I’m not listening. Lifting the sheets, I duck my head under the covers. The stitches strain. My chest radiates with pain, distant but hot. It’s too dark to see anything, so I throw back the sheets.

Angeli stares at my chest, mouth gaping in shock. Looking down at the gentle swell under the bandages, I scream and grab my chest. Aching warmth shoots through me where my hands touch but also a new sensation: mounds of flesh, breasts. They feel huge, like mountains on a once flat mesa. Everything becomes a surrealistic blur, like an old foreign film without subtitles. People in newspaper articles get messed up in surgery, not me.

I have breasts! There is no way to describe how absolutely terrifying it is to wake up with an additional body part. Like Frankenstein; no, Frankenstein’s stripper. I have breast implants! My brain spins around wildly. Random thoughts flutter like cards in a hurricane. I remember a PBS documentary I once saw on exotic dancers. Each of them discussed their implants’ size and firmness like judges in the agricultural booth of a county fair.

Holy shit! He gave her implants! Angeli’s hand flutters over her mouth. Her newfound professionalism withers in the face of catastrophe. She didn’t come in here for implants, she hisses at the nurse.

She whispers in my ear. You didn’t change your mind after I fainted, did you?

No, I didn’t change my mind! It wasn’t even an option! I yell.

You don’t have to scream! Angeli shouts.

Yes, I do have to scream. I’m freaking out. I have breast implants! How could this happen?

The nose job girl and her mother happily perk up, heads swiveling back and forth between us, enjoying my predicament.

Of course it was an option, the nurse says soothingly as though I am a mental patient. She reminds me of Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It says right here, she says authoritatively as she picks up the chart, then taps it with a fingernail, 350 cc’s saline implants: Glaxco-SmithKline which, by the way, are the best. She lowers her voice to a confidential whisper. That’s what I have, although now they say silicone is just as safe. I’m thinking of getting mine switched. They’re so much more realistic. This last comment is delivered with a wink.

My flatness was realistic! I spit the words out so hard, it strains my stitches. I came in here to get rid of my scars, not get fake boobs.

The nurse winces. I realize, too late, I have insulted her. For a split second I actually feel sorry until she thrusts her chart under my nose.

There it is in black and white. Each syllable gets a finger tap for emphasis. This nonsense has gone as far as she’s going to let it.

I quickly scan the chart. And you’d be right if my name were Christine McDaniel. But it’s not! The chest pain ache becomes a throb. My heart races along with my mind. How in the hell could this have happened?

The nurse rushes from the room, leaving me, Angeli, nose job girl, and her mother in silence. Nose job girl mouths, OMG, to her mother as if Angeli and I aren’t six feet away. Glaring at them, Angeli yanks the curtains shut around my bed.

Her hand remains clamped over her mouth. Holy shit, she whispers.

I glance down at my chest again, thinking maybe they’ll have disappeared and we can have another beginning, but no, I definitely have breast implants.

The nurse appears a few moments later, pushing the curtains aside. Dr. Hupta follows in his hospital scrubs. He looks tired and apprehensive, but the nurse steps in front of him, shoving the chart in his hands. "Here’s her chart, she says stridently. Then to me, We’ll get this all sorted out."

The doctor’s eyes rest on Angeli for a moment with a flicker of interest. Not yet aware of his fallibility, he reads the chart with the air of a man who has yet to encounter a problem he couldn’t solve.

Breast implants. It says right here: 250 cc’s implants. I did go up because we’d discussed the option, and it seemed like a good idea. He seems relieved that he has cleared the matter right up. No, everything looks good. He checks his watch. You can go home in about a half hour.

Angeli looks over his shoulder, stabbing a blood red nail at the chart. Brilliant. But you got the wrong girl.

He shakes his head. That’s not possible. We have a very effective method of ensuring that... He stares at me for a moment, blinking methodically, as if to clear something in his eyes. Who is she? he whispers to no one.

Apparently I am a woman with implants. Squirming around, I try getting a better look at my new topography. My arms, neck, and shoulders ache as if I’ve been pounded with a hammer. More drugs won’t be enough. I want to wake up in my own bed with my simple, ordinary A cup life intact.

A horrified comprehension dawns on Dr. Hupta. The color drains from his face. You’re Molly Gallagher, Trina Rasad’s sister, he whispers, blinking frantically.

How in the hell could you give me implants? I just wanted the scar tissue fixed!

Now he gets flustered. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. There was another patient, Chrissy McDaniel. Her scars were similar, but I would have known the difference... His voice trails off uncertainly. I would have... The blinking stops. A look of fear crosses his face. Her chart was on your bed. He steps forward, lifting a chart hanging from the foot of my bed and reads it. Your chart, he says bitterly.

The world shrinks. I remember the nurses talking about another girl whose dog had pulled her through a window. Her scars, they said, were similar to mine. I’d overheard them talking at the front desk about how strange it was that two patients had almost identical scars. What are the odds?

The dog walker? I ask.

He nods miserably. She wanted implants.

Well, take them out. I want them out. Now! My voice is high-pitched, nervy.

Wait a minute, Molls, not so fast, Angeli pipes up, pacing at the foot of my bed. You might try to look upon this as a bonus, not an error. She stops to address Dr. Hupta, who has aged ten years in the last five minutes. I’m assuming the scars are fixed?  

He nods dumbly. The poor man looks like he could be pushed over with a stick.

So, in addition to removing the scars, he added a bonus. Like a gift with purchase. Leave it to the Clinique consultant to come up with that analogy.

I didn’t want the gift with purchase. I wanted the lipstick. All I wanted was one lousy lipstick, and I get breasts. Boobs. Hooters. Knockers! I stare down at my chest glumly. What size are they?

Dr. Hupta’s hands are over his eyes. He’s muttering something repeatedly that sounds like, Oh my God, oh my God, but I can’t make out the words. Blood pumps through my ears like a freight train.

I said, what size are they? I hear myself shriek.

He looks up for a moment. D, he whispers hoarsely.

D! I’m not a D cup! Taking what I pray is a deep, cleansing breath, I turn to Dr. Hupta. I want them out. You wheel me right back in there and take them out. Now!

He shakes his head. We can’t. The man is shrinking inside his shirt like a turtle, furiously massaging his temples.

Why not? I demand.

I need to have your chart reviewed by a specialist. I can’t go in there and perform surgery on you again, he says, eyes shut. Not this instant. If I went back in there and operated on you again, I could lose my license.

You could at least look at me.

He opens his eyes. They are red, brimming with tears. I am so sorry. I just don’t know how something like this could have happened. I am a thorough surgeon, even meticulous. I don’t operate on people with body dysmorphic syndrome. Many surgeons take anyone. I hire the best assistants and anesthesiologists that I can possibly find. I, I...I really can’t believe this has happened. He slumps into a chair. The nurse gazes down at him helplessly.

"I can. Look at me. I come from a long line of flat-chested women. Okay, so my sister isn’t flat, but she’s a C cup. Now I am a D cup. A D cup. Look, I know some women really get into the whole cleavage thing, but I didn’t mind being flat-chested. It never bothered me. I’ll admit, it was kind of embarrassing when the pads in my bikini top floated out in the pool, and Peter Warnick grabbed one and played keep-away from me in high school, but most of the time it was okay. I cannot believe this happened."

I’m not so much talking as babbling out loud. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. Exhausted and overwhelmed.

Dr. Hupta leans on his elbows, staring at the chart as if it’s going to change into something more acceptable. I am so terribly sorry. He sighs. I don’t know what else to say.

Angeli flutters her eyes at him from the foot of the bed where she’s sitting. I’ve known Angeli since grade school when she moved from Bombay, horrified to find out on the first day of school that her last name, Poopathi, was a passport to American grade school hell. Martin and I gained her undying friendship by calling her Angeli during first recess instead of Poopy Pants, like the rest of our classmates. Her parents were both at the University of Washington medical school. Angeli spent almost every waking hour at my house, absorbing American culture like a sponge.

I know this look. It’s a flirty, come hither look that means, as far as any male is concerned, I am now wallpaper. What’s body dysmorphic syndrome? she asks, batting her long, black eyelashes.

Dr. Hupta perks up, happy to talk about something other than his career-wrecking mistake. When people become addicted, so to speak, to plastic surgery. They have one surgery, and the results are so favorable they have another and then another until they’ve remade their body and their face into something unrecognizable. They put up with an incredible amount of pain and suffering in order to attain an imagined perfection that in reality doesn’t exist. It’s a psychological condition.

The lecture calms him. I want to tell him not to bother because, although she herself is Indian, Angeli doesn’t date Indian men, the result of one too many fix-ups from her parents’ friends.

Fascinating, Angeli chirps. She’s hitting on my doctor. After listening to her gripe about Indian men and their hang-ups for ten years, she’s decided to flirt with one who has just butchered me. I would smack her, but I doubt I can lift my arm.

Michael Jackson was the most famous sufferer, he says before turning to me. After a review, we can schedule you for surgery in eight weeks. I can use the same incisions to remove the implants with very little scarring. You will still retain a much-improved appearance with your scars. Perhaps dermabrasion in a few months would be something to explore. I don’t know.

I nod, feeling slightly mollified. At least there’s a plan.

Do you think you can comfortably live with the implants for two months? There is genuine concern in his voice.

I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? I snap.

Chapter Two

After Dr. Hupta and the nurse leave, Angeli helps me change into my sweats. By the time we open the curtains, nose job girl and her mother have departed. I gather my purse, shoving the postoperative instructions inside. Together we slowly walk down the hallway toward the waiting room door. Dr. Hupta appears, briefly assuring me that he’ll be in touch tomorrow before fading back into the hallway. His thick hair hangs in his eyes. He looks scared. I’m sure he’s been on the phone with his attorney.

In the waiting room, I turn back to the front desk, insisting on making an appointment for my new surgery.

Angeli wants to get me home. Molly, you are so wiped out. We can call later, all right?

Although I’m exhausted, I want a date on the calendar, set in stone. No, not all right; I want an appointment now.

The receptionist grins warmly from behind her desk. Our follow-up visits are at one week and four weeks.

I bend down as far as I can without pain, the implants tugging my skin. This isn’t for a follow-up. It’s to get my implants removed!

A nurse I’ve never seen before appears, bending and whispering urgently in the receptionist’s ear. The receptionist’s eyes widen. You’re joking, right? The nurse shakes her head.

That totally sucks, the receptionist blurts. 

Yes, it does, I respond.

Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. This is highly unusual, to say the least. She types rapidly into her computer. Yes, yes. Of course we can schedule you in eight weeks. How does November 15 look for you?

I don’t have to look at a calendar. Nothing is more important than getting these things out. Perfect.

The nurse bustles around the front desk, placing her hand on my arm. Ms. Gallagher, I hope you understand that if the surgical review board hasn’t met and given Dr. Hupta the authority to operate, he can’t remove your implants on that date.

I pat her hand. If he can’t, I’m sure somebody will. With as much dignity as I can muster, I take Angeli’s arm and shuffle out of the waiting room, my other hand supporting my aching new implants.

We’re waiting at the elevator when the same nurse bursts out of Northwest Plastic Surgery, sprinting toward us with a white slip of paper in her hand. She gives it to Angeli. Here, you’re going to need this, she pants, offering me a sympathetic grin before returning to her office.

Angeli dangles the slip of paper in front of me. Painkillers.

It’s raining as Angeli drives me home. The wipers slap a steady rhythm on the windshield. Normally, Seattle’s relentless, soggy gray doesn’t bother me. Today it feeds into the bleak sense that my life is being sucked into a downward spiral, flushed into an enormous cosmic toilet, soon to be spit out, in parts unknown. Of all the operations that have taken place in Seattle today, how many of them went sideways? Is there a man who went in to have an abdominal scar touched up and came out with a penile implant?

Angeli glances at me, her face a worried knot. I’m morosely quiet, brooding about the morning fiasco, having my own little pity party with no guests allowed. In the mood I’m in, I’d eat them. Every bump and pothole in the road jolts my chest until I’m forced to hold my new breasts with crossed arms.

Angeli clears her throat as she turns off the main drive into my neighborhood. The houses are huge, leftovers from a time when all the Catholics living here had at least five children. Some of the houses are renovated, and some, like mine, are still in the hands of middle-class owners, showing their age.

If it’s any consolation, they look great, she says.

I roll my eyes. It’s not. And what were you doing flirting with my plastic surgeon?

She turns her eyes to the road. I wasn’t flirting.

I imitate her. ‘Oh, Doctor! What’s body dysmorphic syndrome?’ And calling these implants a gift with purchase! The man made a surgical error. God knows what else he left inside me. He probably took off his wedding ring when he saw you and sewed it up inside of me.

Angeli sniffs. He’s not married. I asked the nurse.

We turn onto my street. Oh well, that’s a relief. You should have been threatening him with a lawsuit, not trying to imagine him naked.

Why would I want to sue him? Angeli steers into our driveway. To her credit, she’s driven like a snail, sensitive to my pain.

On my behalf, Ang. Honestly, whose side on you on, anyway?

She turns to me before she gets out of the car. On yours, of course. I can’t help it if the man’s attractive. And a doctor. Attractive and a doctor. You’ve got to admit that’s a good combo.

Did you miss what happened back there? He gave me someone else’s implants! Doesn’t that make you the least bit concerned about his stability? His frame of mind?

This isn’t going anywhere. Once Angeli latches onto an idea, particularly in matters of the heart, she has the tenacity of a pit bull. I give it one last shot. Besides, you don’t date Indian men, remember? You were never going to sit through another endless cricket game while some guy blathered on about how he wanted a modern woman who cooked like his mother.

She pivots in her seat, perfectly made-up eyes narrowed in concentration. Obviously, she’s put a lot of thought into this, probably while I was on the table getting Christine McDaniel’s implants sewn into my chest. Rules are meant to be broken. Besides, I don’t meet too many good-looking doctors working at the Clinique counter. I am so done with metrosexuals. I have no use for men who’ll fill up my bathroom cabinets with their grooming supplies.

Well, next time hit up your own doctor, I sniff.

That’s a good idea, she says, grabbing her purse. She steps out of the car and grabs the back of her thighs. Does he do lipo?

Climbing out, I stumble a bit before Angeli rushes around the side of the car. She grabs my arm, firmly squeezing it, while slinging her other arm around my shoulder. For a moment, despite my irritation, I feel a surge of love. Angeli can be awfully self-centered, but when it’s important, she’s never let me down. Slowly, we make our way to the front steps.

Since mom died, our Dutch Colonial has lost its well-groomed charm. The black shutters need painting. Chipped pots have fallen off the flagstone steps. The lawn has more dandelions than grass. The rosebushes have been gnawed by aphids to sickly little stubs. I rarely enter through the front door, normally walking around the back into the kitchen. It’s strange to be helped into my own house. I hand Angeli the keys, and she opens the door.

As soon as I’m inside, the reality of my situation hits. I slide down onto the floor, staring down at my buxom chest. Oh, Angeli, I gasp. I have breast implants. Me with D cup implants. What am I going to do?

Well, one thing’s for sure, Angeli says, pulling me off the floor into the kitchen. You’re gonna need a bigger bra.

Seated at the kitchen table, I rest my head on my folded arms. Angeli puts the kettle on for tea. Since high school, this has been our routine. I man the kitchen for all snacks and meals. Angeli, after years of belabored cooking lessons from her mother, has one area of expertise: tea.

I need cake, I sigh, motioning to the countertop, where my famous old-fashioned sour cream chocolate cake sits, glossy and seductive, under a glass cake saver. I perfected this recipe one rainy day when I came upon, for some reason, three pints of sour cream on the verge of going bad in our fridge. Three days and many ounces of unsweetened chocolate later, a cake was born.

Angeli nods, pulling two plates out of the cupboard. She slices us two thick slabs of cake, placing one before me on the table. As is our custom, she eats perched on the counter. We wait in silence for the water to boil.

You’ve got them for two months, you might as well enjoy them, Angeli says through a mouthful of cake. Get some great bras and sexy shirts. I can take you shopping. It can be an experiment: life before and after big boobs.

What am I going to tell my dad? I groan.

How about the truth?

Yeah, sure. Oh, by the way, there was a slight mix-up in surgery. I’ve got Christine McDaniel’s breast implants. See ya.

Angeli nods. If I mentioned one word about my breasts to my dad, he’d burst into flames.

The rain beats against the kitchen window, making our afternoon tea break seem highly civilized and wonderfully cozy. Angeli eats her cake delicately, like a cat. We’re companionably silent, enjoying the warmth of the kitchen.

As I savor the cake slowly between sips of tea, I wonder what Christine McDaniel is doing right now.

Chapter Three

Three days later, Angeli arrives after work with a bigger bra. In fact, she arrives with six bigger bras with matching panties, each one more frothy and frilly than the last. She dumps them on my bed, beaming with a self-satisfied grin. As a little girl, Angeli wore nothing but Catholic school uniforms by day and saris, purchased by her aunts in Mumbai, after school. In the eyes of the St. Joseph’s girls, once they’d gotten over the whole Poopy Pants thing, the saris made Angeli terribly exotic. To Angeli, the saris represented her mother’s desire to keep her smothered in another century, another world, and at arm’s length from all things American.

We’re more Indian than we were in India, Angeli complained.

In her teens, Angeli made up for those hated saris with a vengeance, taking a job at Limited Express, using all her earnings to build a modern American wardrobe. St. Joe’s bathroom became her changing room. Although her parents were horrified when Angeli dropped out of medical school to work full time at Nordstrom selling Clinique makeup, to her friends it was a relief. Retail made much more sense for Angeli.  

Aren’t they fabulous? Angeli asks, holding a bra up, admiring the lacy edging in the mirror.

I lift one of the bras. It’s lime green with turquoise lace, brilliant as a parrot. I’m not supposed to wear underwire, I protest.

For Pete’s sake, Angeli flares. The man can’t expect you not to wear wireless. You’ll flop around like Jell-O. These babies are built for support. I talked to my friend Janelle in lingerie. She said all of these were perfect.

You told Janelle? I wailed.

Of course I told her. You’re not the only woman in Seattle to get breast implants.

That doesn’t mean the whole world has to know.

It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Try them on. She smiles encouragingly. Please?

Who else have you told? I scoop the lingerie off the bed.

Just Martin. My boss. Great.

Is that it?

And Trina.

Who else?

Just Denise, and that’s it. She bites a fingernail. And I may have told my parents and a couple of gals at the Clinique counter.

I step into the bathroom and start stripping. Great. Now the whole main floor of Nordstrom is going to know.

Honey, you just went from an A to a D cup. People are going to notice.

Never having worn a front-clasp bra, I fumble with it, tangling it behind my back, trying to twist it and flip the cups up to the proper position. I take the damn thing off and put it on like a vest, which doesn’t work.

Shit! Can you help me? I call into the bedroom.

Angeli appears, trying hard not to laugh. Here, you just twist this. Okay, let’s start over. She untangles the mess I’ve made, slips it on me, and starts to fasten it.

I can do it. I’m somewhat annoyed at being dressed like a toddler. Thanks.

After Angeli leaves the bathroom, I try on the matching panties, glancing in the bathroom mirror. I can’t believe how my breasts look in a proper bra. They are spilling, gushing, overflowing out of the fabric. The delicate red bow in the center attracts the eye