Read Online You're Not You by Michelle Wildgen - Free Book Online
Authors: Michelle Wildgen
Ads: Link
lifted her nightgown up. I lifted each leg to free it and then pulled the back of the gown up from beneath her buttocks. Then I lifted one arm at a time and took the whole thing off over her head, her hair catching for a moment in the straps before falling again, and I slung the gown over to the counter.
I looked around for a sponge or brush, and found an oversize one dangling on a hook. Thank God, I thought. Even with babies I felt like a pervert washing them with my bare hands. I wanted a nice huge sponge with lots of surface area. If they’d had shower gloves I might have liked those too.
I reached for the showerhead and turned back to her. Her head was down, her arms set on each arm of the chair where I’d placed them, her feet straight in front of her. The ridges of her ribs were faintly visible. Her breasts were small and set far apart, the peach-colored nipples contracted. Her thighs spread slightly against the chair seat, the triangle of pubic hair darkening against the spray of water as I washed it over her shoulders and chest and legs. I leaned her forward slightly and sent the water down the string of vertebrae. Her hair grew dark at the ends, and when she laid her head back for me to wet it I saw that her cheeks had flushed slightly from the heat of the water.
I turned away as I squeezed soap on the sponge. I didn’t want to see her just then, the naked wings of her collarbone and her small puckerednipples and blush spreading up her chest. As I lathered up the sponge I thought about her saying when I interviewed that she’d had ALS for two years. It wasn’t that long. Who knew how long it had taken her to get used to being bathed by other people? At least a few months.
She hadn’t said a word since we got in the shower, and her eyes were still shut, her brows slightly knit against the spray. I sudsed her shoulders and the thin columns of her neck and arms, keeping my fingertips behind the sponge and away from her wet skin. The warm water sprayed my clothes and my legs, and once you got in there and started washing her, the shower was not as big as it had seemed. Still, I was doing okay. I almost started to believe in my own skills. This was just something we caregivers did.
I lifted her arms to wash her armpits, which bore a little patch of dark stubble. I saw a razor on the shelf but decided not to do anything unless she asked. I had washed her limbs and her torso, letting the sponge glance over her breasts as though they were no more private than elbows. Now, I realized, I would have to run it between her legs. People did that in the shower.
It was a strange time to think about my mother. But as I drew the sponge between Kate’s thighs and then washed her back all the way down to the cleft of her buttocks, I was recalling washing with my mom. I suppose when I was very young it was easier than bathing me separately. But it had always seemed an arbitrary and bold thing for her to do, and I still remembered standing in the shower, looking up the landscape of her body, its wide hips and the sturdy muscle at the front of her thighs and the moon-colored curve of the bottoms of her breasts, the brisk slapping sound of her cupped hand—my mother did not believe in washcloths—mittened in lather as she rubbed at the gray-shadowed skin of her armpits and the flat curls of pubic hair. Her breasts and the flesh of her upper arms trembled as she reached, businesslike, into the dark hollow between her legs, and I had watched her and thought,
Oh, I’d better do that too
. It embarrassed me to wash myself in front of my mother, so I’d turned silently away toward the green-tiled corner of the shower and done it, one fast scrub as though I were brushing something away. I didn’t look at my mother’s face when I turned back. I looked at the crease across her belly instead.
I did the same thing with Kate now, a brief wipe with the sponge and then a rinse. I hung the sponge up on its hook, turned off the water,
I looked around for a sponge or brush, and found an oversize one dangling on a hook. Thank God, I thought. Even with babies I felt like a pervert washing them with my bare hands. I wanted a nice huge sponge with lots of surface area. If they’d had shower gloves I might have liked those too.
I reached for the showerhead and turned back to her. Her head was down, her arms set on each arm of the chair where I’d placed them, her feet straight in front of her. The ridges of her ribs were faintly visible. Her breasts were small and set far apart, the peach-colored nipples contracted. Her thighs spread slightly against the chair seat, the triangle of pubic hair darkening against the spray of water as I washed it over her shoulders and chest and legs. I leaned her forward slightly and sent the water down the string of vertebrae. Her hair grew dark at the ends, and when she laid her head back for me to wet it I saw that her cheeks had flushed slightly from the heat of the water.
I turned away as I squeezed soap on the sponge. I didn’t want to see her just then, the naked wings of her collarbone and her small puckerednipples and blush spreading up her chest. As I lathered up the sponge I thought about her saying when I interviewed that she’d had ALS for two years. It wasn’t that long. Who knew how long it had taken her to get used to being bathed by other people? At least a few months.
She hadn’t said a word since we got in the shower, and her eyes were still shut, her brows slightly knit against the spray. I sudsed her shoulders and the thin columns of her neck and arms, keeping my fingertips behind the sponge and away from her wet skin. The warm water sprayed my clothes and my legs, and once you got in there and started washing her, the shower was not as big as it had seemed. Still, I was doing okay. I almost started to believe in my own skills. This was just something we caregivers did.
I lifted her arms to wash her armpits, which bore a little patch of dark stubble. I saw a razor on the shelf but decided not to do anything unless she asked. I had washed her limbs and her torso, letting the sponge glance over her breasts as though they were no more private than elbows. Now, I realized, I would have to run it between her legs. People did that in the shower.
It was a strange time to think about my mother. But as I drew the sponge between Kate’s thighs and then washed her back all the way down to the cleft of her buttocks, I was recalling washing with my mom. I suppose when I was very young it was easier than bathing me separately. But it had always seemed an arbitrary and bold thing for her to do, and I still remembered standing in the shower, looking up the landscape of her body, its wide hips and the sturdy muscle at the front of her thighs and the moon-colored curve of the bottoms of her breasts, the brisk slapping sound of her cupped hand—my mother did not believe in washcloths—mittened in lather as she rubbed at the gray-shadowed skin of her armpits and the flat curls of pubic hair. Her breasts and the flesh of her upper arms trembled as she reached, businesslike, into the dark hollow between her legs, and I had watched her and thought,
Oh, I’d better do that too
. It embarrassed me to wash myself in front of my mother, so I’d turned silently away toward the green-tiled corner of the shower and done it, one fast scrub as though I were brushing something away. I didn’t look at my mother’s face when I turned back. I looked at the crease across her belly instead.
I did the same thing with Kate now, a brief wipe with the sponge and then a rinse. I hung the sponge up on its hook, turned off the water,
Similar Books
