the bedroom, sure that I am losing my mind. It could be the neighbor’s radio. Maybe someone is playing the BBC next door. I don’t have time to think about it because Dad yells upstairs from the kitchen.
“You havin’ coffee, Molly?”
Snapping out of my reverie, I open the door and call down the stairs, “No, thanks, I’ll have some downtown!” I really do have to stop staring in the mirror. I’m still the same person, right?
I N THE KITCHEN, Dad reads the newspaper. Catching a brief glimpse of me over the newspaper, he coughs, spraying coffee over himself. Although it’s been over a week, he’s given me wide berth and never, until this moment, seen me in anything but a bathrobe. Now he’s noticed. I race past, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. He reaches out, quick as a wink, and grabs my arm. I stand there for a second, looking at his big paw. He lets go.
“You mind telling me what the hell’s goin’ on here?”
“What do you mean?” I’m really not ready for this conversation. We might be an American family, but we are not of the touchy-feely variety. We are Irish Catholic. We drink in public, suffer in silence.
“For crying out loud, Molly. I’m your father. Don’t make me get specific. It’s awkward enough as it is, seeing you like this. Have a little pity.”
I look down at my chest with a foolish smile. Red creeps up my face. How is it I can live with this man my whole life and be uneasy discussing anything to do with sex or my body? Oh, yeah, he’s my father. We’re both adults. I’ll just spit it out.
“There was a mess-up in the medical charts, and I was given another woman’s breast implants.” I blurt out. The words are one undecipherable mess.
My dad is stunned. He glances at my breasts for a second before he flushes crimson, looking away. “That’s the strangest goddamned thing I’ve ever heard!” He lets it digest. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Dad, really.” I consider telling him about Denise in the hopes of distracting him but decide that he won’t fall for it. Mostly, it just wouldn’t be fair. The man hasn’t even had breakfast. One daughter with an unwanted boob job and one in jail are just too much for your average retired cop.
“I have to go, Dad. Have a good day.” I rush down the hall to the front door.
“Don’t you need a sweater or something?” Dad asks. I do need a sweater, but all I can think about right now is getting out of the house and avoiding one more word with him.
“I’m fine!” I say, dashing out. As soon as I’m on the front steps, I slow down. The implants aren’t painful anymore, but they’re definitely tender and sore. Given my new size, I’m going to need a stainless steel running bra if I’m going to take up jogging again. Walking to the bus stop, I can’t help but laugh, thinking of the stunned look on my poor father’s face when he saw my breasts. As I turn the corner, Mr. Francis at the newspaper stand gives me a second look. This is absolutely bizarre. First the guy on the bus, then the weird climbing guy at the restaurant, then old Mr. Francis who used to give me free candy when I picked up my dad’s magazines. How am I supposed to react to all this attention? Part of me is utterly embarrassed, but then again, didn’t some therapist on TV say that embarrassment is suppressed joy? I don’t have much time to dwell on it because, as luck would have it, my bus arrives.
T HANKS TO MY sister’s various brushes with the law, I can easily find my way to the courthouse. Once there, I pay the fine, then head over to the bailiff’s office. When Denise spots me, she smiles, then hugs me, proceeding to ogle my breasts the entire time we’re standing in line. She has the subtlety of a marching band. I manage, just barely, to ignore her as we shuffle along with the other sad-eyed, bickering, exhausted friends and family who have come to rescue their loved ones. In a feat of unusual restraint, Denise manages to hold
“You havin’ coffee, Molly?”
Snapping out of my reverie, I open the door and call down the stairs, “No, thanks, I’ll have some downtown!” I really do have to stop staring in the mirror. I’m still the same person, right?
I N THE KITCHEN, Dad reads the newspaper. Catching a brief glimpse of me over the newspaper, he coughs, spraying coffee over himself. Although it’s been over a week, he’s given me wide berth and never, until this moment, seen me in anything but a bathrobe. Now he’s noticed. I race past, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. He reaches out, quick as a wink, and grabs my arm. I stand there for a second, looking at his big paw. He lets go.
“You mind telling me what the hell’s goin’ on here?”
“What do you mean?” I’m really not ready for this conversation. We might be an American family, but we are not of the touchy-feely variety. We are Irish Catholic. We drink in public, suffer in silence.
“For crying out loud, Molly. I’m your father. Don’t make me get specific. It’s awkward enough as it is, seeing you like this. Have a little pity.”
I look down at my chest with a foolish smile. Red creeps up my face. How is it I can live with this man my whole life and be uneasy discussing anything to do with sex or my body? Oh, yeah, he’s my father. We’re both adults. I’ll just spit it out.
“There was a mess-up in the medical charts, and I was given another woman’s breast implants.” I blurt out. The words are one undecipherable mess.
My dad is stunned. He glances at my breasts for a second before he flushes crimson, looking away. “That’s the strangest goddamned thing I’ve ever heard!” He lets it digest. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Dad, really.” I consider telling him about Denise in the hopes of distracting him but decide that he won’t fall for it. Mostly, it just wouldn’t be fair. The man hasn’t even had breakfast. One daughter with an unwanted boob job and one in jail are just too much for your average retired cop.
“I have to go, Dad. Have a good day.” I rush down the hall to the front door.
“Don’t you need a sweater or something?” Dad asks. I do need a sweater, but all I can think about right now is getting out of the house and avoiding one more word with him.
“I’m fine!” I say, dashing out. As soon as I’m on the front steps, I slow down. The implants aren’t painful anymore, but they’re definitely tender and sore. Given my new size, I’m going to need a stainless steel running bra if I’m going to take up jogging again. Walking to the bus stop, I can’t help but laugh, thinking of the stunned look on my poor father’s face when he saw my breasts. As I turn the corner, Mr. Francis at the newspaper stand gives me a second look. This is absolutely bizarre. First the guy on the bus, then the weird climbing guy at the restaurant, then old Mr. Francis who used to give me free candy when I picked up my dad’s magazines. How am I supposed to react to all this attention? Part of me is utterly embarrassed, but then again, didn’t some therapist on TV say that embarrassment is suppressed joy? I don’t have much time to dwell on it because, as luck would have it, my bus arrives.
T HANKS TO MY sister’s various brushes with the law, I can easily find my way to the courthouse. Once there, I pay the fine, then head over to the bailiff’s office. When Denise spots me, she smiles, then hugs me, proceeding to ogle my breasts the entire time we’re standing in line. She has the subtlety of a marching band. I manage, just barely, to ignore her as we shuffle along with the other sad-eyed, bickering, exhausted friends and family who have come to rescue their loved ones. In a feat of unusual restraint, Denise manages to hold
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