Note: This one came in strides. There is a graphic version with Michelle putting on her makeup and at the drs office (the feature image shows a bit of this). The immensely talented Jackie Schill did those drawings ever so long ago. I based the decision to remove them so I can make the Xanax Kiss type drawings from the impossibly-gorgeous talented Lizzie Nicodemus special as they have right to be. In some universe, Schill and Nicodemus’s drawings are rocking out an entire graphic novel. Some universes get all the luck 🙂

Michelle sat in front of her vanity mirror; an ivory-handled brush gnawed its way through her strawberry-blond locks—thick locks—that hung off her shoulder and kissed the small of her back. Up went the brush and sunk into her hair, parting it in short, even strokes. Her hair was damp from the shower; after a few days of neglect, the roots had tangled in revolt. Strands held each other in one last act of defiance—a demonstration of unity—in opposition to the forceful restructuring of the world.

The hairbrush was set down on the polished red-oak desk. A freckled hand reached out and touched a freckled face, and so Michelle’s routine continued; freckles were smothered (one, by the way, was claustrophobic), blemishes buried, and the scar from a biopsied mole became filled in as one smooth canvas. Hair, face, eyes, and lips. That was Michelle’s daily greeting to herself. Hair, face, eyes, and lips.

She traced her eyes, faded blue opals in nature, carefully with an off-brown lining pen. The tip poked into the corner of her eye and a steady hand forced the pencil to hug the flesh of her eye with enough force that, if this was her working scalpel, the one she shouldn’t have had in her bag any longer, the one she lost the right to use, she would be able to lift the tissue right off her face. Left to right, first the bottom, then, neatly and without penetrating too deep, the top lid’s interior. Left to right—always left to right—went the pencil. Time’s up; pencils down. Eye shadow added to the canvas with a twirl of a fat-bottomed brush. Hundreds of tiny brush hands reached out to kiss skin, smooth out, and lightly blend mica to the organic, chemical to the flesh.

Lips. She’d heard it said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. But you can’t kiss an eye, can you? And suppose, as she has since that day, you see with your ears and fingertips. Eyes don’t pout; eyes don’t bite, suck, or swallow. Oh, you can get me on semantics and say that the pupils can do all of those things, but don’t act as such rubbish. Lips give life. God blew into Adam and created Man; the medic brings back Dad after drowning—lips, not eyes, are responsible for all of that. Eyes are passive—submissive to anything they canvas. Lips can save or they can kill; the tiniest change of pressure in mouth-to-mouth can cross the line of bringing the baby back or exploding its lungs. Lips can be tender or they can have venom; many a man fell from a kiss or a word. Michelle’s lips were tender, human, sensitive. Think of the pressure one can exert with the lips; the slightest sensation is hard-wired to send shivers, electrical impulses down the spine from the base of the neck, just below the hair line.

Michelle pressed the liner around her lips, tracing out the meaty bits, and then filled in the color, careful like a child learning to keep it between the lines. Wax and oil filled in, blurred together, and swam through her pores; a polished brown ruby was the result. Polished, not shiny, into a color accentuating her natural shade.

Only addicts perfect their mask; Michelle painted hers on, stroke by stroke; Scarlet pushed hers into place, but we haven’t met her yet. Michelle picked up the Kleenex next to her translucent off-orange medicine bottle (the purple cap meant it was a two-times-a-day medicine) and suckled on the paper, blotted, then admired the lip imprint. The tenth time that day.

‘You can’t keep cheating like this. The doctors said…’ A voice, her mother’s, came from the doorway. I never liked her mother. Of all the years I watched Michelle, it seemed that the mother was only there to siphon the joy out of life, but that doesn’t concern me. Only Michelle is my charge and duty to relate to you. Her mother doesn’t even merit her name in ink.

Michelle turned to face her mum. ‘I know what the doctors said. Should I just close my eyes right now, Mum? Would that be the solution to everything? I want to look good. I practiced enough; my face is sore from apricots and scrubbing the makeup off.’

Michelle’s mother (her name is Gladys, for those of you keeping score; well, it isn’t really Gladys. My memory isn’t what it once was, and I never liked her enough to remember her old name—the name the race of men give one another is hardly worthy of a second thought for the kings of fable, let alone this slit. Gladys will do quite well for us, won’t it?) didn’t know how to handle her daughter. Who did? Michelle was brilliant, in every sense of the phrase, including the ‘was.’ Gladys was a ‘Band-Aid fast’ type of person, and the physiological strip mining of her daughter was a strain too much. Drinking became the ritual; Scotch replaced the morning coffee.

Gladys looked at her daughter, said nothing further, and left.

Michelle sat at her desk, switched off the light, and reached out for her white-and-red stick. It was resting comfortably against the maroon velvet cushion of her stool. Her hand darted to grab the Ray-Ban shades (a size too big by most opinions, but still very fashionable) and smacked them on her face before standing up. The sunglasses helped block the extra light and allowed Michelle to close her eyes when she walked without having too much inner glare seep through her eyelids. The first step missed all types of furniture; her makeup chair; the bureau; the bed that poked out a bit too far; the trash can and even a small bookcase. The next few resulted in a stubbed toe (left toe, three paces out, via smashing into her bed frame). The final steps towards the doorway were uneventful. I mean, they had no event worth reporting. Or did they? Her running into objects while trying to navigate with her eyes closed, using the counting system and memory tricks her new teacher drilled into her, was, in terms of probability, the most likely thing to happen; it is when she actually missed ramming a toenail into a piece of wood, a shin bone slicing on a metal computer desk corner, or her head smacking directly into a corner too sharply turned—when she missed those events, then an accident really occurred. Man walks with his eyes open because of an evolutionary program; Man walks with his eyes closed out of accidental necessity.

Michelle enjoyed driving to work; it was the one time she could be alone. The traffic surrounding her, comfortably hugging on all sides, moved slowly in spurts along the Rainbow curve of I-95 South. Artie Lange was on the radio, telling the story of The Shaggy DA being the best movie of all time, using his ‘Man Who Laughs at Everything’ character. Michelle’s face reddened, and a tear threatened to plow down the side, taking as much makeup as it could on the way down. She caught her breath and dabbed at her eye with a tissue. Michelle’s laugh was unique—two otters suffocating—and she lost herself in the radio show.

Click.

Mid-sentence and Artie was cut off. Mid-laugh and Michelle looked over at the hand which shut off her show. I could hardly stand the tension, but it’s my job to narrate and bring a true record of these events, no matter how they make me feel. Such is the job of reality’s filter.

‘You shouldn’t listen to that junk! And look at you! You spent how many hours doing your makeup and now you need to retouch it,’ Gladys said.

Michelle enjoyed the drive to work because it gave her time to think, to be alone, to stretch herself out before any human could pop into her bubble; one of the conditions of learning how to deal with her dwindling eyesight was to stop driving the car. Mum, dear ol’ Mum, volunteered for that duty. Dad was, after all, a drunk. How could he be relied upon to do anything except steal away Gladys’ youth? At least, that is what Gladys would say at the divorce hearings after The Event.

Yes, I know; I am tipping my hat here and telling you a bit of what is in store for Gladys and her husband, Ron. Time is a tricky thing. You get to see events unfold, just as the people here get to live with them. But me? Front to last, I’m the same person and I know every turn, twist, and dark corner they will take. That might be why you think me to be too kind or sympathetic towards one of these people whom you don’t like, or maybe not kind enough to another. Just remember: You see the cooking, starting from scratch; I judge by the finished product.

‘It’ll be fine, mother. I am pretty sure the first thing people will notice isn’t my lack of perfect makeup skills,’ Michelle said while tapping her cane under the glove box.

‘You sure took your time on it.’

‘I wanted to remember, that’s all.’

Tap tap tap.

‘What? Remember how to be late for work?’

‘No. What my face looks like. I want to remember what I look like.’

Tap tap tap; then silence. I’ve never missed Artie Lange’s voice as much as I do now. Anything is better than sitting in silence with Gladys and Michelle. Many people go out and try to discover themselves; few people really forget—repress, yes—really forget who they are, what they look like. Most wouldn’t notice the scar they got while falling out of a tree, the white line covered in flesh not quite finished, a line built up as a physical reminder left by an overzealous defense mechanism—Nature’s way of ensuring species survival.

When we saw Michelle do her makeup—repeatedly do her makeup—we thought it to be an act of a desperately vain girl; she was someone who covered her flaws, drowned them in chemical fixers, and smoothed over her God-given canvas. But go back in time, have another look—it’s okay, I’ll wait here. Was she destroying her imperfections or tracing them, lovingly, trying to burn the image into her mind like a lover locked into that one perfect night, that one perfect moment; the moment when all others will pale from that time out; the last moment before the crescendo breaks and time erases the event until only the phantom stain of the high water mark is left?

Tippity tap; tippity tap; tippity tap clack. Michelle’s cane helped her navigate the freshly-waxed halls of Sunrise Medical Center. Her white lab coat hung off her like a poorly fitted cape; the rainbow-colored stethoscope rested its head into her coat’s breast pocket. Michelle wondered what the patients thought of her. She stopped seeing new patients, no pun on my part, when her diagnosis was confirmed. Lupus was many things; one of those things was an insatiable monster eating a person from the inside. There isn’t a lot of research, pound for pound, done on Lupus. Michelle found that out. There isn’t a lot of awareness for Lupus either. Michelle also found that out. There isn’t a lot of cause for either since Lupus predominately only hits women. Michelle already knew about that, though.

How much easier, quicker, or better did her male colleagues have it? Was med school easier? Nobody asked, as far as Michelle knew, if John Vensik passed because he was the top of his class, or because he wore the right shirt, showed the right amount of cleavage, of leg, of, of, of. Michelle knew people asked that about her. She didn’t need me to tell her that, but sometimes, when she slept, I would whisper that into her ear. I did it as a test and because I liked the smell of her hair.

Her mother wouldn’t believe that the reason Michelle, and not John Vensik, graduated top of her class was because Michelle locked herself in her room and studied; locked herself up with the cadaver and studied; created her own support groups (plural) for studying; took dangerous amounts of stimulants to keep studying; and gave herself away, bit at a time, stripped her soul inch-by-inch until the last pure non-medical atom of her soul shivered in fear. But her mother was a cunt. Take my word for it or not; what does it matter to me?

She found the news out during a physical. New insurance carrier for Sunrise Medical Center meant new physicals for the staff. The doctor, sent by the insurance company, couldn’t even pronounce the disease. ‘You have lew-piz,’ he said. He took Michelle’s first ‘What?’ as a sign of denial and not a need for clarification. ‘We ran the tests. You have lew-piz. When you developed it, we can’t say, but since it is a pre-existing condition, we can’t cover your lew-piz either.’ She took the chart from his hand and the letters fell into her eyes, forever burning their image, ‘L-U-P-U-S.’

While in school, she told herself it was okay; everything she did, everything she gave up, was okay. The end was worth it. She would be a doctor, help people, make a difference, save the world one person at a time. Her first memories, solid memories, of the hospital were of seeing her grandfather waste away while being over-medicated. The over-medicated part only came out after death. Apparently, the staff was too busy, too over-booked, too stupid, too careless, to realize they were poisoning him with medications that did not play well with each other. One nurse, strung out from a night crying over a cheating husband, recorded the blood levels wrong. Another nurse, too lazy or dumb to do her own work, just copied down the previous numbers; Grandpa was, after all, already in the hospital for three weeks. What would change? New medications and new levels were recommended by doctors who never checked on the patient themselves, but just read the charts blindly. Why take time to do anything, when you can just initial the chart, order an increase in the IV, and go home? He died in bed. He died because one person had a bad night and another person just didn’t give a damn.

Michelle gave a damn. Michelle cared, not because he was her grandfather, not because Grandpa would spend time with her, take her fishing, drive around the surrounding counties just to find one Strawberry Shortcake Doll for her on her birthday, read to her before bed, and listen to her after picking her up from the fourth grade; Michelle cared, and when she was older, Michelle forgave. She forgave the bad-nighter, the idiot, and the apathetic; she forgave and took it upon herself to atone for their sins. Nobody, big or small, good or bad, would grow up without a grandparent, mother, father, sister, or brother if she could help it. The sacrifice was worth it to Michelle Wright, Mrs. Claus in the Christmas play in the fourth grade; and to Dr Michelle Wright, the doctor getting her foot through the door at Sunrise Medical Center pediatrics.

Hope. Faith. Love. Hate. They are all the same for me, just means to an action; only action is worthy of record. Although there are some who would have it otherwise.

Michelle stopped taking new patients when she learned of her condition but carried on her current patient list for a bit longer. She wanted to tell the parents of the children under her care; tell them what the kids meant to her. Some parents were sad; some were unavailable—detached from years of self-centeredness; a few were afraid that their child would catch Lupus, even after Michelle explained to them it was physically impossible to catch Lupus. One by one, the kids said good-bye to Michelle, each of them knowing a slightly different version of why they had to say good-bye. Some knew she was sick; others only knew that their parents had to find a new doctor for them to see. The kinder ones gave hugs; the others asked for lollipops.

Michelle’s room in the Medical Center was covered in drawings, mostly finger paints mixed with crayons—dinosaurs; trees that smiled; a sun with arms waving at a farmer (not drawn to scale); and rainbows—dozens and dozens of rainbows. Rainbows gliding over the sky; rainbows under the sea hovering over a seal; even a rainbow shining in the night sky, next to the moon. The kids drew her rainbows because of her stethoscope. It was multi-colored and, if you asked Michelle, magical. ‘This? Oh, this is very special indeed! You see, I put this end near my head and the other end stretches allllllll the way out towards your heart. And then your heart talks to me, and I listen to it and take notes on what it says!’

‘But how do you know what it says?’ a child would ask.

‘Because, rainbows are magical!’ That is all Michelle would need to say and the child’s eyes would grow big.

Today was the day Michelle had to say good-bye to the first child she told the rainbow story to: Jill Malyd. A small, peckish thing with two brown eyes, straight and short brown hair, a deep-brown tan, and a certain ability to pick up ringworm from walking too much without shoes where the dogs play. That’s right, Michelle’s first case was ringworm on a five-year-old; a vet could have handled that, but Michelle took the time to look over everything on the child. The rainbow stethoscope moved from Jill’s heart to her lungs. The rainbow stethoscope told Michelle that something was a bit wrong; something wasn’t as easy as ‘Take three of these and see me next week.’ Raspy breaths. Labored. With the stethoscope next on Jill’s back, Michelle could hear the child breathe as if her lungs were filled with crinkled paper. An X-ray to confirm and Jill was taken home with pills for ringworm and Augmentin for pneumonia. Michelle’s first patient, a quick in and out, became her first friend for life.

Now, it was time to say good-bye to Jill. A check-up, nothing more. Something Jill’s mum wanted done. Nothing was really wrong with Jill. Her real check-up wasn’t for another year, but this was her way of letting Michelle say good-bye. I report it because it is action; but also it is worthy of being reported. All actions, even small gestures, build the person. I’ve witnessed enough to know this much.

Jill walked into Michelle’s office. The usually bright and colorful office was subdued by a presence of brown boxes, mostly stolen from Smith’s grocery store. The pink pen holder on the desk rested carefully with the white-and-blue desk calendar. A purple and plastic waste can hugged the side of her desk near the wall. The metal shine, mixed with a red biohazard bag, of a steel container bookended the desk on the other end. The drawings sparkled like Venus.

Michelle met Jill at the door. ‘Come on in, stranger! My, you are getting tall! How is my Jilly Billy doing today?’

Jill ran up and threw herself around Michelle’s leg; the grip of a seven-year-old is second only to that of an eagle. The shred of Michelle’s soul that remained untouched from medical school cried. She caressed Jill’s hair and held her close.

‘Mum said you won’t be able to see me again. Are you moving?’
‘No, hun. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Then why can’t you see me anymore? Did I do something wrong? I don’t want to see anyone else!’ The hug included a wetness by the knee as Jill used Michelle’s pant leg to absorb her tears; Michelle did not have the courtesy of a pant leg to cry on, and more of her makeup melted off her face.

‘Hey now! You did nothing wrong! That’s silly talk! You are my friend, remember? See, I have all the pictures you drew me!’

‘Then why can’t you be my doctor anymore?’

Why, indeed. Seven years old is pretty young to lay something like, ‘Because I have a disease that is eating my internal organs and I will, very shortly, lose my ability to see your chart, your bruises, your eyes, or even the bed you are sitting on.’

‘Because I am getting sick. Remember how when you were sick when we first met and you couldn’t see your friends for a few weeks?’

Michelle felt Jill nod against her leg.

‘Well, that’s the same for me, too! I am getting sick and I won’t be able to see you. It isn’t because you did something bad, or that I don’t want to, it’s just because I won’t be able to. I would want to, very much want to, but can’t.’

‘So, maybe in two weeks you can see me?’

Lie to the kid. It’s OK, Michelle. I won’t judge you. I doubt anyone here will think ill of you for lying to her. Tell her, ‘sure’ or ‘maybe’ or ‘everything will be just fine.’ Just lie to her and we won’t ever bring it up again. Promise.

‘I am afraid not, pumpkin. Remember, just because you felt better after two weeks didn’t mean you could do everything you did before. You had to rest, remember?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I will have to rest too.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know, sweetie. For a very long time, I think. But I’ll always think of you, OK? And you can think of me too! Draw me pictures and your mum will make sure I get them, and I will write to see how you are doing too, so you better be doing good in school and listen to your mummy!’ Another freckle was released from its prison. Michelle didn’t know, but I did. Nobody asks me how long, though; spoilers and such.

‘What if I get sick? What if they don’t have a magic rainbow like you?’

Michelle took her hand away from Jill’s hair and removed her stethoscope from her neck. She smiled from the left side of her face and placed the rainbow stethoscope around Jill. It hung on her neck, barely wide enough to keep it from falling, and came down past Jill’s stomach.

‘That’s why I am giving you mine. Now, you will always have a way to talk to your heart.’

Jill’s mother, silent while the exchange between doctor and patient occurred, moved in to collect Jill in her arms. ‘Say good-bye to Michelle, Jill.’

Jill picked up the drum end of the stethoscope and whispered, ‘Good-bye’ into it. Michelle nodded her head, her half-smile frozen in fear of shattering her world, and waved at Jill as she left with her mother. Michelle mouthed a ‘thank you’ to the mother as the two exited her office. The door closed and Michelle wept.