Bearded Women by Teresa Milbrodt Page A

carries three boxes of tissues, a carton of orange juice, and a box of chamomile tea bags.
    “I hate chamomile tea,” he says. “But the wife gave it to me and it works.”
    Mr. Wilson offers to sit with me, but I tell him no. I am learning how to be alone and don’t want him to catch my cold. (I don’t say the smell of his cigarettes gets to me after a while.) I sit by the television and sip from the carton of orange juice, appreciate not having to worry about refilling a glass.
    I’m ill for four more days, have several delirious one-sided conversations with my father. I tell him about the bakery girl and the rent-to-own guy, know he understands my uncertainty because he felt the same way when he met my mother. I know his colds were this bad since both of us have too much body to rid of the virus.
    In most of the pictures I’ve seen my father is close to my age, but I can imagine twenty-some years added to his frame, imagine his hair greying and thinning, imagine us sitting side by side on the couch with heating pads on our knees after long days of commercial-making and paperclip-selling. After I’ve taken my cold medicine and am floating in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, I can feel his long thin fingers brush against my hands and face.
    When Mr. Wilson deems I am well he brings me takeout, extra spicy Thai food. The curry is so hot I use half a box of tissues, but Mr. Wilson says the spices are cleaning out nasty things in my sinuses. I flush bright as a chilli pepper, but feel better afterwards. Less clogged. My father smiles from the armchair.
    Cellophane wrappers from two packages of shoelaces.
    Dale says that at the ice rink they don’t care if you skate in your shoes. I buy new ones for the occasion. Mom is happy to hear I have a date. I wonder how my father courted her, what they talked about since she’d spent a semester’s art class staring at him naked.
    We arrive at the rink at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning because Dale says most people won’t come until after ten. Ice makes me even less graceful than usual. Dale has chunky hockey-playing skates, whirls around the rink for twenty minutes while I tiptoe at the edge. He grabs my hand, tugs me away from the side, says he won’t let me fall. I let go and slide toward him, peer down at my shoes. His hands hold mine, pull me gently. For about fifteen feet. I slip. Pitch forward because I don’t want to land on my rear again. Careen on top of him. He did not realise my weight, curses as we both go down. Dale’s knee twists in a painful way, although not one that requires medical attention. We hobble to his car. I am excruciatingly apologetic. So is he. This is because we both work in customer service.
    I don’t see Dale in the stationery store the next day, almost walk to the rent-to-own place to find him and apologize again. He was such a bright possibility. He bought me pizza. That night I mope and use a few tissues. He doesn’t come to the store the day after that. I tell myself he was probably one of the creepy guys, repeat this idea for five days until I believe it.
    “I’ll call my nephew,” Mr. Wilson says when I explain the incident with Dale. “He’s a strong boy. Lifts weights. Could pick you up and cart you around town with one hand.”
    My mother gives me sympathy. “That’s too bad,” she says, “but not your fault.”
    I think on the other end of the line she’s smiling. After a week I can smile, too. If Dale would hold a grudge just because I fell on him, the relationship wouldn’t have worked. Beside me on the couch, my father shrugs. I know he waited twenty-seven years to find my mother.
    Mr. Wilson says his nephew will visit soon and we’ll go out for dinner.
    Mom’s absence isn’t comfortable, but it’s usual. Something I can accept if I break it into small increments. She will be gone another week. That idea is manageable. Larger periods of time are still difficult, so I don’t think about