Chapter 3

Chapter 3

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. . . for better or for worse

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The morning sun stabbed its way into the bedroom while I lay quietly in bed, unmoving, concentrating on producing the illusion of sleep. I heard Lee stirring beside me and felt his arm gently drape over me. I kept my breathing even, my eyes closed. I heard his sigh and felt the shift of his weight as he got out of bed. Then, hearing the start of the shower, I relaxed.

He showered, shaved, and dressed while I lay there, feigning sleep. He walked over to the bed and whispered, "Amanda?" When I didn't answer, he gently kissed my cheek and quietly left the room.

I rolled over, facing away from the window as I mulled over the recurring dream I'd been having. I was on a beach, watching the waves crash against the shore. I knew I had to get to the water, but each time I got closer, the water receded. I'd then start running toward the water, but the faster I ran the further I was from my goal. Then I'd wake up, my pulse racing from my nocturnal exertions.

I'd been home for two weeks, two weeks since my body had become foreign to me. My body had changed before -- puberty, pregnancy, even the beginnings of aging. But those had seemed normal, gradual, and right, while this . . . this seemed abnormal and horrific. I could barely stand to look at myself, much less have Lee look at me.

From downstairs I heard the sounds of Lee's departure. He'd tried to stay home with me, but after five days, I'd told him to go back to work. I could take care of myself, after all, and I'd promised to call Mother if I needed anything. Truth was, I just wanted to be alone.

Sure that Lee was safely on his way to work, I flopped my feet out of bed and stood slowly. I was still sore, and moving gingerly because of it. I made my way into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

Taking off my pajama top, I stared hard at my reflection. The decade-old scar below my shoulder looked innocuous, its import diminished by the larger imperfection hidden under the bandage below it. That a bullet wound had once been a danger to my life now seemed ridiculous in comparison to the more recent threat, a threat originating from inside, a threat that left me looking like . . .

I carefully removed the bandage from my right side. The grotesque flap of skin that was all that remained of my right breast seemed to stare back at me; it's horror almost giving it a life of its own. I tried to picture what it would look like after reconstructive surgery, but all I could see was a mockery of my former self. I quickly re-bandaged myself and left the bathroom, and my reflection, behind.

After dressing in the usual sweat pants and loose sweatshirt, I made my way downstairs. I poured myself some coffee from the pot Lee had started earlier and walked into the den. Sitting down on the couch, I pulled a blanket across my lap and picked up the remote.

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"Amanda," Mother's voice pleaded over the phone line. "Please let me come over. Your surgery was just three weeks ago; I'm sure you could use some help, or at least some company."

"Mother, really, I'm fine; my arm is hardly stiff at all. Besides, Lee checks up on me all day long. Maybe next week, okay?"

"But, darling, what about your laundry, or --"

"Have you been talking to Lee, Mother?" I asked angrily. "I told him to leave the laundry for me; I'll get to it, I'm not an invalid." I started to twist my wedding ring around my finger, then realized I wasn't wearing it, hadn't worn it, in fact, since coming home from the hospital.

"Of course you're not, dear. Lee's just worried about you; he loves you, you know."

"Mother, I'm fine. I need to go now. Good bye." I hung up before she could start in on me again. Why did everyone think I needed help? It's not like I had a broken limb, or something. Deciding to let the machine answer next time, I went into the den and turned the television back on.

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"Lee, I told you I'd get the dishes," I said as I stalked after him into the kitchen.

"Amanda, why won't you let me help?" he asked as he wearily put down the dishtowel. "You've barely been home a month --"

"I've done the dishes for ten years, why should that change now?" I asked as I pushed my way to the front of the sink. I hated the sarcasm in my voice, but couldn't seem to stop myself.

"That's not fair. Why are you doing this, Amanda? You won't talk to me, won't let me help, won't even let me near you. Why are you shutting me out?" The pleading look on his face almost caused me to waver, but I couldn't afford to weaken.

"It's not your problem, Lee. You have no idea what I'm going through; no one mutilated your body. How could you possibly help?" I turned the water on hot, as hot as I could stand.

He sounded as if I'd slapped him. "You do need help, Amanda. You're just too stubborn to admit it. You want to do the dishes, fine, do the dishes. I'll see you later." Thrusting my hands into the hot water, I heard the jangle of keys quickly followed by the closing of the front door.

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I had to get dressed. It'd been nearly two months since my surgery and my appointment with the plastic surgeon to discuss my reconstructive surgery was this afternoon. 'What will the doctor think if I show up dressed like this?' I wondered, looking down at my worn-looking sweats.

Determined, I made my way to my dresser. I'd barely opened my lingerie drawer since coming home, opting instead to keep my underwear on top of my dresser. Now, opening the drawer, I rifled through to find a comfortable cotton bra. Taking off my sweatshirt, I put the bra on, fumbling slightly with the fastening. I then walked over to look in the mirror.

My left side looked normal, my dark nipple barely visible through the thin material, my round breast softly filling out the fabric. But the right side . . . It was like looking at two halves of the same person -- one half an eager, prepubescent girl putting on her mother's bra as she watched for the first signs of womanhood, the other half a fully mature woman, wife, and mother.

The door to the bedroom opened, causing me to jump and turn my back to the door. Looking over my shoulder, I saw my husband standing in the doorway. "Lee!" I yelled. "Can't you knock?" I stood holding my shirt in front of me, facing the midday sun, which was barely visible through the shaded window.

"Amanda, this is my room, too. You've never asked me to knock before." I could hear him approaching behind me.

"What are you doing home, anyway?" I asked as I quickly entered the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me.

Through the closed door, I could hear him sigh heavily. "I thought you might like some company for lunch."

"Well, you thought wrong. I've got an appointment and don't have time for lunch," I informed him as I stared at my reflection, the shirt still clutched to my chest.

His voice barely audible, he said, "Amanda . . . I could go with you, that is, if --"

"No, Lee. I don't need you to come with me. Thanks, anyway." I sat down on the toilet and waited, listening. After several minutes I heard the telltale sound of his car starting up, the tires giving a slight squeal as he pulled away from the curb.

Grimacing, I walked back into the bedroom and quickly pulled on a loose, button-down shirt and a pair of slacks. As I left the room, I absently grabbed a cardigan sweater; it's bulk offering to further screen my deformity from the world.

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I lay stiffly, keeping my body rigidly on my side of the bed. I kept my eyes closed as I heard the sounds of Lee getting ready for bed, and pretended to sleep as I felt his weight depress his side of the mattress.

"Amanda?" he whispered. "C'mon, I know you're still awake. Talk to me, please."

Wearily, I said, "What did you want to talk about?"

"How did your appointment go? What did the doctor say?" His hand reached out to grasp mine, but I pulled it away, ostensibly to adjust the covers.

"I really don't want to talk about it, Lee," I said, folding and refolding the top of the sheet. As I felt his hand touch my shoulder I was unable to stop myself from flinching away. The hurt look on his face gave me pause, but only briefly. I was disgusted, disgusted at my temporary weakness and, on a deeper level, my willingness to hurt him so easily.

"Amanda. This is ridiculous. You're my wife; don't I have a right to know these things?" The exasperation in his voice fueled the anger already welling up inside of me.

"I'm *your* wife, huh? So, that gives you some husbandly rights to *my* life? This didn't happen to you, Lee; it happened to me." I felt like I was somewhere else, hearing myself say these hateful things, but unable to stop. I sat up in bed and looked down at him. "What is it you have a right to know? Do you want to hear that the doctor can fix me, that he can make me look normal again? Is that what you want to hear?"

"That's not fair! Amanda, I love you. That hasn't changed." He again reached for my hand, but it was now busy smoothing my pajama top. At my continued inflexibility, he got out of bed and said sadly, "You don't want my help? You want to do this all by yourself? Fine. I'll be down the hall if you change your mind."

As he left the room, I lay back down and thought, 'Lee, don't you understand? You can't protect me this time. This enemy is too strong, even for you.' I burrowed into the covers and drifted into a fitful sleep.

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I heard Lee getting ready for work, but kept myself buried in the cocoon of my own making. He left without saying goodbye, the sound of his car engine almost startling in the early morning quiet. 'Maybe I'll just stay in bed,' I thought as I rolled over, unwilling to face the day.

I opened my eyes, a sound from downstairs having woken me. Blinking at my alarm clock, I saw that it was nearly noon. 'Surely Lee hasn't come home for lunch again,' I thought as I braced myself for another confrontation.

But the footsteps on the stairs didn't sound heavy enough to be Lee's. Concerned, I got out of bed just as the door to my room opened. "Mother, what are you doing here and how'd you get in?" I asked as the sight of my mother's blond head poked around the door.

"Lee gave me his key; he figured you might not let me in," Mother said in her no-nonsense tone as she made her way down the hall.

I followed indignantly after her. "Oh, he did, did he? And why --?"

Mother cut me off. She turned around, put her hands on her hips, and said, "Amanda, look at this house -- unopened mail all over the table, a week's worth of dishes on the counter, laundry piled on the floor. For two months I've been trying to come help you. Well, you're gonna get my help whether you like it or not."

"I suppose this was all Lee's idea. I told him I can handle it, Mother. You --" Mother interrupted my indignant ramble by holding one hand up, palm facing me.

"Now you stop right there, young lady," Mother stated, her tone making me feel about ten years old. "If you could handle it, you would be handling it. Well, you're not. Poor Lee doesn't know what to do. Well, I'm your mother and I'm not going to take any of your lip. So, either get dressed and help me, or get out of my way because I am cleaning this house."

I stood, speechless, while Mother walked down the stairs, head high, determination in her step. She stopped suddenly and said over her shoulder, "I have never seen you give up on anything that was important. I don't believe you're gonna give up now. Amanda, your family loves you, even if you're having trouble loving yourself."

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