Free American Housewife by Helen Ellis Page A

breasts?
    The Fitter is quiet. He lets Myrtle’s gratitude warm our once hothouse of a home. Without me hawking over him, I know he lets himself smile. He knows Myrtle is so in awe of her transformation that she’ll reach for her reflection in the mirror on her side of the door. If she’s crazy bold, she’ll reach for the knob. There is a chance I won’t stop her.
    But, I do.
    I whisper, “Careful, Myrtle. The Fitter don’t cheat.”
    He didn’t call
me
until his first wife, his high school girlfriend, ran away with the falsies distributor. Since then he won’t stock falsies. Won’t even look at one: cotton/polyester blend or bags of saline. He swears he loves me the way I am now after my surgery, but I ache for what I had. Why his first wife couldn’t have fallen in love with the nipple tape guy is beyond me.
    The Fitter calls, “Next.”
    I choose the balcony bra. It’s lavender-and-gold stretch lace with aerodynamic support. It’s meant to hike your breasts up like corsets used to do. You get all of the
oomph
with none of the
ouch.
We in the business call it the Cleavage Maker.
    I bend Myrtle over at the waist and drop her breasts into the demi cups like muffin batter. When she rises, those muffins are baked. Myrtle marvels and pats the tops.
    The Fitter says, “I don’t hear anything.”
    Myrtle opens her mouth, but catches sight of my face.
    I know my color’s gone. The side effects from my “aggressive” treatment grab me out of nowhere and make me want to barf.
    I reach out for the toilet, but it’s Myrtle’s arm I catch on the way to the floor.
    Myrtle rests my back against the bathtub. She calls out, “The bra’s fine.”
    “Fine?” says the Fitter. “I’ve never heard just fine.”
    “It’s beautiful,” calls Myrtle. She runs cold faucet water over a washcloth. “Magic.” She tips my head between my knees and lays the cool cloth on the back of my neck. She calls, “I’ve never felt more like a woman.”
    She winces at her faux pas. She looks at me like,
Oops. My bad.
    I wave one of the Fitter’s waves. This one means,
Forget it.
    The Fitter is a man of few words, but the ones he speaks outside of day-to-day dealings are all compliments. When I came for my first fitting, he had his first wife pull a 36DD with modesty padding because he said I had a body meant for tight sweaters. When we married, he filled my dresser with cashmere crewnecks because he said I deserved to wear nice things. In bed, he’s said it’s my giggling that drives him wild. At work, he’s said I’m tireless, a model, and great with customers.
    But none of this is true anymore.
    Sweaters swallow me. Insomnia drives me to spend nights on the couch. I won’t deserve Employee of the Year this year—Myrtle can attest to that.
    I say to her, “I wasn’t always this jealous.”
    She says, “You’re right to be jealous.”
    “Goddammit.” I pull off the washcloth. I wring it like I’ve wanted to wring so many customers’ necks. I throw the washcloth into a corner.
    Myrtle fishes an open Lifesaver roll from her purse. She frowns as she pulls it out because the green one is—as I predicted—stuck to her Old Yeller of a bra. She offers me the orange at the top of the roll.
    I refuse.
    She says, “One of us is going to get him. You might as well let me be nice to you.” She unwinds the foil string, pops the orange in her mouth, and offers me the cherry.
    I take it. And of course it tastes good. Red is always the best flavor. It takes the bitterness out of my mouth.
    The Fitter calls, “What’s the holdup?”
    When we don’t answer, I hear the bedsprings squeak. The Fitter walks toward the bathroom door. He knocks. He’s never knocked.
    He asks, “Is everything okay in there?”
    And then to Myrtle: “Is she okay?”
    “I’m fine,” I answer.
    But I know I’m not fine. The sicker I get, the more business booms.
    I reach out and let Myrtle help me to my feet. I take the last bra—the pink