Brittany was no longer a child and no longer on the pageant circuit. She and her mother supported their humble house—each worked a full and part-time job. Brittany’s school friends let her know about the burned-out house on Norwood, not too far from downtown St. Louis. After a year of hard work, the house was livable and theirs to keep. Homeowners, the word sounded good to her. And she, like her mother, prepared to do whatever it took to keep their home. The countless evictions by landlords were at an end. Never again could anyone throw them out. That felt good.
Brittany put on her waitress outfit. Though she was underage, she had a fake ID swearing to the fact that she was eighteen. What harm could it do? In two years it would be true. Besides, she led the life of a thirty-year-old woman.
She wore a white tank top and bright-orange shorts. The shorts were tight and when she bent over, fishnet stockings held her in. The tank top was tight, but not restrictive. She thought she wouldn’t be able to breathe the first time she wore it. Not because it was scandalously small, but because it might cut off her oxygen supply. She stood in front of the mirror and read ‘Hooters’ backward—the name printed on the top and the shorts. She smiled at the back ‘delightfully tacky, yet unrefined’.
She didn’t inherit smarts from her mother, but she did inherit her body. And what a killer body it was. She looked like all the women in the pictures of Hooters’ girls: tall, long blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, killer smile, body to die for. At sixteen, she was a 36C, she looked forward to eighteen—bigger size and bigger tips. She walked out of the locker room ready to work.
Brittany’s first stop was at the bar. She read her schedule before going to work. Music played and the customers hooted and hollered as she and her cohorts went by with trays. “Hey, Frankie.” She said as she stopped by her first table.
“Hey, Britt.”
She set a drink next to each man. All four of them smelled of liquor, but only stammered through the doors moments ago. This is going to be a long night, she thought. She gave her best smile. These were her regulars and she knew their drinks. To save time, they told her as soon as they walked through the door to bring them their first round and she did.
“Hey, Beautiful.”
“Hey, Carl. How’s your wife?”
The others razed him.
“Hey, Sunshine,” said another.
“Hey, Brett. How many months is Cathy?”
More razing.
The last man tried. “Hey, Britt, am I your favorite?”
“Well, Joe, if you tip real big, you can definitely be my favorite.”
She winked and made him blush. Joe took his razz with high-fives. They all watched her walk away. She exaggerated her sway and listened for her response, cheers and howls.
“Girl, don’t you get tired of them?” asked a female customer at the bar.
“Nope, they’re harmless, big wallets and little bats.” Brittany and the woman shared a giggle. “What can I get for you?”
“Whiskey sour, please.”
“Coming right up.”
Brittany turned to fix the order. She had a giant mirror in front of her that she used to keep an eye on her customers. She thought the woman looked at her so she did her patented bend to check. The woman’s eyes fixed to Brittany’s backside as if drawn to it by unseen forces.
Oh well, money is money. Brittany didn’t care who gave it to her. She brought the woman her drink and smiled as big as she did for the men.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks,” the woman said. She paid twice the cost of her drink.
“I’ll get your change.”
“No, that’s for you.”
“Oh,” said Brittany, “thanks.”
“No problem. I’m Cassandra. I worked in one of these years ago. Snagged myself a rich guy and have lived the good life ever since.”
“Oh wow, way to go, Cassandra.” Brittany high-fived her.
“I’m thinking of buying the place. Is this the usual crowd?”
“For a Wednesday night, yeah. Stick around for the weekend, we pack them like sardines.”
“I’ll be here. Tell me, Miss . . .?”
“Brittany Dushell.” She extended a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too. Tell me, Brittany, what did you think of me when you first met me?”
“Uhm.”
“The truth.”
“Okay. I thought you were a lesbian.”
“You don’t serve lesbians?”
“Oh, no. That’s not it. I serve everyone. That was just my first impression.”
“What gave me away?”
“You are a lesbian?”
“I’m bi. What gave me away?”
“Your eyes, you watched my ass when I bent over. I know the look and it wasn’t casual.”
Cassandra gave a beautiful laugh. It filled the air. Misjudging her was a relief. Having a woman own the place would help them a lot. If she could sell the place to her, she would.
“You are beautiful, but I wanted to know how you would react to lesbians. They are a rising demographic in the club scene.”
“Really?”
“Yes. My husband will either buy this bar or open another that caters to the gay and lesbian community. I thought I would get a jump on things and check it out myself.”
“How do you like us?”
“Not bad. Are the tips good?”
“I can clear $500 most nights.”
Cassandra nodded. She finished her drink and asked for another. More customers came in and Brittany left to attend to more of her regulars. She spoke off and on to Cassandra while servicing her customers. She finally called it a night at 3 am and went home.
The first stop she made was to her mother’s room. She eased the door open to peer inside the dark room. Light filtered in to reveal her mother, safe and sound, in bed and asleep. April looked beautiful in her sleep. Brittany smiled and eased the door closed. It had taken years to repair the rift between them. Both women eventually found peace.
Brittany went to the kitchen and made a sandwich. For obvious reasons, she never brought food home from work, eating it all night, made it toxic for her. She ate half a sandwich and took a can of soda to her bedroom. After a bath, she went to bed and fell fast asleep.
In the morning, she stole another peek at her mother before rushing out of the house. April sleeping meant she didn’t have to waste time lying to her about where she was going. Brittany hopped into her ten-year-old Chevy Malibu and made her way to her appointment.
Brittany was led by a nurse to a backroom where she undressed and put on a flimsy gown. She laid on the cold table, feeling every bit a corpse. Her thin gown gave her no relief from the table’s metal surface. Thoughts of horror ran through her head. She closed her eyes tight in an effort to shut them out. It didn’t work. Voices and images flooded her. The quietness of the room woke dark demons within her. They filled the void and sounded off, bringing thoughts of horror and abandonment with them.
Her torture ended when the doctor came in with a nurse.
“Miss Dushell?” he said the name with a soft sound.
“Dushell, as in dew.”
“Dewshell.” He looked at her chart while talking to her. “You are here today for an examination? Let’s see here . . . um, I see. Let’s begin. Please slide down and put your feet in the stirrups. Let’s have a look.”
Brittany took a deep breath. She slid down and lifted her legs. Instead of focusing on the doctor, she stared at the nurse’s face.
“Describe your pain, please.”
“I get periodic pains, sometimes they are sharp. A friend of mine had to have a hysterectomy. The doctor told her she had scar tissue in her uterus that caused her pain. I thought mine might be the same.”
“Maybe,” said the doctor, nonchalantly. He pressed harder and she winced. “Have you had any children?”
“No.”
Whatever he did made her wince again. To get her mind off the pressure she felt, she spent her
time trying to figure out what the nurse was thinking. Before long, it was over. The doctor left the room with the nurse and she pushed herself back to a more comfortable position.
Moments later the doctor returned with his nurse. Both looked grim.
“Miss Dushell.”
“Let me have it, Doc.”
“Well, I found scarring in your uterus, deep scars, like you thought. I would guess the scars are years old, possibly from childhood. Is there anything you would like to tell me?”
“No.”
“I can step out and you can talk to Nurse Patrice.” His voice was much deeper and authoritative this time.
“There’s nothing to say. I wanted to know for sure and you told me. May I dress now?”
He tried once more. “Is there anything you would like to say to either of us? Perhaps a counselor, someone you felt comfortable with?”
“No! Can I get dressed?” she raised her voice, getting annoyed.
“Get dressed, Miss Dushell.”
They left the room to give her privacy. When she finished, she walked out. The doctor was down the hall looking at another chart, about to go into the next room. She walked to him. “I’m sorry I yelled back there.” She spoke softly.
“I understand. You’re of age so I have nothing to report. Your file is confidential if you are wondering.”
“Thank you.” She turned, then stopped. “Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“Does the scarring prevent me from having children? I mean, if I wanted them, can I have them?”
He gulped. He gave a warm smile, but the ends twitched. “I’m sorry, Miss Dushell. You will never be able to have children. I’m sorry.”
The doctor escaped into the room before she could thank him for his honesty. She regretted yelling at him, it wasn’t his fault. She left the office to go home and wait until dark so she could go back to work. She prayed her mother wasn’t there. She couldn’t take seeing her right now. God, let her not be home.
The car started. She made a turn onto a busy one-way street and was immediately cutoff by a crazy driver in a red sports car. Brittany swerved and drove into a sidewalk mailbox. The car came to a screeching halt and the airbag deployed, knocking her back.
“Uggg!” she fumed. She beat at the bag and then the steering wheel. She beat with fury. Images of youth flashed through her mind, she stopped and slumped over the wheel, crying.
“Goddamn, you! I won’t be remembered! I won’t be remembered!”
Brittany cried so hard she couldn’t stop. She simply sat, hunched over the steering wheel, crying.
Chapter Eighteen: Mike