Day 3
On Day 3, we’re going to examine a time that seems strange, but isn’t too far from the world of our past…though this one is set in the future. What if women were not allowed the freedom to choose their own destiny? What would a woman be willing to do to become what she wants to be?
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
The face was unfamiliar…but it was mine. Was it? Who was this man staring back at me? The mustache…the scar…the blue eyes with the puzzled look…that was me. I dug in my back pocket; I must have a wallet there. I came up empty. So, my face…but no name…nothing. I was lost, so lost I couldn’t even read the map of my own reflection.
I didn’t hear the door open. I thought I was alone until a face peeked around the half wall separating the sink from the door. A girl shrieked, but the laugh told me the shriek was put on for my benefit more than it was real. She tiptoed around the wall and crept toward the sink next to the one where I was washing my hands, trying to appear detached and confident. She shoved her hands under the warm water, applied a large dollop of soap, and scrubbed vigorously, never taking her eyes off my face. As she shoved her hands into the air dryer, she worked up the courage to speak.
“Are you lost?” She peered at me as though memorizing my features. I didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure if I was lost. I tried to decide if not knowing where…or who…you were was always the same as being lost. She moved to her side and put her hand on my shoulder. “Dr. Fisk? Are you…okay?”
I nodded, relieved to find out my name – or at least part of it - Fisk. Yes, it had a familiar ring to it, but at the same time, it fell on my ear with a harsh, grating sound that didn’t sound right. Was that my name? It sounded like it should belong to someone else. And was I really a doctor? What kind of doctor?
“Did you know…you’re in the girl’s room?” My interlocutor, guide, whatever she was, gave a shake of her head, and a shake of her hips, and sashayed toward the nearest stall. “Oh, well, I suppose you know that. It’s all right. I won’t tell anyone.” She disappeared into the stall, leaving me staring at a dull gray metal door.
I slipped out, opening the door just a crack and checking the hallway before I left, not wanting anyone to see me leaving the women’s room. Someone might get the wrong idea, after all. I had no idea how I got in there, and wasn’t sure I could make up a suitable excuse for my faux pas if I didn’t know myself how I got there.
The building was large and sunny, with windows lining every wall. It was modern and clean, and not unpleasant though it appeared sterile. No artwork decorated the walls, and the lines were sleek and modern. It looked familiar. Every nerve ending in my body fired simultaneously as I reeled across the empty lobby. A small, nervous man rushed toward me and grabbed my arm.
“Dr. Fisk, I’m so glad I’ve found you! We were so worried when you rushed out…no one knew where you went. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
I started to ask if he’d thought to look in the women’s room, but one look at his face suggested this was not a man with a sense of humor. He appeared to take the world, and himself, very seriously. I decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to draw attention to my weird experience.
“How…long was I gone?” I cursed my voice for stammering. I need to be confident, self-assured, so I won’t give anything away. The sound of my voice startled me. It was higher than I expected, sounding more like a soprano than a contralto, and certainly not the bass I expected from my face.
“Are you all right?” My companion searched my face as if hoping it would hold some clue to my strange disappearance. “Your voice…it sounds…funny. Are you ill?”
I shook my head to reassure him, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t feel ill, but…I don’t know, isn’t it an illness not to know yourself, or anyone around you? It has a name…if I can remember. I searched for the words to express what I’m feeling, but I’ve lost a lot of vocabulary somewhere. I struggled to maintain my equilibrium, thankful for the hand on my elbow, directing me the way my companion wished me to go. I followed his lead and found myself in a giant conference room, a room full of unfamiliar faces.
“Good news”, my companion announced. “I found him.”
All the faces in the room turned my direction, and the crowd burst out in polite applause. I was missed…or at least, they wish me to believe I was missed. My companion directed me toward the front of the room, and I realized I was to be seated among the dignitaries. Am I someone? Am I important? Oh, I hope not. I don’t want to be the center of attention as I struggle to navigate the strangeness of my surroundings. My anxiety collapsed into horror as my companion led me to the podium at the front of the room and climbed the three stairs behind me. I wanted to turn and bolt, but realized this might be my surest way to find out who I am.
“It is my pleasure to…finally…introduce our keynote speaker. It is such a relief to find that he is all right. I apologize for the lateness of his arrival, but you are all aware of the unusual circumstances…I hope you have enjoyed the extra hour to mingle and chat.”
An hour. I was missing for an hour? My companion was sweating when he found me, as though he had been running up and down, up and down, just like Robin Goodfellow. Now, where did that reference come from? Who is Robin Goodfellow? I felt the frown develop as I puzzled over the reference, sneaking in somewhere from the deepest recesses of my disrupted brain.
My companion was introducing me, and I decided to listen, hoping to figure out who I was. He droned through a list of credentials, papers, and honors I had accumulated, and I discovered that I was Dr. Anton Fisk, leading brain researcher and the world’s foremost expert on amnesia. Amnesia…that’s the word I was searching for earlier, the disease of forgetting who you are. What irony. I am an expert on amnesia, and I can’t even remember that simple fact. Perhaps…one of these days…I would become an anecdote in one of my own talks.
I shuffled toward the podium and accepted the applause that erupted. I smiled and felt only one corner of my mouth turn upward. I tried to imagine my smile. It felt like the sort of smile popular among movie stars at the moment, and I wondered how long I practiced to develop that smile. I stroked my moustache, instinct taking over and reminding me of my traditional habits. I placed my hands palm down on either side of the podium, and I opened my mouth. Then I closed it. I had no idea what I was going to say. The audience waited. They began to fidget. I cocked my head and tried to imagine what the audience would look like upside down. I stalled.
I managed to get through my speech. When I finally spoke, I opened with a joke about amnesia that seemed to come out of my mouth on its own accord. I had no recollection of having ever heard it before. The joke broke the dam and more words followed, technical words, scientific words, words describing the malfunctions of the amnesiac brain, words yanked from some buried memory bank in my own brain that I was unable to access for my own use, but which managed to operate on its own when put under stress.
The audience applauded, and I was able to escape the podium. I ran into the girl who saw me in the women’s room. She was waiting on tables, cleaning up dessert dishes and drink glasses, and suffering the appalling behavior of the half-drunk professional men who claimed the right to pat her fanny or pinch her as she bent slightly to collect their dirty dishes. Red in the face, her jaw tight, she dodged grabbing hands and mouths imploring her for one night together, and escaped to the kitchen. She winked at me as she escaped, a wink that suggested she intended to keep my secret.
I stumbled toward the elevators, wishing I knew where my room was. My companion of the podium flew toward me, his legs pumping hard as he chased me down.
“Dr. Fisk! Dr. Fisk!” I turned as he approached and thrust a key card in my direction. “You dropped your key.”
I glanced at the key, relieved to see it had the room number printed on the slip of paper that enclosed the plastic card. Room 1724. I was on the top floor. I nodded at the man and pressed the up button. He inquired after my needs and I assured him I would be fine. He nodded and disappeared back toward the conference room, finally free of his charge and able to partake of the alcoholic beverages that were flowing freely at the cash bar. I debated grabbing a drink myself, knowing I could probably find someone in that room willing to foot the bill, since I had no idea where I left my wallet, but the idea of alcohol made me nauseous, so I slipped into the elevator and pushed the button for the 17th floor.
My luggage was waiting for me in room 1724. My wallet resided on the floor beside the dresser, apparently having fallen there as I got ready earlier. I grabbed the piece of folded leather and held on as though it were going to save my life. I caught sight of my unfamiliar face in the mirror as I moved through the motions of putting my wardrobe away in the closet. I was unsure how long I would be here, but I knew I wouldn’t want my clothes wrinkled tomorrow.
The bathtub beckoned. I turned on the water and got it just to the right temperature. I added some complimentary bath salts I found on the counter by the sink. I began to undress as the tub filled and the steam covered the room in a slightly sweet smelling cloud. I stared at my face as I unbuttoned my shirt, trying to find a single familiar feature. Nothing, from the mustache to the scar, looked like it was me.
I stood naked in front of the mirror, shaking in fear. The strange picture that looked back at me taunted me, mocked me. My man’s face was belied by the woman’s body I uncovered one piece at a time. The breasts were the first to show. These were not the breasts you would expect in a man, even a fat man. These were shapely, though smallish, woman’s breasts, wrapped in a tight binding that flattened them against my body so there would be no sign of curves in my man’s suit.
As my pants dropped away, I nearly swooned to see the smooth, penis-less, Barbie-doll crotch. The bright red staining the paper towels that rested in my underwear gave further evidence that my anatomy did not match my presentation. I shivered in spite of the warmth of the bathroom. Something was definitely wrong. Who was I? Was I Dr. Anton Fisk, the world’s greatest specialist on amnesia? And if I was not, what did I do with him? I began to suspect how I ended up in the women’s room. I knew when I went in there that I was a woman. I was unaware of it when I came back out.
A phone rang, and I searched for the offending instrument. This could be important. Perhaps it was the police. Maybe they’d found the real Dr. Fisk. Maybe I had done something with him. Maybe they were calling to tell me they were coming to arrest me. Did they do that? Warn a suspect in advance? I thought probably not.
The phone stopped, then rang again. I imagined it as a frantic sound, desperate to find me, just as I was desperate to find the phone. I finally found it underneath a pile of men’s socks, probably socks belonging to the real Dr. Fisk, and put the phone to my ear, holding it slightly away as though I expected it to deliver a shock. A man’s voice sounded on the other end.
“Antonia? Antonia, is that you?” The man sounded desperate, even scared. “Antonia, speak to me. Are you all right? I heard you were missing…someone called this number trying to find you.”
“I’m…who are you?”
I heard the man gulp. “Antonia, are you playing with me? Please, don’t joke. I was terrified. I imagined you lying in a morgue somewhere, and me getting a call to identify this…woman…man…that had…oh, God, I don’t want to think about it. Honey, please, tell me you’re okay.”
“I…I wish I could tell you that. I…who am I?”
“You’re joking, right? You’re playing an amnesia joke on me. Please don’t do that anymore. It was funny when we were first married, but I can’t take it tonight. I’ve been under too much stress.” The man sounded irritated.
“Married. We’re married.” All I could do was repeat the information he was feeding me, hoping to find some sort of memory.
“Don’t. I’m warning you, I’m not in a mood for games tonight. I’ve been in a panic ever since that prissy little man called. I had to talk high, pretend to be your wife…you know how I hate that.” The voice definitely sounded annoyed now.
“Please don’t be angry. I’m scared.” My voice sounded almost like a whimper. “Could you…could you…tell me your name? Help me, please.”
The voice on the other end softened. “Damn. What’s happened?”
“I…don’t know. I only know that I was in the woman’s room staring at a man’s face. It’s mine, right?”
“Yes…sort of. Antonia, concentrate. Think of me…Ted…remember Ted? Remember holding hands underneath a blanket in the bleachers at the fifty yard line in college? Remember kissing on the beach? Remember our wedding? Please, tell me you remember me. I love you so much, Antonia, I don’t know what I’ll do if you forget me.”
I struggled to find the memories, and shook my head. Of course, he couldn’t see me, but that might be just as well. He sounded miserable. “Ted…Ted, help me. I want to remember. I want to know who I am.”
“Did you give your talk?”
“Yes…I guess it was all right. I don’t know how. I started talking…said things I didn’t understand. I guess they’re things I know, right?”
“Hold on, baby, I’m going to send you pictures. Wait…I’ll get them to you as fast as I can.”
“I’ve…got to go…the bathtub is about to run over.” I hung up the phone and rushed to turn off the bath water, settling into the water with my phone, ready to look at the pictures I was about to receive.
The first picture that came through was the face I saw in the mirror…a man’s face, a face with a mustache, with a scar. It faded out and morphed into another face, a face with the same basic shape, but without the mustache, without the scar, a face decidedly more feminine in outline. Pictures followed in rapid succession…Ted must be hitting the send button very fast, I thought. Pictures of a woman and a man…that must be Ted. He’s nice looking. Pictures of them…us, I reminded myself…holding hands, dancing, sipping wine from a single cup, sharing a banana split. Pictures of a wedding, not a traditional white wedding, but obviously a wedding. I felt my cheeks get wet as I touched his face, tracing the lines, trying to remember.
The phone rang. I answered before the first ring ended.
“Did you get the pictures, hon?” Ted sounded scared.
“I got them. You’re good looking.”
“Thanks. Did they trigger anything?”
I nodded. “Yes. I think…I remember a few things. Not much yet, but…some of the things look familiar.”
“I’m going to inundate you with memories. Hey, this will be a good test of your hypothesis, right?”
“My hypothesis?” I felt stupid.
“You know, about triggering memories in amnesiacs?”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to stay.
“Stand by. I’ve collected about a thousand pictures…I’m just going to keep sending them to you. Oh, Monster is here, and he’d like to talk to you. Talk to Mommy, Monster.”
I puzzled over why I would name – or nickname – a child Monster, but I didn’t have long to puzzle. A low growl, followed by an excited bark, told me Monster was not a human baby, but a beloved pet dog. A memory tugged at my brain, a memory of a wet nose and a soft body wrapped with mine on a large bed, snuggled between myself and…Ted, I suppose.
The pictures began arriving, one after another, pictures of a happy couple doing the things happy couples do. I scrolled through rapidly, pausing any time one seemed to trigger a memory, finally stopping at a picture with the familiar mustachioed face, younger, without a scar, beneath a mortarboard and tassel…a graduation face. I felt a pain deep inside, a searing anger rise into my throat threatening to choke me. I squeezed my eyes as tight as possible, and I could see. I could see myself in school, in college, learning medicine, studying the intricacies of the human brain, dressed as a man because women were not allowed in school. Removing two letters to generate a man’s name. Ted…it was his idea. The scar, though, was my idea, a slight addition to cover an extended absence following pregnancy and miscarriage.
“I remember!” I nearly shouted in excitement. “It was you…you turned me from Antonia to Anton. You told me I could do it, you told me no one had to know. You…you found me crying, wanting to go to school, to do things I knew I could do.”
“No, sweetheart, I didn’t do it. You did. You were the brilliant woman who turned herself into a brilliant man…I only said it…if you were a man, they’d let you.”
Memories rushed back, swarming over me, overwhelming me with all the years living a lie. Not a lie to hurt or cheat, only a lie to live. I remembered the whole evening…well, all except the hour I was missing. I could probably piece together what happened during at least some of that hour, but I might never remember for real.
“Where were you honey? What happened?” Ted, solicitous and loving as always. He deserved an explanation.
“I remember. I was just getting ready to go to the podium. They were ready to introduce me. And it started.”
The blood. My period, starting at the most inconvenient moment, menstrual bleeding in a room where those who bled monthly were forbidden to enter…well, except to serve, I thought, remembering the flushed red face of the harassed waitress who spent most of her time dodging horny drunk doctors. I remembered bolting…I needed to hide, to take care of my secret shame, my dirty ritual, somewhere I would not be discovered. The woman’s room…the only room safe for those who bleed. I couldn’t…I couldn’t go in the woman’s room. I am not a woman, not here. I hesitated outside the door, feeling the blood fill my man’s underwear. If I didn’t do something, it would run down my leg. I would be discovered. I would be shamed.
Ted sobbed on the other end of the line. I couldn’t tell if they were sobs of relief or of fear. He gasped and gulped, and eventually was able to speak enough to ask. “Did anyone…see?”
“I think so”, I whispered. “A girl…found me there. A waitress. She came in as I was staring at this face in the mirror, trying to figure out who I was.”
“Will she…give you away?”
“I hope not.” That was the best I could say. I’m not sure the girl realized my secret. All she knew was that I was in the woman’s room.
“Watch out for her”, Ted advised. “Stay out of her way for the rest of the week.”
I promised him I would try. After a few more words, we said our usual goodnights and I climbed out of the tub. The water was cold and it was getting late. I needed to go to bed.
The next day, everyone inquired after my health. I assured them I was fine, and stayed near the door in case I needed to go to the bathroom again. The young waitress was not there. A middle aged woman, efficient and distant, had taken her place. The attendees nursed their hangovers and ignored the waitress, not interested in this woman with a body starting to bulge slightly in the middle and hair starting to gray.
It wasn’t until the last day of the conference that I saw the young woman again. She moved through the tables with smooth efficiency, still dodging grabbing hands, still ignoring dirty jokes and obscene suggestions. She moved toward me holding a tray that balanced a single cup of coffee…black, the way I like it. She leaned toward me as she handed me the coffee, and slipped a piece of paper in my hand. I nodded and slipped a few bills into her hand, a suitable tip for the hard work she was doing. Many of the men had not bothered to tip her at all.
I waited until I was back in my room packing for my return journey to open the paper she handed me. Inside the folded sheet of paper was the picture of a young man, a man who looked familiar but not quite. I turned over the note and read what her note, written in a neat hand.
“I will be in your class next fall, Dr. Fisk. Look for me; I’ll be wearing a mustache just like yours.” She had drawn a picture of the mustache underneath the message. Below that, she penned “P.S. I’ll never tell.”