weirdness

When I started this blog almost a year ago, I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to do with it. I knew I had all of these stories, and I just wanted to get them down and figure out what, if anything, to do with them later. In the fall, I took a class called Autobiography Into Art. That class helped me shape my stories and figure out what to do with them.

I began writing a series of stories, starting with Zithead, that described my childhood as, well, a zithead. Other stories came after that first. Stories about the different doctors and treatments I tried, about how I was treated and how I reacted. I am now about a quarter of the way through with what I hope to be a memoir entitled "Zithead". And now, I am stuck.

Since I have started writing the zithead stories, some very strange things have been happening. First, my skin has started breaking out worse than it has in years. At 34, that's not such a great feeling, but it probably isn't as bad as being 13 with acne. In some respects, these outbreaks have been helpful, reminding what it felt like all of those years ago.

Maybe worse than my skin issue is the fact that I have been harboring two very unwelcome house guests over the past few months - depression and anxiety. Don't act surprised. If you have been reading any of these stories, I think it follows naturally that I would have some psychic, as well as physical, scars from my childhood. I have been both ashamed and embarrassed to write about this part of my life. But then I started reading over some of my previous blog stories. I have written about carrying my own poo down a flight of stairs (see The Floater). I have revealed how I let a boy feel me up in a pool and then lied about it (see How Second Base Led to my First Boyfriend). I rigged a contest to win a camera, alienating my first crush before I even had a chance to make him fall in love with me (see The Contest). So talking about a couple of little things like anxiety and depression should be no shame. After all, there are plentiful commercials detailing how my little sorrows are alienating my cat and destroying my marriage, so surely these topics are fit for blog discussion.

I guess it's only logical that writing about these old episodes would stir up some emotional sludge. So I am in the process of draining the mental pool and giving it all a good cleaning. I started a new story, weeks ago, and I am trying hard to get back on track. Who knows? Maybe this blog entry will someday appear as the epilogue to "Zithead". Stay tuned!

Continue reading...

sister zithead

The floor shook beneath us. Pencils rolled off of desks. The American flag trembled above the blackboard. Sister Mary squeezed the chalk in her palm until it cracked. A collective gasp rippled through the classroom as we all held our breath. The door creaked open, and Sister Roberta filled the doorway.

Sister Roberta was the principal. She was feared by students, teachers and parents alike. Bigger than all of the fathers in the entire school, her bulk sucked the air out of every room. She had no cheeks or chin, just jiggly jowls. Her breath was hot and ragged, and the sides of her face puffed out like the gills of a fish out of water. Deep lines were etched into the fat around her mouth, giving her face the look of a ventriloquist's dummy. Square glasses slipped down her nose from the constant sweat that clung to her like skin. The white collar of her habit was no match for the fat exploding out of her neck. She rolled her sleeves up to the elbows, and the fabric sliced into her skin. A tiny gold watch was smothered by chubby rolls on her wrist.

Sister Roberta spent her days trolling the halls and checking in on classrooms. Sometimes, she would call on a student to stand and recite, alphabetically, all of the prepositional phrases. On other occasions, she would stand at the back of the classroom and breathe heavily, making her oppressive presence known to tense students and stuttering teachers. The only point that both students and teachers agreed upon was the unnerving effect of Sister Roberta's glare.

"Good morning, Sister Roberta. God bless you." My entire eighth-grade class stood and saluted the principal as she darkened the doorway. I remained stuck to my seat, hot tears coursing down my cheeks. Her eyes pierced through me in an instant.

"Ms. Heslin. Come with me, please." Sister Roberta demanded, poking her sausage finger in my direction. I rose reluctantly, my body wracked with sobs, snot flowing freely towards my upper lip. It was the kind of hysterics that produces hiccups, and mine ensued in short order. The entire class watched as I sniffled and shuffled towards Sister Roberta.

Once outside the classroom, Sister Roberta wrapped her hand around the back of my neck and led me to the nurse's office. I felt like a helpless kitten about to be tossed in a sack and drowned in a river. Sister Roberta breathed heavily on the back of my neck like a bull. I wondered how many times I would have to write "I will not cry in school" on the blackboard as punishment for my outburst.

Once inside the empty nurse's office, Sister Roberta shut the door behind us. I sat down on the cot reserved for kids with stomach aches and fevers, as she squeezed into the nurse's chair opposite me. She handed me a box of tissues, waiting patiently as I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, hoping for the sobs to subside.

"Now. What is this all about?"

I didn't know where to begin. This was the first time I had cried in front of anyone since starting Accutane, and I was ashamed and angry about my outburst. No matter what anyone had said to me, I hadn't given them the satisfaction of seeing their words pierce my skin. But lately, I had crying jags for just about any reason: a Hallmark commercial, a kitten on the corner, a boy skinning his knee in the park. This time, it had been Thomas.

"It was nothing, Sister. I'm just having a bad day."

"Well, it seems like something to me. "Nothing" does not produce the hysterics I just witnessed."

"It was stupid...."

"I'll be the judge of that."

I hesitated. Did I want to be a rat? Being called a rat could be more devastating than being a zithead. But, lying to Sister Roberta could be lethal. She had this nun's sixth sense that she claimed had been divined straight from God Himself. To Sister Roberta, there was no greater sin than dishonesty. I balked between my choices - social death or slaughter by Sister. Picturing myself perishing in a sister's strangle, I chose the former.

"Thomas called me a name."

"And what name was that?"

"He called me a dirty pizza face." As I buried my face in a tissue, the sobs started fresh again.

It wasn't just the name that had hurt me. It was Thomas. Throughout the years, he had always been my protector. Whenever we played football, he would beat away the other boys trying to tackle me so he could gently knock me down himself. He always walked me home, and offered me his jacket when I was cold. I didn't want him to be my boyfriend, but I also didn't mind the attention he showed me, or the occasional jolt of electricity that shot up my arm when he tried to hold my hand. Thomas was a safe way to practice flirting, because I knew he would never want to hurt me. Until today.

"Why do you think he did that?" Sister Roberta wondered.

"Because I told him to stop poking me in the back with his pencil."

"You know, Noreen. I have often thought that Thomas might have somewhat of a crush on you."

"I know."

I didn't know Thomas had a crush on me, I had felt it. On my thigh. The year before, in seventh grade, Thomas and I were slow-dancing in Ashley's house at her thirteenth birthday party. Her parents stayed upstairs all night, while we danced and flirted and (some of us) got felt up. Thomas held me uncomfortably close, and I felt something jabbing me in the thigh.

"Thomas, can you move your keys? They're digging into me." I explained. Thomas pulled me closer and breathed onto my neck.

"Those aren't my keys." Confused, I pulled back from him and glanced down at his crotch. It was the first bulge I had ever seen, let alone felt up against my body.

"Ewww! Gross!" I squealed and pushed away from him, running into the safety of a circle of girls. They consoled me throughout the night, dutifully calling Thomas a pig. But, their eyes lit up as they asked questions about "it".

"Was it hard?"

"Was it big?"

"Did you touch it?"

"Is it shaped like a rocket?"

"Would you let him do it again?"

I would slow dance with Thomas again in other darkened living rooms while listening to homemade mix tapes of slow songs. His hands would cascade down my back past my boy-straight hips to the no-man's land of my flat butt. I would dutifully reposition his hands to the safety of my waist time and again, doing a chastity dance. I could have refused to dance with him, but I didn't. I did, however, remember Sister Mary's advice for dancing with a boy, and I left room between us for the Holy Spirit.

"Sometimes," Sister Roberta offered, "Boys don't know how to show girls that they like them. They're not mature enough to say the words, so instead, they tease and taunt."

"I know that too, Sister." I breathed out in exasperation. Did she think acne had made me a complete social moron? It was as if she subtracted ten IQ points per pimple, speaking slowly so I didn't miss her meaning.

"You know what I bet would shut him up?" Sister Roberta's lips quivered with menace. I waited for her advice. "Call him fat!"

"What?" My eyes shot open as this Bride of Christ recommended that I intentionally hurt someone's feelings.

"Sure. Why not? Call him a porker, a chubber, a whale. Whatever word works for you. Give him a dose of his own medicine." The mud-colored mole sitting on Sister Roberta's left eyelid shook with excitement. She looked entirely pleased with herself.

"I couldn't do that." I responded, still shocked by her suggestion.

"Why not? Don't you think Thomas is fat?"

Oh, this must be a trick! These nuns could be slick. This must be some sort of morality test. To see if I would do unto others as had been done to me, or if I would turn the other cheek. I quickly did an equation in my head. If I admitted that Thomas was fat, but Thomas was much thinner than Sister Roberta, then wouldn't I be calling Sister Roberta fat by extension? The only safe way out of this one was to use a diversion tactic.

"I can't be mean to Thomas because of his brother."

Sister Roberta sucked in her breath and looked surprised. I could tell that she didn't know what to say, and that sent a shock of excitement through me. I had left a nun, the nun, speechless!
Thomas' little brother Christopher had died of leukemia the year before, when Thomas and I were in seventh grade. He had been sick since he was two, and he died right before his eighth birthday. We had all grown up together, with Thomas and I watching after his brother Christopher, my brother Chris and my sister Erin. Christopher had lost all of his hair from the chemo, but it never seemed to bother him. He'd walk right up to you and say, "Rub my head for good luck." It was easy to forget he was sick.

Our class had fundraisers for Christopher's medical expenses. We held raffles and car washes, until everyone in town knew Christopher's face and asked how they could help. One afternoon while we were making flyers for an upcoming fundraiser, Thomas walked into class after visiting his brother in the hospital.

"Hi, Thomas. How's Christopher today?" Miss Andrews asked.

"He's dead," Thomas answered bluntly. The class was quiet and waited to see what would happen next. Thomas walked out of the classroom and didn't come back until a week after the funeral.

For weeks after Christopher died, Thomas walked around town alone, a large boom box planted on his shoulder blasting music. He didn't speak to anyone; he just nodded his head and kept on walking.

Just thinking about Thomas and Christopher got me crying all over again.

"Noreen, Thomas is very lucky to have a friend like you." Sister Roberta said as she handed me more tissues. I blew my nose and nodded.

"Your mother explained the medication to me. You won't always look like this."

"It's not just that," I admitted. "Everyone thinks I'm dirty, like I don't wash my face or something."

"Let me ask you a question. Do you think I'm fat because of what I eat?"

Another trick question! What kind of moral Olympics was this woman putting me through?
Sister Mary had once asked me to get her sweater from the convent. I was both honored and terrified. Very few students were ever allowed into the convent, which was attached to the school by a back staircase. I opened the heavy door and stared into the darkened convent. It smelled like bleach and something sweet. Flicking on the hallway light, I looked around at the cold, gray walls and floor, all made of cement. There was nothing to suggest the convent was a home. Rather, it looked more like a storage closet or a crypt. I shuddered as I made my way inside.
My eyes widened to the size of flapjacks at what I encountered in the first room - the laundry room. There, weighing down a clothesline strung across the room, were three pairs of underwear, each large enough to cover the back end of a Volkswagen bug. Either these belonged to Sister Roberta, or the nuns were harboring a large circus animal somewhere in the confines of the convent.

Even more startling, however, were the three bras (nuns wore bras!) hanging next to the underwear. Each bra cup could easily cradle a small child. I wondered who did all of the laundry, and I assumed it to be Sister Mary. Sister Mary was as thin and meek as Sister Roberta was large and domineering. I could just picture Sister Roberta making Sister Mary write a thousand-word essay on the virtues of using bleach when washing underclothing.

I found Sister Mary's sweater on a hanger, but couldn't stop myself from peeking into the next room. Obviously, the sweet smell had originated here, in the kitchen. It looked like a Hostess cupcake factory. There were boxes of Ding Dongs and Ho Hos, Twinkies and Sno Balls. A small index card was taped to each box. Tiny block letters were printed on each card. I crept closer to read the writing: "Property of Sister Roberta. Do not touch. The Lord is watching."

Unable to stop myself, I opened the refrigerator and peered inside. Gallons of Pepsi and Dr. Pepper lined the shelves. Take-out containers from Number 1 Kitchen, Benny's Pizza and Chicken Galore peeked out from behind the soda. I couldn't believe my eyes. These nuns lived like college students. I wondered if our tuition paid for their junk food habits.

"Well?" Sister Roberta waited for my response.

"Sister?" I couldn't remember the answer I was supposed to give.

"Do you think I'm fat because of what I eat?"

I shrugged and widened my eyes, noncommittal in my response.

"No. I have a glandular problem. I actually eat very light and healthfully."

"Ohhh!" I said. I couldn't believe all of the things I was learning. Nuns wore bras that could carry bowling balls. They encouraged children to make fun of their peers. And they lied!

"There. Now I've just dispelled a misconception about people who struggle with weight. Maybe you can dispel the idea that people with acne are...."

"Dirty?" I offered.

"Unhygienic, yes."

"How do I do that?" I pictured myself wearing a sandwich board as I walked the halls. On it, in bright red letters, I would have written: "I'm not dirty! I'm a zithead and I don't know why. But one thing's for sure - I am not dirty!"

"Well, you're a smart girl. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"Sure."

"I think you're ready to return to class. Go splash some water on your face while I explain your outburst to Sister Mary."

"Yes, Sister Roberta."

When I returned to class, it was clear that Sister Roberta had given Thomas a talking to. He looked up as I walked in and then glued his eyes to his desk. I sat down in front of him and tried to pretend the entire class wasn't staring at me.

"Psst." Thomas gently tapped me on the shoulder and passed me a note. I slipped the note into my lap and unfolded the paper. He had drawn a picture of the two of us smiling and playing catch. Above it, Thomas had written "Sorry!!!" I half-turned towards him and sort of smiled, to let him know it was okay. I didn't know if it was okay, but I just wanted to forget about it. I was too busy thinking of a way to let everyone know that what was happening to me wasn't my fault.

"Hello?" Mom answered the phone while I was doing homework later that night.

"Oh, hello Sister Roberta." Mom's voice went rigid and fear showed on her face. She stubbed out her cigarette guiltily. I slammed my book shut and stared, trying to divine what Sister Roberta was saying on the other end.

Mom gave me no hints as to what was being said. She issued several "umm hmms" and "I sees", but nothing concrete. After a minute, Mom clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. I tugged at her shirt, mouthing: "What's going on?" Mom shrugged me away and held the phone protectively to her ear.

"Really? You think so? We'll have to discuss that." Mom's chin quivered from the effort of containing a laugh. My bones ached with anticipation. It was never a light matter for the principal, let alone Sister Roberta, to call a parent. The veins on Mom's forehead were not popping with rage, so I figured I wasn't in that much trouble. But what could Sister Roberta say that would make anyone laugh? Maybe she was explaining her glandular problem, and Mom found it as unlikely as I knew it to be.

"Thank you, Sister. Have a good night." Mom hung up the phone and stared at me. I sat back in my seat, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"Sister Roberta told me what happened with Thomas today," she said sympathetically.

"Oh," I breathed out heavily, relieved.

"She was very proud of the way you handled yourself."

"Okay." I didn't know where this was going, but I could see Mom was saving the best for last.

"She said you taught her a lesson about compassion, and forgiveness. And she thinks...." Mom snorted and laughed, covering her face. I was getting annoyed that it was taking her so long to finish the story.

"What? Mom, just say it!"

"Well, Sister Noreen, she thinks you would be an excellent addition to the convent. She wants to know if you'd ever consider becoming a nun!"

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted, picturing a life living in that concrete hell, washing Sister's Roberta's elephant-sized drawers and sneaking bites of her Ho Hos.

"Noreen! Watch your language." Mom admonished. She then continued to convulse with laughter as I picked up my books and stalked off to my bedroom.

I was too distracted to finish my homework, thoughts rattling around my brain like a pocketful of loose change. What if I did pledge my undying devotion to the church? Could I somehow strike a deal with the Big Guy to clear my complexion? I could vow to stay a virgin until marriage. In my current condition, it didn't seem like such a stretch to say say I would remain untouched for the next fifty years anyway. I could give up something really important for lent, like Burger King or television, and not just some random candy that I only ate once a month anyway. I could go to confession weekly and say the rosary daily. I could shake hands with every person within reach during mass when we said "Peace be with you". (This was my least favorite part of mass. I didn't like shaking strangers' hands after watching them pick their noses or scratch the insides of their ears. I usually faked a sneezing fit seconds before, so as to excuse myself from hand-shaking. It was, after all, ungodly to spread germs.) I would even clasp the hand of the old man with shingles, who was always peeling off bits of skin in long scaly strips.
Then, another line of thinking barged into my brain like a freight train. Was I being recruited to the convent because of my poor complexion? All of the nuns I knew did seem to have some sort of defect. Sister Mary had a man's face, with a robust nose and chin whiskers that she was fond of stroking. Sister Agnes, the librarian, had fingers that were twisted like the knotted roots of a gnarled tree. Sister Theresa, whose place in the school no one was certain of, looked very much like a garden gnome. She was as tall as the third graders and had elfin ears and a pointy chin that jutted sharply away from her face. Was I, too, unfit for society? Did Sister Roberta become a nun because she was obese, or did she become obese because she was a nun? What came first - the habit or the Ho Hos?

I then thought of ways to make everyone understand what was happening to me, and why. I could kidnap one of my doctors and bring him to school to explain the situation. I could hire a plane to sky write it over town. Or, I could ask Sister Roberta to make the entire class write on the board a thousand times: Noreen is not dirty. She has acne, which may be caused by a hormonal imbalance, clogged pores, or an infection within her skin.

I had already been on the medication for several weeks, and still no improvement. If things didn't start to change soon, I would have no choice but to become Sister Zithead.

Continue reading...

you

The early summer sun is beating down on you. Boys and girls, your friends, are running and playing catch, laughing and chasing each other. You are riding your new bike in circles around them. You got it for your ninth birthday last week. It is blue and shiny. There is a name plate on the back that reads "Robert". You feel free on that bike. It is your first. Before, you had to ride on the pegs of other kids' bikes. You learned to ride on Billy's bike three years ago. Now you don't need to beg rides off of anyone else. For the first time, you can offer anyone you like a ride on your bike.

You chant with the other kids: "No more homework, no more books. No more teachers' dirty looks". It is the first day of summer vacation. The days are stretched ahead of you like a long, cool drink of lemonade. You wonder how you will have time to do all that you want to do. There will be bike riding, of course. Wiffle ball tournaments against the kids from the next block. You're not very good at bat, but you do throw a mean slider. Games of Manhunt and Freeze Tag. Firecrackers to set off at night. Exploring the neighborhoods further away from your safe street, without getting caught by your mother. Catching fireflies and putting them in girls' ponytails, waiting for them to screech and swat at you. A lifetime to live in just a few short months.
You don't know that none of that is going to happen. You don't know how everything is going to change. That you will never be the same. You are riding your new bike, in the sun, surrounded by your friends. And you are happy.

Continue reading...

possible side effects

"She has AIDS!"

"Don't touch her. She's contagious!"

"Disgusting!"

I heard the rushing rocks before I felt them pelt my back. It didn't hurt. Not really. It was just a dull thud near my shoulder blade. Already, though, I could feel the wetness of the blood leaking out of the pimple that had burst.

I turned and stared blankly. Piss Pants Rick, Dick Ear, and Petey Boy had their hands poised with more rocks waiting. I didn't go to school with these boys, but I had played baseball with them. Their fathers called me "honey". Their mothers congregated on the same park bench as mine, smoking and gossiping. I knew their secrets and shames. Everyone did.

Piss Pants Rick earned his nickname on a Boy Scout camping trip. Too afraid to leave his tent in the ink blank night, he refused to make his way to the outhouse and opted to piss in his pants. The act would have been less shameful had he not repeated it three nights in a row.

A fleshy bit of skin protruding near his ear was responsible for Dick Ear's name. He was constantly tugging on it, and his face would go all dreamy and far away.

"Hey, Dick Ear," his friends would taunt. "Dreaming about sticking that thing in your mother?"

Dick Ear would pull his reluctant fingers away from his ear and slip his thumb into his mouth.
Petey Boy was named after a dog. His father was a slow and nervous man. When he found out that his large and oppressive wife was expecting a baby, he had to go to the nervous hospital for some "rest". The only way his wife could convince him to come home, as the story goes, was to allow him to name the baby. Petey Boy was his much-loved childhood Schnauzer. We couldn't help but bark and whistle whenever Petey Boy and his father played fetch. I mean, catch.

I popped my watermelon gum noisily between my teeth, working it into a pulpy mass and poking my tongue through its center. My mouth was dry sand paper. The juice of the gum eased it somewhat. Puffing out my cheeks, I blew a bubble as I walked slowly towards the boys. The bubble burst, and I picked the sticky bits of gum off of my lips. My red-rimmed eyes burned and itched, blinking back the constant throb of a headache that had taken up permanent residence behind my eyeballs.

I stopped just a few feet short of the boys. They were poised nervously, as if preparing to steal second base. I couldn't blame them really. I guess I did resemble the images of the scabby, shrunken men on television - the ones with AIDS. I wasn't sure what I looked like. I tried not to spy my image in the mirror. I didn't want to see what would be staring back at me.

"You guys are right. I do have the virus." It was an effort for me to speak. Each time I opened my mouth, my lips cracked and bled, splitting in the corners. I swallowed and tried not to lick my burning lips. The boys shifted and cackled nervously, looking uneasily at one another.

"Yeah, you got the virus. Like anyone would fuck you!" Piss Pants Rick stepped forward defiantly. Dick Ear and Petey Boy stepped closer, feeling more confident in his shadow.

"No. Nobody fucked me. Wanna know how else you can get it?"

I could almost see their brains racing to remember the brief lessons on sex and AIDS education. A panic flashed in their dim-witted eyes, as they wondered what they had missed while snoozing in the back of class.

I took the sticky gum out of my mouth and held it out to them, like an offering.

"The spit on my gum!" I hissed as I wound up my left arm and watched them race away from me.

High, feminine shrieks escaped from their fleeing forms as they tried to escape. But it was too late.

I focused my aim on the fat rolls protruding from the back of Piss Pants' sweatshirt. I missed my mark, and the spit-soaked wad of gum landed smack in the tangle of his dirty curls. The gum hit him like a shot from a rifle, and he landed face down with a thud in the grass. He writhed and screamed, swatting at the back of his head.

"Guys! Help! Get this thing offa me. Come back!" Piss Pants shrieked. Dick Ear and Petey Boy paused briefly to look at their fallen friend, but I was hot on their heels. They ran for their very lives as I chased them, gathering up as much spit as I could spare. Unfortunately, Accutane had drained me of most of the moisture in my entire body, and I was dry after two measly shots. Still, I was proud of my efforts.

The real payoff came the following day. I glimpsed Piss Pants, his hair sheered close to the scalp. He had the lumpiest, most misshapen head I had ever seen. I almost felt bad for him.

"What the hell happened to you?" Kids shouted. "You look like a shaved ass hole!"

Piss Pants Rick looked over and saw the serene smile on my face. I nodded and bowed in his direction. His eyes narrowed and his hand shot protectively to the back of his bald head. His lips pursed with want, insults tickling his tongue waiting to be hurled at me like hand grenades. But he kept his mouth shut and hurried away.

Kids weren't the only ones who were cruel. I couldn't go around throwing my gum and spitting at everyone who called me a name, so I devised other ways to deal with the daily insults and assaults.

I flipped through beauty magazines in the salon. Mom was treating me to a new 'do to help me feel better about my appearance. As I sat and waited for my turn, something tickled my bare arm and nuzzled against me. I jumped in my seat at what I thought was a cougar cozying up to me. Dead black eyes glared at me as razor sharp fangs poked out of a tiny but ferocious muzzle. Claws hung at the end of little legs. A furry body lay lifeless on the shoulder of the middle-aged woman who had sat down beside me. An identical little creature lay draped over her other shoulder. I scooted away from the snarling fangs of these animals, sneaking peaks to make sure they wouldn't come to life and take a nip at me.

I felt more than one set of eyes piercing my skin, and slowly turned in the direction of the coat. The furry creatures, and their owner, were glaring at me. The woman's scowl was more menacing than that of her creature companions. I blushed guiltily and shrugged, assuming she had spied me staring at her roadkill coat.

Don't you ever wash your face? You look absolutely filthy!"

The busy chit-chat of the salon and the hum of the hair dryers screeched to a halt. Scissors clipped shut. Aqua Net hung suspended in the air. All eyes were on us.

Before I could open my mouth and eek out a response, a deep growling erupted from within the woman's coat. It began as a dull rumble, like distant thunder, but quickly escalated into a guttural grumbling, full of phlegm and menace. I pulled away cautiously. The woman was frozen in fear, her eyes piercing pools of terror. Her coat began to shift and move about her. The limp creatures on her coat suddenly came to life, spit flying out of their ferocious mouths, salivating for a piece of flesh.

Their claws dug into the make-up caked on her aging face, searing away the flesh in shreds. Pulpy strips of cheek hung like fillets. One creature feasted on her ear, while the other tore away at her deep peach lips. Then, they began fighting over her pointy nose. Within seconds, it was nothing more than a cavernous hole. She screeched and screamed and swung at the greedy creatures, while we watched in horror as her face was torn away.

The woman flopped onto the cold tile floor and the creatures pecked lazily at what was left of her face. The bell hanging above the front door dinged as a woman entered the salon. The creatures, still attached to the coat, took off running out of the salon, dragging the half-eaten woman behind them. The salon remained still for a moment longer, and then everyone snapped back into action. Blow dryers clicked back to life. Scissors clipped. Gossip resumed. And I continued to search for the perfect layered look.

"What the hell is your problem, lady?" Annie, the salon owner, was sticking her scissors into the woman's face.

"Excuse me?" she responded indignantly.

"Can't ya see she's just a kid? Get the hell outta here before I stick my scissors up your ass!'

Annie, whose own face was deeply pitted with acne scars, looked like a woman possessed. She poked her scissors so close that she could have trimmed the woman's nose hair. Annie was convincing enough that the woman rushed out of the salon without a word.

"Don't you pay her any mind, honey," Annie gripped my chin firmly and planted a lipstick kiss on my cheek. She was the first person to touch my face in months.

An hour later, I walked out of the salon with Joan Jett's rocking hair, and a little bit of her attitude. Annie had invited me back for a free facial, and promised me she would take care of business if she ever saw that woman out on the streets. I believed her.

Mom didn't much like my haircut, but that was forgotten once I told her what had happened. She lit up another Salem Light, blind to the one she already had burning in the ashtray.

"She's lucky I wasn't there. What the hell's wrong with people? Son of a...." She trailed off before spewing forth the slew of curse words she would not say in front of us.

"It's okay, Mom." I assured. "Her face was eaten off by her fur coat." Mom looked at me, shook her head and sucked on her cigarette.

I was standing at the corner, waiting for the light to change. A little girl next to me was nibbling on a chocolate bar, holding her mother's hand. I was starving. I hadn't eaten a solid meal in days. My lips had become so blistered and swollen that I could no longer chew. My mother had to puree all of my meals, and I sucked them up through a straw. The doctors assured us that this was normal, and that the side effects would soon lessen and my skin would heal. I held on to their words, and to the vision of myself at the end of treatment, eating a four-course meal with clear skin.

I peeked down at the little girl and smiled. She grinned back and hid behind her mother's leg. We played peek-a-boo and giggled at each other. The mother smiled down at her daughter's playfulness, but her jaw went rigid when she got a glimpse of my complexion. I recognized the look of disgust in her eyes and waited. She jerked the chocolate bar out of her daughter's hand and pointed an angry finger at me.

"See? This is what you'll look like if you keep eating chocolate. You wanna look like her?" The mother glared accusingly at me and threw the chocolate bar in the garbage. The mother stepped off the curb and walked into the street, leaving her daughter behind. She stopped and turned towards us.

"Well, come on! What're you waiting for?"

Before the little girl could step off of the curb, a bus came screeching down the street and knocked the mother out of her socks. The bus kept on going, with the mother splayed across the windshield like a squashed bug. The girl and I looked at each other, shrugged, and giggled. We took a seat on the curb, and the girl produced two chocolate bars from her pocket. We ate slowly and gratefully, as the mother's socks blew away in the wind.

I didn't tell Mom about that one. I was afraid she'd patrol the streets with a baseball bat, and bludgeon to death the first mother she saw who fit the description.

I often woke up with my pillow and sheet smeared with blood. I never knew if I had gotten a nose bleed in the middle of the night, or an infected pimple had burst. It was harder to leave the house on days like these.

In fact, I didn't leave the house on those days. But someone else did. Some days, it was Laverne, or Shirley. Men seemed to respond to Shirley more, with her sweet and feminine ways. On my Shirley days, I walked softly and gracefully. I couldn't fully get behind Shirley, though. I just couldn't see myself being that attached to a stuffed cat. Laverne, who boldly sewed her signature "L" on each sweater, seemed more my speed. On my Laverne days, my smile was sly and my gait was sturdy. As strangers' stares penetrated my skin, I sang Lavarne and Shirley's down-in-the-dumps pick-me-up song: "Woops there goes another rubber tree plant." I didn't really know what it meant, but it always seemed to work for them.

Sometimes, I called on Laura Ingalls to get me through the day. I thought of her life on the prairie, and realized she had it much tougher than I did. At least we had indoor plumbing. When kids were calling me names and my first reaction was to lash out, I thought of Pa and the always tender advice he gave Half-Pint. I imagined myself hitching up the team alongside Pa, and telling him of the mean things that had been said to me that day. With a glint in his eye and his homemade pipe stuck firmly between his teeth, Pa would say: "You'll grow out of it, Half-Pint. And you'll be the prettiest girl on the prairie." And just like that, I could breeze through the names being hurled at me with relative ease. Of course, I also knew that Half-Pint could beat up almost any boy on the playground.

My favorite, however, was Jo from the Facts of Life. Jo was really prettier than all of the other girls, but hid it under her pigtail and motorcycle helmet. I relied on her more often than the others. Affecting my best Bronx accent, I would scrunch my face up into a scowl and display my fist to anyone whose stare lingered too long.

"Whaddya lookin' at?" I would ask icily. "Ya wanna knuckle sandwich?" Sometimes people would laugh, but more often than not, they would look away.

"Yeah, that's what I thought!" I would yell after them.

On the toughest days, I would picture myself jumping onto Jo's motorcycle and riding clear out of town, wielding a tire iron and smashing anyone who got in my way.

Sometimes, though, assuming Jo's identity got me into trouble. It was during a spelling test. As I was waiting for Sister Alice to pronounce the next word, a fat drop of blood like a rain drop splattered across my loose leaf paper. I pinched my nose and tilted my head back, raising my clean hand in the air.

"Sister Alice," I called out, "I need to use the bathroom." Dark droplets of blood plopped on my white uniform shirt.

"Lord God above, Noreen. What have you done?" Sister Alice asked suspiciously. We had recently had a visit from an ex-drug addict who warned us against the perils of drug use. He demonstrated the effects his cocaine habit had had on his nose by stuffing a tissue up one nostril and retrieving it from the other nostril. The boys in my class thought he was cool. The girls thought he was cute.

"Sorry, Sister. I guess I partied a little too hard this weekend." The class hooped and applauded in approval. What did she think I had been doing? Picking my nose with a pitchfork.

"To the nurse's office. Now. I'll deal with you later." Sister Alice promised.

That night, Sister Alice followed through with her threat and called my mother. Mom's face turned scarlet as she nodded her head.

"Yes, Sister. I'm sorry, Sister. It will never happen again, Sister. It's the medication. She's just not herself right now." I bit my nails nervously, wondering what my punishment would be.

Mom slammed the phone down and stared hard at me.

"She wants to know if you have a drug problem or if you're trying to get suspended with that smart mouth."

"Mom, I'm sorry. But what did she think I had been doing? Picking my nose with a pitchfork?" Mom sighed heavily and shook her head. I waited for my punishment, but it didn't come. Instead, Mom opened up the freezer and handed me a cherry ice pop, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

Cherry ice pops had become my salvation, easing the ache of my lips and the dryness of my mouth. As I sucked greedily on the frozen treat, my breath froze at what I saw staring at me in the reflection of the toaster. My features were distorted, as if I were looking into a funhouse mirror. I was puffy and swollen, so raw and red that I could understand the disgust in strangers' stares. I walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, standing in the darkness.
Closing my eyes, I flipped the switch and willed myself to look. I knew it was bad, but I had no idea what I had actually become.

The acne I had had before Accutane was almost cute in comparison to what was happening now. The pimples on my face, neck, back and chest were competing for the title of "Miss Hideous America". Godzilla lurked beneath the surface of every inflamed boil, waiting to burst through and spew hot lava. Blood and pus pooled beneath the pimples, turning my skin blue-black in some spots. Traces of dried blood dotted my face like fault lines on a map. Crunchy scabs encrusted my mouth. I was completely unrecognizable.

I snapped the light off and stood in the dark before the mirror. My mind raced, trying to find the thought that would make my appearance more bearable. I would get better. The doctors had said so. But when? And what if they were wrong?

I went to my go-to guys for support, but this time they had nothing for me. Laverne and Shirley were slouched at the kitchen table, crying into tall glasses of milk and pepsi, Noxzema slathered across their faces. Pa had no words of wisdom. He blew out the candle and left me sitting alone in the dark barn to figure it out for myself. Jo, always ready with a stiff upper lip and a wisecrack, was stranded on the side of the road, covered in grease, trying to fix her broken down motorcycle in the rain. I was on my own.

Snapping the bathroom light back on, I stared hard at my reflection until it all became a blur. And then, a new fictional character emerged. This character bore a greater resemblance to my current physical state. I couldn't believe I hadn't realized it before. I was becoming - The Fly!

I was strangely comforted by this fact. I ignored the obvious worries, such as my ears falling off or having to puke on my cheeseburger before I could eat it. Instead, I remembered Jeff Goldblum's character being exhilarated at the change that was taking place inside of him. I too was undergoing some sort of transformation. My old face was literally falling off, and someone new was waiting underneath. I didn't know who or what it was.

The doctors said this would happen. I would get much worse before I got better. It was part of the process. Even Jeff Goldblum, with his collection of rotted-off body parts in the medicine cabinet, believed he was falling apart to become something better, stronger. I looked at my reflection. Jeff Goldblum stared down at me from his perch on the ceiling. He nodded at me confidently. If he believed it, then so could I.

Continue reading...

the magic

"I want you taking birth control." The doctor demanded.

"What? Why?" I asked as Mom twisted a brochure in her hands.

"So you don't get pregnant."

"How would that happen?" I screwed my face up into a question mark. The doctor sighed deeply and looked at the wall clock, calculating the seconds he would have to spend on me.

"Mom, have we not had "the talk" yet?" The doctor asked, using a tone of voice that was best reserved for very small dogs or very stupid children. Mom stammered and flushed apologetically.

"I know how you get pregnant!" I practically shouted. "I mean, what does that have to do with the medication?"

"Well," he began, unbuttoning and rebuttoning the fat white buttons on his lab coat, "If you get pregnant while taking this medication, the baby would most probably be born with devastating birth defects."

Mom's skin turned the green of a not yet ripe banana. I guarded my belly protectively, imagining the six-legged swamp beast that would slither and ooze out of my womb. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shook my head violently to expel the image from my brain. I wondered what my mother had gotten me into.

After a few months with no results from Dr. Blank, Mom had decided to take matters into her own hands. She consulted mothers from softball and PTA, Girl Scouts and basketball. Sympathetic shrugs and embarrassed sighs ensued from these mothers, but no one seemed to have the answer.

One summer day before the start of eighth grade, Mom and I ran into my old babysitter Beth.

"Oh my God! You look gorgeous, Beth!" Mom screamed down the block. Beth was unrecognizable. She glided down the street with her head held high and her long curls swept confidently off of her face. Smiling serenely, she nodded at my mother.

"What happened? I mean, what have you done to yourself? You look amazing!" Mom gushed.
A proud pink flush swept across Beth's now-clear face. Beth had had the worst skin I had ever seen. Cystic acne had assaulted every inch of her face and neck. She had often hidden behind blood tinged tissues, dabbing at her constantly erupting pimples. Looking at her now, I immediately shrunk back in embarrassment, painfully aware that my skin was now much worse than hers. There was, however, a ping-pong ball of hope hopping around in my stomach.

"I know! Isn't it amazing? I tried this new medication. I mean, look at me. It's a miracle!"

"Beth," Mom whispered. "Do you think you could give us your doctor's number? We've tried everything, but...." Mom trailed off, nodding in my direction. I stared down at my feet. Even Beth's sneakers seemed brighter than my own. Beth nodded knowingly and patted me like a puppy with fleas. She rooted around in her purse and handed my mother a card. Mom stared at its crisp white edges and poked me in the shoulder.

"Look at this, Noreen. All your troubles could be over!" I shrugged and glanced at the card, almost afraid to hope, but feeling my step lighten a little as we walked away from Beth.

A week later, Mom and I sat in the waiting room of the skin cancer and dermatology clinic of a major New York hospital. A sickening smell surrounded us, seeping into my nostrils and sitting on my tongue, thick like a wet sock. Patients, some in wheelchairs and padded with gauze, lined the white walls. I looked at them suspiciously, wondering if the odor was escaping from underneath their bandages.

"It's the burning skin." The man sitting next to me whispered as he scratched at a bandage covering the left side of his neck.

"Huh?" I leaned away from him and into my mother.

"The smell. They burn the skin away when there's cancer. It smells awful, doesn't it?" He sneered down at me as my mother took notice.

"Leaver her alone! Creep."

"I was just...."

"Knock it off or I'll call security. Noreen, sit over here." Mom yanked me up out of my seat and repositioned me on her other side. She glared at the man, who shrugged apologetically.

"Sorry, lady." Mom snarled and sucked in air through her teeth.
Now I was marooned in yet another doctor's office, being told that I would give birth to a head of broccoli with teeth, if I could even get a boy to somehow look in my direction.

"Umm, have you gotten a look at my face? No boy will even kiss me. How exactly would I get pregnant?" The doctor exhaled dramatically out of his wide nostrils. Mom bit her lip, but I couldn't tell if she wanted to laugh or smack me in the back of the head.

I had had some experience with boys, and how to avoid their advances. At Katie's thirteenth birthday party last year, I had been thrown in the closet with Nelson during a heated game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. Although two girls and one boy had already come out of the closet with raspberry-colored hickeys, I wouldn't let anything like that happen to me (unless I was lucky enough to end up in the dark with Anthony. I was not.)

Nelson spun an empty gallon of Coke, and the plastic red cap pointed decidedly at me. I groaned in disappointment and fear as hands jostled me towards the closet. Nelson waited expectantly in the dark, nestled between a parka and a fur coat. I was thrust into his open arms and bumped my head on his chin. The tiny stubble that had grown there dug into my skin.

"Have fun! Don't do anything we wouldn't do!" Cheers and sneers erupted behind us as the closet door slammed shut. Nelson's greasy hair smelled like a gas station. I wiggled my way to the back of the closet, hoping he wouldn't be able to see me. His hormones guided him like a missile to the spot where I was hidden. Raspy, breathless sounds escaped from his lips. His cheese puff breath felt hot on my cheek. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath, trying to make myself as small and quiet as possible.

Within seconds, his hot hands were on me. His left hand groped my right breast firmly, while his right hand reached for and missed my left breast, ending up on my elbow. The surprise was so sudden that I froze, leaving his hands to push and pull and pinch me.

"Oh, baby! Yeah!" Nelson cackled close to my ear. This was the same boy I had previously seen shove a pretzel up his nose and then eat it. That image bolted me out of my stupor and into action.

With one swift motion, I raised my right knee as if I were hitting a soccer ball. The effect was instant. Nelson crumbled into a crippled heap on the closet floor. There was complete silence for several seconds, and I was afraid that I had killed him. Suddenly, a tortured gurgling came from the bottom of the closet, and I exhaled with relief that he was at least alive. I spent the next six and a half minutes huddled behind the coats as Nelson gasped for air on the ground. When the closet door was finally opened, I exited triumphantly, my honor still intact. Nelson crawled out on his hands and knees, sweat dripping from his reddened face.

"As a precaution, we insist all women of child-bearing age take birth control while on this medication." The doctor said decisively.

"Well, she's not a woman, she's a child." Mom asserted, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"As a precaution...."

"No birth control. Thank you, Doctor." Mom's jaw was rigid and her nostrils flared. She fidgeted in the way she often did before saying, wait till your father gets home.

"All right then," he sighed. "You'll have to sign this release which says you understand the dangers of becoming pregnant while taking Accutane."
Accutane. It was the first time I heard the name of the medication that I hoped would transform me from a duck into a swan. I read through the form that warned of birth defects and fetal death. While scribbling my bubbly signature and dotting my i with a heart, I had a vague thought nagging at the back of my brain: if Accutane could turn my unborn baby into an octopus, what could it do to me?

There were some vague explanations of possible side effects. My skin would get worse before it got better. Redness. Peeling. Dry skin. Chapped lips. Upset stomach. Headaches. I would take the medication for twenty weeks, visiting the clinic every other week for a check-up. Each week, I would have blood tests done to monitor the medicine's effects on my kidneys and liver. Mom looked hesitantly from me to the doctor. Her finger pulled nervously on her lower lip.

"Noreen. Are you sure?" I took the brochure out of her hand and stared at the bold block letters spelling out ACCUTANE. The inside of the brochure had before and after pictures of men and women, boys and girls. The pictures on the left depicted pitted, pimply-skinned misery. The pictures on the right, however, showcased bright smiling faces with clear skin. This was it. This was the magic I had been searching for.

"Absolutely." It came out with such force that neither my mother nor the doctor thought to ask again. A few scribbles on a prescription pad and it was over.

"See you in two weeks." The doctor said, already walking out the door to his next patient. Mom raised her eyebrows and rubbed my back. For the first time in a long time, I felt myself smiling on the inside. In just twenty weeks, five months time, I would be a new me. I walked out into the sunshine, clutching the prescription for my future, my head raised towards the sun.

Continue reading...

taxi

The fish tank spanned nearly an entire wall of the waiting room. Fish the color of Easter candy swam lazily about the tank, sometimes pecking at the surface, making miniature bubbles. Mom flipped through a magazine, nervously thumbing the pages without focusing on them. The bottoms of my legs stuck to the leather couch and made squishy sounds as I tried to pry them free. I slipped my foot out of my flip-flop and ran my toes over the soft shag carpet. It was cream-colored and spotless. I wanted to lay on my belly and feel that softness against my face.
Two other patients waited with me. They were both adults, a man a lot older than my mom, and a woman a little younger. They checked their watches and sighed deeply, as if waiting for a late bus. Neither of them, I noticed, seemed to have anything wrong with their skin. At first, I took this to be a good omen. Dr. Blank had already cured them of their skin diseases, and these patients were simply here to give thanks. But they did not look grateful; they looked sour and gray. This made me wonder what secrets lay buried beneath their clothes. I pictured scabs and scales and boils erupting underneath their neat shirts and slacks. I began to have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The office door slid open silently, and a shocking white uniform brightened the doorway.

"Mr. Casey?" the uniform called out, and the older man stood and toddled through the door.

Before shutting the door, the uniform looked over at me and smiled. I inhaled sharply as I noticed the scaly dark patch of skin marring her right cheek. Couldn't Dr. Blank help his own employee, I wondered? A second, more chilling thought shot through my brain. What if that scaly patch of skin was the result of Dr. Blank's treatment? Not waiting to find out, I pried myself free of the deep leather couch, slipped back into my flip-flops and headed towards the exit.

"Miss Heslin?" The scaly-faced uniform had crept back into the doorway, smiling and waving me in like a stewardess pointing out emergency exits. Mom stood and took firm hold of my elbow, leading me to what could very well be my death. I held my breath and looked down at the uniform's squeaky white shoes, afraid she could read the questioning gaze in my eyes.

Dr. Putz had been plucked out of the Blue Cross bible of practitioners. Dr. Blank, however, had come from much higher authority - a passenger in the backseat of my dad's cab. He had come home the week before and plopped down a torn piece of paper onto the kitchen table.

"I got you a new doctor. A good one, too."

"Okay."

"Yeah. You're goin' to the city. There's no good doctors in Jersey."

"Then, why didn't we go there in the first place?" I wondered aloud.

"Well, ya gotta be fair. Give Jersey doctors a shot. They gotta make a livin', too."

I didn't quite follow my dad's logic, but I was relieved to be making a fresh start with a new doctor. I wanted to stay positive, but my experience with Dr. Putz had left me bankrupt in the high hopes department.

"So, who recommended this doctor, Dad?"

"A friend."

"Which friend?" I persisted.

"You don't know the guy."

"Yeah? Do you know the guy?"

"Course I do."

"Where'd you meet him?"

"In the cab. I had him in the cab, all right?" Dad answered in exasperation.

"So, he was your customer, not your friend?"

"Yeah, yeah. Big deal. Ya wanna go to this doctor or not?"

"Yeah, okay."

Everyone was Dad's "friend", whether he knew their full names or simply referred to them as "pal". My head always cocked suspiciously when he threw that term around like a tennis ball, bouncing it on the walls of our apartment.

The back of Dad's cab had produced almost every referral my family ever needed. For medical advice, Dad would pick up a fare in front of a hospital, hoping to score someone in the know. That could mean a recently discharged patient, an orderly, or, (hopefully) a nurse. Then, the questions would begin:

"I got this rash on my elbow. You ever seen anything like that before?"

"My kid's got this turn in his left foot. You think he needs to see a specialist?"

"I got this bill from GHI. Says it won't cover my daughter's braces...."

Dad had two jobs. He worked at the Department of Health during the day, and drove a cab in the city on nights and weekends. Sometimes, he didn't come home for three days straight. It was easier for him to catch a few hours sleep at the garage than to come home between shifts.

When I was little, I would sit in the drafty window waiting for the long nose of his Impala to round our corner. I would count the cars and guess when his would appear. If the car did not materialize as predicted, I would begin to panic. I was afraid of the cab, and all of the horrible things that could happen to my father behind its wheel. Even though Dad always kept a billy club tucked under his seat, I imagined all of the people and things a billy club couldn't beat.

I had good reason to be afraid of the cab and the "friends" my dad drove around in it. Dad was careful not to talk about his job in front of us, but I overheard plenty. When I was nine, there had been some hushed conversations that made my stomach quiver.

"I maybe got myself into some trouble last night." Dad told Mom when he thought we were asleep.

"What kinda trouble?" Mom's voice shook and I pictured her sucking hard on her Salem Light.

"Picked up two working girls and their john...." I thought of two ladies wearing suits with feminine little silk ties around their necks, toting briefcases, Nike sneakers carrying them through traffic, accompanied by their friend John. But the tight strain in Mom's tone made my toes curl.

"What did you do, John?" She accused.

"Jesus, I didn't do nothin'. Wouldya let me finish?" I pictured his tired eyes fighting to stay open.

"Go ahead," she said, but I didn't think she wanted to hear the rest.

"Somethin' didn't seem right. They wanted me to take 'em to a real deserted block on the lower east side. I didn't like the way they were whisperin' and lookin' at me."

They were both quiet for a moment. I didn't realize it, but I was holding my breath.

"I knew somethin' was gonna happen once we got to that block. I saw a cop car on Broadway, and I pulled up next to it and stalled the cab out."

"And then?"

"Then nothin'. They didn't do nothin' but curse and stiff me for the ride."

"So what's the big deal?" Mom sounded annoyed at the fear that Dad had brought up into her stomach.

"The big deal is, a cabbie got killed at that same address I was supposed to take them to."

"Oh my God."

"Shot twice in the head. So I went down to the police and told them what I know."

"Whaddya know? You don't know anything." Her voice raised and I heard Dad slurp from his can of Bud.

"I know what I saw and what I felt. So I told the cops. They showed me some pictures. I fingered one of the women."

"Are you crazy?"

"That cabbie coulda been me. I can't say nothin'."

"But what if they find out it's you?"

"Don't worry about it. Nobody's gonna find out. Besides, they probably won't need me to say nothin'. They have prints all over the cab."

"John, I don't know."

"Yeah, well. Just thought you should know about it. Don't worry about it. It'll all work out."

My father was always doing this. He would drop a bomb into your lap and empty out all his worries into your brain. Then, he'd say casually, "Don't worry about it," walk away and snore his way through dreamless sleep.

I didn't really understand what my father had been involved in, but I did understand that what he did was dangerous, and there were people out there who might want to hurt him. That night, I lay awake and listened to him snoring heavily in bed, while my mother chain-smoked in the kitchen. Eventually, I drifted off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of working girls with guns hidden in their briefcases.

Sometimes, the cab was as much a source of awe as it was fear. Dad was always coming home with a story about some celebrity he drove, and Mom was always doubting him.

"Guess who I had in the cab today?"

"Who? Who?" I would bounce with excitement as my mother rolled her eyes.

"Jackie O," he said proudly, clearly impressed with himself.

"Oh," I muttered, with a vague image of a woman wearing a suit and a funny hat, holding a little boy's hand.

"Boloney!" Mom burst his bubble with her doubt.

"Whaddya mean, boloney? I said I had Jackie O in my cab."

"Today?"

"Yeah, today. Just this morning."

"That's impossible, John."

"Whaddya you know?"

"Cause I just saw her on the television, over there in Europe somewhere." Mom gloated.

"Oh. Yeah. Well. She had them big glasses on. Looked just like her anyway."

"I bet."

Most nights, when I couldn't sleep, I lay awake and wondered about Dad's life in the cab away from us. I had been in the back of his cab only twice. I used those brief experiences to help paint a picture of his long hours behind the wheel.

On a cool spring day, Mom packed Chris and I up and headed for the train. Chris was still in a stroller drinking out of a bottle, and I was four.

"We're going to Aunt Mal's," Mom explained as we walked to the train that would take us to New York. I puzzled over this, because we had never before gone so far without Dad.

We boarded the first car of the PATH train, and Mom let me stand at the fron so I could stare into the dark tunnel that would swallow our train. I was secretly afraid of the train and the blackness that pushed down on us from all sides. Watching the light of the train cut through the darkness made me feel better.

The first stop was Christopher Street. I grabbed Chris' hand and shook it vigorously up and down, congratulating him for having a train station named after him. I was also a little jealous. Nothing was named Noreen. I couldn't even find a keychain with my name on it. And I had tried. It was the mission of every adult relative to find me a souvenir with my name written boldly across it.

We rode the train all the way to the end - 34th Street. Mom lugged us up onto the street and I breathed in the fresh air of car exhaust and hot dog stands. I clapped my hands over my ears against the overwhelming honks and shrieks of the city. So many legs and shoes and hips breezed past me, and I wanted to follow them all on their way.

Mom smirked down at me as Chris dozed in his stroller. I was anxious to see how we would get out of all of this chaos and make our way to Aunt Mal's.

Mom stuck her hip out and raised her hand up in the air. She was standing dangerously close to the curb. I tucked myself behind her as a cab came screeching to a stop right at her heels. Mom opened the back door and ordered me into the backseat. She picked Chris up and folded his stroller into a straight line.

"Where to, Miss?" A warm voice full of mischief asked from the other side of the plexiglass partition.

"How'd you do that?" I bounced on the backseat as Dad gave me his sheepish grin. Mom and Chris sat down beside me. Mom shrugged her shoulders as Chris lay groggy in her arms.

"Magic.' Dad snapped his fingers, and then went back to business.

"Where to, ladies?"

"Aunt Mal's house in Queens."

"Aunt Mal's house it is."

Dad snapped on the meter and drove us through the Manhattan maze all the way out to Queens. He dodged cars and pedestrians, zooming in and out of lanes like we were being chased. I fidgeted and flitted about the backseat, watching Dad snake through the dangerous traffic.
Much too soon, we pulled up in front of Aunt Mal's apartment. Mom leaned down and handed me a quarter.

"Give your father his tip," she whispered. Proudly, I plunked the quarter down into Dad's palm.

"Thanks, lady." Dad winked at me.

We got up out of the cab and I leaned into the window and pecked Dad on the cheek.

"I'll pick ya up tonight," he said, before he sped away.

The cab ride was all I talked about to Aunt Mal that day. I couldn't wait for Dad to come back and carry us off in the cab again. Much to my disappointment, he came back for us in the Impala. The car ride home was slow and boring. We sweated and sat in traffic. It felt a little bit like driving with Clark Kent after having flown with with Superman.

"You don't have a father!" Joey taunted.

"I do so!" I defended.

"Oh yeah, then why don't we ever see him?"

"Cause he works, that's why!"

"Yeah, well my dad works, and he still comes to my games'n stuff."

"Well, my dad works two jobs," I shouted, thinking this would be enough to quiet him.

"Yeah, right. I'll believe it when I see it."

Kids in my class always doubted my dad's existence. He never came to teacher's nights or basketball games because of work. I said I didn't mind, but I would have loved to see him encouraging me from the stands just once when I was standing at the foul line or on the pitcher's mound.

One snowy Saturday morning when I was 10, Joey, Michael and I were in my apartment, getting ready for our biddy basketball game. The gym was about fifteen blocks away, and the sidewalks were sleek with ice. Mom was about to call us a cab when the phone rang. The three of us held our breath, wondering if it was the call to cancel the game. I was relieved to hear my mom say,

"All right, John," and knew the game would go on as scheduled.

"All right you kids, go on outside and wait for your cab. It'll be here in a minute."

We rushed outside and waited on my stoop, making predictions about the upcoming game. A cab cut through the snow and ice and slowed in front of my house. It didn't look like one of our regular cabs, and I noticed it said NYC on the side. I slowly made my way down the stairs with the boys following, and almost slid down the steps when I saw my dad behind the wheel.

"Come on!" I shouted to the boys. "It's my dad!" Joey looked skeptically until we piled into the backseat and I kissed Dad through the partition.

"Dad, this is Joey and Michael."

"Hello, boys."

"Hi, Mr. Heslin," they said in unison, suddenly shy.

"Sit back and hold onto your hats."

Dad sped around the icy corner and headed down to River Road. It was a small, two-lane street that curved inches above the choppy Hudson River. Joey and Michael clung to the side of the cab as I glowed with pride. They plastered forced smiles onto their petrified faces, and I saw Dad's sly grin in the mirror. I could tell they thought my dad was cool, and they were maybe just a little bit scared of him. I felt like a real person, with a dad driving a cab and taking me to biddy basketball.

Dad pulled up in front of the gym and shook the boys' hands. I got out and waited for my dad to follow, but he stayed behind the wheel and kept the cab running.

"Aren't you coming in?"

"Nah. Gotta get back to work. I'll catch you another time."

"Okay," I shrugged, not wanting to show my disappointment.

"All right. See ya later." He sped off through the snow as I walked over to Joey and Michael.

"Your dad is so cool!" Joey said.

"Yeah! You see the way he takes those curves. Man, I think I'm gonna puke!"

"I know! Me too! Cool!"

"Yeah," I said coolly. "He's all right."

Joey and Michael had blabbed about our ride to the entire team, and everyone wanted to know when they could get a ride. I played harder and faster that day, knowing that now all the kids knew I had a dad. Even though Dad hadn't set foot in the gym, he had come to my game, sort of.

Life in the cab wasn't always death-defying or action-packed. Mostly, it was exhausting. Dad would come home blurry-eyed after having worked two or three days straight between his two jobs. He would stagger up the steps, grocery bags bulging out of his arms, and grunt hello to all of us. His patience was short and his sighs were deep and heavy. Dad immediately changed into his pajamas, which consisted of a thin pair of cotton pajama bottoms pulled practically up to his nipples, a white guinea-t, and black dress socks pulled up his shins. I could gauge his mood by his dress socks. If he left them on, I knew he was in no mood to talk or even acknowledge us. When tips had been good and he had gotten more than two hours of sleep, however, he would sneak his socks off, ball them up and throw them in my face.

"Gross!" I would shriek and fling them back at my father.

"Wassa matter? Ya don't like feet?" Dad would chuckle. In fact, I did not like feet. I thought they were the most disgusting part of the human body.

"Maaa! Dadddy's throwin' his dirty socks at me!"

"Jesus, John. Wouldya leave her alone? Geesh!"

I waited on those nights, quietly watching Dad's feet for a sign of his mood. Those socks, however, usually stayed glued to his feet.

Dad always came home around eight, and lounged on the couch with a few Budweisers watching television. Then, as we were all getting ready for bed, he'd fix himself something to eat. I never understood how he could eat steak and noodles or spaghetti and meatballs right before going to sleep and still stay so skinny.

I often begged to stay up and watch television with Dad. When the socks came off, I knew it was usually safe to whine my way into late-night television. After eating, Dad rarely stayed awake long enough to watch an entire program. He would, however, struggle against sleep to watch Taxi. Even if Dad wouldn't let me stay up to watch it, I loved drifting off to sleep with its theme music whistling in the living room. I imagined that all of those crazy cabbies on the show were my dad's real-life friends, and I dreamed up dialogue for them.

"Hey Tony, my son's got a bully pickin' on him at school. Think you could teach him a few moves?" or, "I'm a little short on cash this week, Alex. Can you spot me a twenty 'til pay day?"

I pictured Elaine helping Dad shop for my birthday gift, and Louie barking out insults if Dad were a few minutes late. It made me feel safe to dream my dad into a better life - one with friends and laughter and lightness, and yes, a theme song.

Mom and I waited in the frigid exam room. The furniture was modern and sleek, but there were no pretty pictures on the wall to act as distractions. Instead, I noted a sterile tray with sharp instruments, and glass containers filled with cotton swabs and gauze pads. My palms sweated profusely and left damp handprints on the paper covering the exam table. Mom rifled through her purse, avoiding the sharp instruments and my accusing gaze. I had already sworn off any doctor who dared to go digging into my skin again.

The door swung open and Dr. Blank burst into the room. I inhaled deeply and held my breath. Dr. Blank had his face buried in my chart. He wore a metallic light fixture around his forehead.

"Miss Heslin...." he started, his face still obscured by the chart.

Dr. Blank flicked a switch on the band around his forehead, and the light shot on. I blinked against its surprising brightness. Mom fidgeted and remained silent next to me as Dr. Blank moved my face from side to side, scanning my skin. I felt naked under his gaze. His features were a blur behind that shining light.

"Uh hmm.... Acne. Yes." His voice purred like a cat. My arms broke out in goose bumps and a shiver crept up my spine. I felt like a specimen on display under a microscope. My skin crawled under the scrutiny.

"Did no one ever tell you not to pop your pimples?" the voice behind the light accused.

"No," I said, confused by the question. I stammered and sweated out my stress. "I mean, yes, I've been told that, but no, I've never popped my pimples." This was true. Seventeen Magazine had warned me against this early on. They promised permanent scarring if this cardinal rule of skin care was broken. Despite never having popped a single pimple anywhere on my body, however, there were reddened pits littering my cheeks. It had been a year since I had seen Dr. Putz. The only change I had seen in my skin since then were the angry red holes that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my face.

"Well, dear, someone's been popping your pimples. And they have permanently scarred you."

Dr. Blank's voice oozed like oil. Although I couldn't see any of the features on his face, I imagined him to have a slick pointy mustache that he twirled between his fingers. I didn't trust his voice, or the fact that he hid behind that flood light on his forehead, but I decided to tell him about Dr. Putz's weekly treatments.

When I finished the story, Dr. Blank vibrated with "hmm's and ahh's". The light bore a hole through my eyes, and I was beginning to get a headache.

"Mrs. Heslin," Dr. Blank turned his spotlight onto my mother. I saw her blink against the harsh light. I stared hard at Dr. Blank, but all I saw were halos of light.

"You have quite the lawsuit on your hands. That doctor of yours has marred your daughter's skin. And I'm afraid there's nothing that can be done about it."

Dr. Blank turned away from us and scribbled on a piece of paper. He had said nothing of how he would help me, or where we could do from here. I stared blindly at his back, willing the words that were stuck in my throat to come out - do something! I wasn't sure if I was talking to him or me. While I wanted him to help me, I equally wanted to rear my foot back and kick him in the seat of his pants.

He wrote furiously and then swiveled back in my direction. He held out two prescriptions and plopped them down into my palm. The halos of light were almost fading, and I was anxious to get my first look at Dr. Blank's face. I blinked my eyes feverishly, hoping to further diminish the blind spots.

"Stop at the desk on the way out. I'll see you in a month." And then, like a cyclone, he blew back out of the office.

Out on the street, my vision cleared and I was finally able to read the prescriptions I was still clutching in my hand. I read them both and laughed out loud.

"What's so funny?" Mom wanted to know. I balled the prescriptions in my fist.

"I've tried these both already. Dr. Putz gave them to me. They didn't work." I stuffed the prescriptions down into my pocket, but I knew I would let Mom fill them once we got home.
Maybe they would work this time.

I could see Mom biting her lip and looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

"What?" I asked, somewhat annoyed.

"Whaddya think about what he said?"

"What did he say?"

"About the lawyer."

"Yeah, I can see it now!" I snorted. "'Uh, your honor. I was ugly to begin with. But this doctor made me even uglier. Just look at me. Oh, the horror!' No thanks. I'll pass on that." Mom walked quietly beside me. I knew she felt bad, and I felt bad about her feeling bad.

"What did he look like, anyway?" I asked.

"You know, I have no idea! I barely got a look at his face."

During the three months that I was under Dr. Blank's care, I never got a look at his face. His nose was always buried in a chart or I was blinded by his light. It didn't matter anyway. He was missing the magic I was chasing.

Dad's step was a little quicker when he came home that night. He came right to my room with his keys still jiggling in his hand.

"Well? How 'bout that doctor my friend recommended? Somethin' else, huh?"

"Yeah, Dad. He was somethin' else."

"What'd I tell ya. Ya want a good doctor, go to the city."

"I know, Dad. All the best doctors are in the city."

"You'll see. Everything'll be better now. He'll fix ya up."

"I know. Thanks, Dad."

I heard his keys tinkle together as he put them on the kitchen table. I wondered if there were some way I could affix a light to my forehead. I could blind everyone who stared at me, and then my face would be nothing but a big blank spot.

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