Alterations

"Stop fidgeting." Gaby is holding a pin in her mouth and the words form around it. I'm standing, half naked, as Gaby makes last minute alterations on the lingerie I will be wearing down a runway in less than an hour.

"I can't help it. I feel so, so…" stupid. I can't bring myself to admit it to Gaby.

"Exposed?" she looks up briefly before sticking a pin into the airy fabric of the sheer robe." She had just ripped out a hem and was reworking it. Apparently my bulging belly had grown since the last fitting and now the robe doesn't lay quite right.

"Yes. I'm feeling a little exposed." I try crossing my arms, but it moves the robe and I get a death look from Gaby. She is losing patience with me, I can tell. I would normally never do this kind of thing. I don't like to draw attention to myself, especially not to my body - especially not to my pregnant body. And Gaby knows this. But here I am; I've agreed to model Gaby's new line of pregnancy lingerie during her annual Valentine's Day fashion show. Well, agreed might be a euphemism. Gaby sort of half asked, half told me I'd be modeling. Of course, I didn't say no. It seems I can't say "no" to her lately - I'm not sure if that started after the cancer or if I've never really said "no" to Gaby. She isn't the kind of person you say "no" to. Or if you do, it probably only happens once.

"Are you really that uncomfortable? What's the big deal? I think you look great - I wouldn't have asked you unless I thought you'd look great."

Here is my chance to tell the truth. To tell her that I'm paranoid about the cellulite on my upper thighs, about the new, weird, long shape of my butt, my protruding belly button. I'm scared that people will laugh or worse, be disgusted. "No, I guess not. I'm just nervous. I've never done this before." Which is also true. The closest thing I've done to walking down a runway is walking down the aisle towards my future husband. Even then, the three minutes of total attention made me more nervous than the fact that I was getting married. Plus, I had my father to lean on. This time, I'll be more exposed and less supported. Of course I'm freaking out.

"There's nothing to it. I do it every year. Just pull your shoulders back, boobs out, head high. Be confident. Confidence is key. None of that hiding you like to do." Gaby’s voice is all business.

"What are you talking about? I don't hide!" I practically shriek the words.

"No need to get defensive, Jess. I just mean, don't try to blend in. You always try to blend in. Today, you have to stand up, stand out." As she says the words, all I can think about is all the pairs of eyes that will be staring at me - evaluating, critiquing. I suddenly feel a flash of anger or panic, I can't be sure.

"Like you should lecture me about hiding. I'm pregnant - most normal people don't flaunt their big, pregnant bellies in public, much less parade themselves down a runway. If I want to hide, I'm justified. You of all people should understand - you've been hiding behind wigs for months." The words fly out of my mouth, unchecked.

The box of pins Gaby had been balancing on her leg fell to the floor. She leans down to pick them up. "Is that what you think I've been doing? Hiding behind my wigs?" Her voice is very quiet.

"Well, yes. Don't you see? We're both uncomfortable with our changing bodies. It’s the same, that’s all I was trying to say." I'm not sure what bubbled up in me - the mix of anger and panic that caused me to blurt out those words. But, there is truth there. Gaby has changed. She used to be out there - flauntingly raw and open for the world to see - take it or leave it. She's changed since the cancer. Of course she has. How could someone remain the same in the face of something so huge?

"It's not the same, Jessica. Our bodies are not the same - pregnancy and cancer are not the same. You're going to give life and I'm probably going to die. Stop acting like it’s the same, like we're going through the same thing because we're not. You have no idea what I'm going through. And hiding? Are you serious? Just because I don't want the entire world to know that I have cancer, you are accusing me of hiding?" Instead of growing louder with each accusation, Gaby's voice had become softer until she was hissing at me and I could barely hear her.

"It is the same. Or at least more the same than you think it is. We are both going through something we can't control."

"Stop, Jessica. Just stop. Your hem is done. Go to make-up before the show starts. I'll see you on the runway." She pushes herself up to standing and dismisses me as she walks away.

I open my mouth to say something, anything to her back as she walks away, but I don't know what to say. She is clearly upset. Extremely upset. Why can't she see that it is similar? Isn't it? I wander over to make-up, my heart racing and my baby kicking. I've just shaken things up, maybe a little too much.

***
I can feel the beat of the techno in my womb as I wait for my turn on the catwalk. Tease has been transformed, as it is every year, into a high fashion runway scene. A three foot tall platform extends from the back of the shop three quarters of the way through the store. On either side, people in black tie are mingling, sipping cocktails out of crystal stemware and tasting hors’devours from a variety of local gourmet restaurants. The lights are low, except for the spotlight on the runway - the music is loud. The models are full of energy. You can feel it, pulsing even more so than the music. Nervous energy, excited energy channeling out of everyone, forming a collective could of emotion.

I don't know where Gaby finds these gorgeous, confident women. None of them are professionals, but she instinctively knows they will be good. And they never let her down. I look around and Gaby is nowhere to be seen. We haven't spoken since the blow out. I had stared at my reflection in the mirror after hair and make-up and was surprised at the reflection. Gaby was right - I looked good. My large, pregnancy breasts, are bursting out of the plunging neckline of the baby doll style, top. It is fitted under my breasts and then immediately widens into a bell. The boy shorts cover enough to keep me modest. I have nothing to be nervous about, yet my hands are sweating and I feel like I could throw up. Confidence. I need confidence. I'm expecting it to suddenly materialize, since I have no idea how to manifest it myself. At least not in the amounts I will need for this.

"You're up." April, Gaby's assistant, points to me. This is it. Be Gaby. Be Gaby. Be Gaby. I keep repeating it over and over in my head. I say it so many times, I'm sure my lips are moving, silently mouthing the words, willing them to come true. I make it up the stairs without stumbling and stand for a moment in the spotlight, as Gaby had taught me. I pull my shoulders back and my belly propels me down the runway. The sheer, gauzy fabric of the short turquoise robe brushes against my thighs as I move down the runway. I try to smile, but all I can think about is my pregnant waddle and how ridiculous I look. I can see people whispering out of the corner of my eyes, their head's leaning towards each other, slender fingers gesturing, pointing. I suddenly feel ridiculous, the thump, thump of my shimmering ballet flats just not up to par. I get to the end and strike my pose - feeling a little wobbly. I turn and slip the robe down around my arms. I pause and look over my shoulder, towards the front of the store and wish I could just keep walking right off the runway and out the door. Baby suddenly kicks and I am back in the moment. I flip the robe back up and walk back down the runway, down the stairs and disappear behind the curtain.

The next woman takes her turn, beadwork glittering on her sexy black negligee - her perky breasts spilling over, her shapely butt teasing. The click of her heels as she prances down the runway is more than I can handle. I try to hold it together - almost done. Gaby is next - she is always last and then she usually says a few words and all the models join her for one last look. Model. What a joke - why did I ever agree to do this?

The song changes as Gaby steps onto the platform. I can see her clearly from my position off stage. The spotlight illuminates her and she is glowing. At first, all I can see is her legs - black lace tipped thigh highs emerge from a pair of glittering black stiletto heels. The bodice of her black strapless corset is shimmering with jewels - she always has a custom piece designed for the show. It is auctioned for charity afterwards. The matching panties are a sexy, low cut bikini - leaving just a bit of skin exposed between the top of the panties and the bottom of the corset. And she has a tail – a five foot long tail of glitter and peacock feathers trails behind her. Her make-up is dramatic - blacks and greens and blues. And then I notice that she isn't wearing any hair. A lingerie clad, stiletto wearing, GI Jane. She is fierce - applause erupts from crowd as she makes her way down the catwalk. I can see cameras flash as she hits the end, the music fades and her voice rises up.

"I want to thank you all for coming tonight. As usual, this custom piece will be auctioned off tonight, the proceeds this year going to the American Cancer Society." she pauses to allow for the brief applause. "You might be wondering about my new look." she runs a hand over her head. "Earlier tonight, I was accused of hiding, which is something I just don't do. The new look is a side effect of my chemo, I was diagnosed 7 months ago." whispers rise up throughout the audience and backstage. I hear the model to my right whispering You Go Gaby, her head shaking, her lips smiling. "I'm not trying to make any statements; I'm not trying to make cancer sexy. Although, clearly it can be." she pauses to strike a pose as nervous laughter fills the room. "I'm just here, not hiding." More applause. "Let's welcome all of tonight's lovely models for one last look. Ladies, join me if you will." She motions the models on stage and I dumbly follow the tall, tight ass in front of me. I don't even bother trying my "I'm Gaby" mantra because clearly, I'm not.

The Dress

I'm not sure how long I've been curled up on my closet floor, tucked between a pile of discarded clothes and the shoe rack. But, here I am. I had come in looking for something to wear to Gaby's funeral. And nothing fits. My post-baby body has been transformed into something that just doesn't fit my old clothes. It has shifted, widened in some places, narrowed in others. My nursing breasts can't be squeezed into my pre-pregnancy size small tops. My belly - still soft, like kneaded dough, looks awkward in my dresses and bulges over the top of my pants. To make matters worse, I'm crying. And not just because nothing fits, but because I am picking out something to wear to Gaby's funeral and that means she is really gone. Dead. She is dead. And I don't want it to be real.

As I wipe my eyes with the corner of my pink terry cloth robe, something flutters in my peripheral vision. The gauzy, fabric of a black dress seems to be calling out to me. It is peering out from behind a canary yellow cardigan. How could I have missed it? I stand up and push the surrounding clothes aside, giving it the spotlight. As I caress the expensive fabric, I struggle to remember when I bought it. It is a knee-length dress with a plunging neckline and capped sleeves. It is lined with a an opaque, silky, soft fabric on the inside and has a light, fitted sheer overlay on the outside. I slip it off the hanger and put it on. It zips easily, which is a good sign. I haven't been able to zip a dress all morning. I cautiously peer into the mirror, hoping this forgotten one will work. I just don't have the time or energy to go shopping for something new. Not with Lily. Not without Gaby. I'm surprised at my reflection. My boobs fill out the top and the material slides over the curves of my new body - disguising instead of drawing attention to my soft middle. It hits just below the knee. It looks amazing. I look amazing and for the first time today, I smile at myself. It is then that I realize where I got the dress. The memory overwhelms and my smile is replaced by more tears.

"When would I wear it?" I had said. "It probably won't fit."

"Trust me, you'll find an occasion to wear a dress like that. Lots of good memories in that one. It is one of those dresses that looks great on everyone." She had waved my comments away with a flick of her hair. Her real hair, this was before the wigs. Before the cancer.

I had fingered the lush fabric, much like I had a few minutes ago. Gaby had been cleaning out her closet and wanted me to have it. We weren't really the same size, but close enough to have traded the occasional piece of clothing through the years. But not a dress. Never a dress. She had bigger boobs and a more curvaceous figure. My little B-cup-on-a-good-day boobs could never fill out one of her dresses. I had taken it and tucked it in my closet, lamenting the fact that Gaby had wasted the dress on me.

Yet, here I am. Standing, wrapped in Gaby's dress - wearing it like a second skin. I suddenly feel strange wearing her dress, my dead best friend's dress. But at the same time, it feels wonderful. I feel close to her. I can smell the faint scent of her perfume. And I can hear her laughter in my ear. As usual, she is right. This is the perfect dress for this occasion and I can't imagine wearing anything else.

Side Effects

“I can’t do this. I can’t handle the waiting part. I just can’t.” It’s 3 in the morning and Gaby is wearing the kind of desperation on her face that only surfaces in the middle of the night.

“Maybe you don’t have to.” I notice a set of clippers on the counter near the sink. “Why don’t you do it?”

“What? Shave my head? Are you crazy?”

“Think about it. If you do it now, you are in control. You don’t have to wait around until it falls out. No more getting up to stare at your pillow, no more freaking out. If you do it now, then it’s done and YOU did it.” I am convinced it’s the right thing to do; the take charge thing to do. But I can’t help thinking – what if it was me? What if I was going through chemotherapy? Could I do it?

Without a word, Gaby picks up the clippers and turns them on. The buzz fills the silence in the room until it is all I can hear. With a look of concentration on her face, she hovers just above the center of her forehead and plunges ahead leaving a patch of white behind. A reverse mohawk – a skunk’s stripe. There is no going back now. She lines up to the right of the gap and cuts again. Then to the left. Again and again and again; her expression never changes. She is watching herself intently in the mirror, looking through rather than at herself. I am hypnotized by the constant hum and her intensity.

She shaves until only one chunk of hair remains, to the left of her right ear. “Can you do it?” Her question startles me. I take the clippers from her, their vibration filling my hand and creeping up my arm. I take a breath, focusing on the sensation of the air filling and leaving my lungs.

“Face me.” My voice sounds strangely distant. She turns, looks at me and then closes her eyes.

“Do it. Quick.” It is a command. I lean in; gently place the guard against her skin with my right hand while holding her hair in my left. I run the clippers through it – they move quickly with little resistance. It’s done. I shut off the clippers. It takes my ears a moment to adjust to the silence.

“What do you think?”

Gaby opens her eyes and turns to the mirror. There is a half circle of hair on the floor around her – luscious, long locks of dark hair splayed Medusa-like on the white tile. I’m still holding the last clump in my hand. She is beautiful. There is a quarter of an inch left, just enough to create a shadow. Her head is perfectly shaped and without hair, her blue eyes are stunning. Her cheeks are flush. She runs a hand over her head.

“I feel like a different person. I feel strong – like I can do anything.”