Neurotoxin

Trigger warning: There is a mention of child loss in this story.

Some bougie place in Seven Springs, Lucy tells her friend. A forceful poke illuminates the elevator button. These people aren’t real, you wouldn’t believe it.

Her friend leans against the wall, street clothes crumpled. Hours ago, blood saturated her scrubs. Yeah? After tonight, I can believe anything.

For Lucy, tonight’s memories were being boxed up and compartmentalized each floor they descended. The primal screams, the coppery wet penny scent, the deafening silence from mom and baby, all tucked away in the dark garage portion of her mind. It was the only way Lucy could survive, could stay sharp, help these women. So few left who could.

He waits in their Volvo; blue light from his phone sharpens his long jaw, high cheekbones. Lucy drops her duffle in the trunk, next to their leather weekend bags. Embossed His and Hers: a gift from his mother. She hated them at first, pretentious bags. She should text, let her know they’ve come in handy, held up nicely over the years.

Scott presses his lips to Lucy’s, chaste and familiar.  How was tonight?

Lucy clicks her seatbelt in, tucks her purse between her legs. She could tell him. So young, the girl didn’t have a chance. She could cry. He would hold her, stroke her hair while she sobbed. He had so many times before, after all. You’re so brave, he’d tell her.

That box sealed shut the moment she walked through the revolving doors. They are on to the next challenge: the retreat.

It was fine, Lucy says. Are you excited to get there?

Scott laughs and pulls the gear in drive. Get some rest, love.

They’ve talked about this weekend already. Not their people, but what can you do. Important for Scott, this facetime with the owner. Get the promotion. Long overdue. The hours they don’t see. Late nights hovered over his laptop; papers strewn all over the dining room table.

For Scott, Lucy will pretend. She can fit for two days. Can’t be harder than her last twelve hours. Smile and nod. Ask questions. Ask about the house and kids and decorations and schedules and recipes. Listen, nod.

Corks pop. Drinks cling. Lucy struggles to pinpoint the right word to describe this house: opulent, lavish, nauseating overconsumption. Three floors of windows; who cleans them? She also regrets wearing a sweater so tight around her neck.

Your makeup, Cait says to another, blonder wife. It looks amazing. Do you use a setting powder?

Oh no, blonder says. What was her name again? Shelly or Sally? I upped my botox units this week. Sits much nicer on my face.

How many are you at? Jill, a brunette like Lucy, asks.  

Seventy, Sally says. She looks like a Sally.

Scoffs. Hands waving.

I’m at ninety. I’m at one hundred. I’m at one hundred and fifty!

Expectant faces stare at Lucy. Her fingers itch to pull at the neck of her sweater. Sweat drips from her underarms.

Oh, Lucy says. I’m at zero.

They laugh, all of them. Lucy feels their eyes crawling over her skin, her every groove. Two long lines split across her forehead; dark purple half-moons hang under her eyes; the mole on her cheek winks and probably sprouts a hair. She can’t remember if she waxed her moustache.

Dysport then, Jill asks.  

No, Lucy says. It’s not really for me. Remembering herself, she justifies: I don’t wear make-up to work.

Pity. They stare at her with pity. Lucy’s throat constricts, containing a scream. Oblivious, she thinks. The girl from earlier: seventeen and already had a boob job. She sees it every day. Women younger and younger made to believe they are nothing more than their body, their appearance. We aren't born thinking this way.

What are you ladies talking about? Sally’s husband, Brian, appears. He’s the number two, Lucy knows. Scott hates him; thinks he is an arrogant pig. But — he’s the gatekeeper. He decides if Scott finally gets the recognition, the pay, he deserves.

Sally leans into him; her small frame swallowed under his arm. Brian blatantly checks out the other women, appraising eyes. Earlier, in the kitchen, he slid his hands across the small of Lucy’s back, like a snail leaving a path of slime.

Oh, Sally replies, Lucy doesn’t get Botox. We were all shocked.

Brian glances at Scott across the room, deep in conversation with the owner, finally. When he looks back to Lucy, a grin snakes across his face, his words drip with oil: she’ll be able to soon.

It’s not the cost, Lucy says too quickly. A slip into the attending physician, the chief. She refixes her face back to neutral. Here, she must unostentatiously be Scott’s wife. She exhales, smiles: I just don’t want to.

Brian pulls his brows together, his eleven lines prominent, grey speckling his eyebrows. Why not?

The sweater is a furnace. Fucking cashmere. Lucy chose it because it was the most expensive item in her closet. She wanted to fit in, for Scott. To play the part. He’s come to countless fundraisers, heard the same plea for support, time and time again. Always asking thoughtful questions to stir the crowd. It was one night. They’d go back to their three-bedroom, with all their favorite things: a book and hot cup of tea on the sofa, soft light glowing from the side table.

But the sweater is too fucking hot, and it’s too fucking close to her neck, and she’s going to suffocate. Just like that girl suffocated on her own blood tonight, for what? Because a big, unbothered man decided she needed a baby in her. A baby she didn’t want, wasn’t ready for. Another orphan born without reason.

Why don’t you? Lucy snaps. The wives hush, wide eyes flitting between the two.  

Brian’s laugh explodes. Lucy’s untouched wine vibrates like the puddles in Jurassic Park.  

The wives laugh in unison, a practiced and harmonic sound. Lucy isn’t sure what’s funny, her comment or his laughter.

That would be the day, Brian snickers into his glass. Me? Getting needles in my face to look a few months younger? I have better luck with the clients, the older I look. No one wants a baby face managing their money. 

Lucy feels the wrong response boiling out of her throat. White-hot feminist rage, she only releases from her living room soapbox. Must be nice, to have culture bend to your expectations. A world made by men, for men. The entire fucking beauty industry holds us back, makes us smaller, makes us worry about lines on our face instead of owning the rights to our reproductive organs. Lucy felt this rage while she applied her mascara earlier, and it’s returned, pressurized.

She should put Brian in his place, stop his dominance, knock him from his high horse. She could. She’s far more intelligent. It would feel so good.

But what would that accomplish? Would it save any of these women? Would it change anything, make life better for their daughters? Maybe. Maybe they would think differently, they would remember the things Lucy said when they looked in the mirror. Their generation might be fucked but they could save the next.

Guaranteed, she would piss him off, make him feel small and intimidated. Lucy knows when arrogant men are hurt, they find someone to take their pain. He’d give his pain to Scott, surely. Block his promotion, somehow.

Patience. Change from the inside. That’s the only way.

Really, more reason than anything else, Lucy loves Scott. Probably more than she loves herself. He might be the only person in this fucked up world who loves her.

Lucy laughs, hollow and too high. I can’t imagine, she says.

Don’t worry, Brian says, his eyes roam her body, hitch on her midriff. When we promote Scott, you’ll be able to increase your monthly maintenance expense. He squeezes his wife. Lord knows what Shelly’s is.

Shelly. Her name is Shelly.

Lucy looks around. They’re nodding. Probably thinking: poor, poor woman. She has good structure. She’ll be pretty, beautiful maybe, once she can put a little more money into it. In a few years, they might even let her host one of the parties. Nothing major, of course.

Scott joins the group, his arm around her waist like a buoy in open water. She’ll tell him about this conversation in the car ride home. They’ll laugh at Brian’s expense, come up with increasingly funnier hypothetical responses.

Shelly, you look wonderful, Lucy says. It must be working.

Shelly preens under the compliment.

 The next generation won’t be saved, but Scott will have his promotion. And when the girl in Lucy’s belly is born, she will learn about good men from Scott.