Missed Connections (21 page)

“I get that, but—”

“Not that we can’t afford it. We could keep this place running for another two years, even if no new clients walked in the door. We’re doing just fine financially, so don’t even worry about that.”

Tell that to the laundry soap. “I never said you weren’t. But—”

“And if you’re going to continue to be defensive, there isn’t a place here for you.”

What? “Fern, no, it’s not that at all!”

“Then what is it?” Her voice is as dead as her eyes.

Damn it. I’ve got nothing. “Is it all right if I wear jeans with these? Or is that too casual? My black skirts definitely don’t suit these new bright colors.”

She nods. “Of course you can wear jeans. We want you to be comfortable here. You know that.” She chucks my cheek like I’m a child getting over a tantrum. “Feel free to take another home as a spare, maybe in a smaller size?”

“Sure, thank you.” I’m so tense I expect my face to shatter when I force it into a smile.

Phyllis’s grin is brighter than my smock the first time she sees me when she comes in just after lunch. I’d tell her to shut her mouth, but she doesn’t say anything, just stares at me as long as possible on her way past.

I mutter a quiet insult at her back, wishing I could scream it in her face. Everything she does annoys me, especially since I’m pretty sure she’s trying to make me lose my shit and get fired.

The phone’s been quiet, so I wander to the back to fold some towels. Fern and Phyllis are in the kitchen, sharing a plate of fruit.

Phyllis licks her finger. “I mean, I use the cup. Tampons are terrible. Inserting things into your body? No way, such a violation of your root chakra. And pads are just awful—all that waste going to landfills, I can’t stand the thought of it! If only they could recycle all that waste.” She actually shudders, and I suppress a grin, thinking she might have killer cramps right at this moment.

I hope her boobs hurt too.

Fern takes a bite of star fruit. “Very true. What do you use, Sarah?”

Jesus Christ, have these people not heard of
boundaries
? I blink and turn to Fern, not wanting to say anything, but unable to run from the room screaming. “I, uh… I’m on the shot, so I only get my period once every three months, but I use tampons. But they’re the applicator-less kind, so that cuts down on waste in landfills.”

“You’re on birth control? Oh no, that’s just so awful. You should quit that as soon as possible. Like, today.” Phyllis takes another bite of dragon fruit.

“Since it’s a shot I get four times a year, I can’t exactly do anything about it right now. It’s not like a pill.” And even if it were, it’s none of her business.

“You could
not
get the next poisonous shot instead of continuing.”

Fern nods. “They change who you are on a cellular level, Sarah. It’s like saying you don’t want to be a woman anymore. Do you want that?”

“I’m pretty happy as I am.”

“Complacency,” Phyllis mutters.

I can’t let her win. “What’s the cup?” I know what it is, but there’s no way I’m appearing inflexible in front of Fern—especially after the birth control comment.

Phyllis patronizingly explains the cup. While I can see how it would be good cost-wise and in reducing a bit of pollution, the thought of shoving a plastic cup into myself and then emptying it out, cleaning it, and reinserting it a couple of times a day grosses me out and doesn’t sound worth the effort. I’m all for good ol’ clean, disposable cotton.

Fern nods. “It’s wonderful. You girls are so spoiled nowadays with all your options. It’s no wonder you end up choosing the wrong ones.” She eyes me.

Maybe I can turn the tables. “What do you use, Fern?”

“I have welcomed the crone phase of life, having ceased menstruation three years ago. But back when I was your age, we had belts that we fastened cloths to. And when they were soiled, we’d rinse them out in a bowl of water, let them dry, and use them again.”

If I could hug the twenty-first century I would. “Ah, that makes sense.” Still sounds gross, but they didn’t have anything better.

“And that water, filled with the menstrual blood, is full of amazing earth-mother energy,” she continues.

Oh God, where is this going?

“So we’d take that bowl and we’d water our plants and things with it.”

My cheeks twitch in an effort to arrange my features into a mask of polite interest instead of the disgust rampaging through me.

Phyllis nods. “So amazing. There are so many applications for menstrual blood. I read online that to fully bond with a partner, you can brew up a tea, sort of an elixir, and add your menstrual blood to it. You get him to drink it near the full moon but don’t tell him what it is—you know how men are about menstruation…especially ones who are against women being fully in their power. When he drinks it, it adds some of your own feminine energy to his system.”

My mind boggles while Fern nods. They think slipping their lover some period-blood tea is going to bond them? “Isn’t that a health and safety issue? I’m pretty sure feeding someone your bodily fluids can’t be good. Especially when any kind of blood is involved.”

Phyllis laughs. “Oh, Sarah. Traditional medicines have used methods like these forever. They’re perfectly safe. The only thing they can hurt is a closed mind.”

Okay. How about another tactic? “I think I’d rather talk to my partner.”

“Sometimes talking is just that—talking. You’ve never bonded, synergized with someone on a cellular, energetic level, merged with them energetically.”

“You’ve got me there.” I have no idea what the fuck those words mean. I know what they mean individually, but when paired together, they become nonsense.

Phyllis continues. “We can give parts of ourselves to others, or even imbibe them ourselves for amazing health benefits. Haven’t you ever heard of placenta soup?”

“What?”

Fern takes up Phyllis’s point. “When a woman gives birth, they can either make the placenta into a soup for her, or dry it and grind it into pills. They’re fabulous for helping her rebuild blood lost giving birth.”

What. The. Fuck.
“Blood transfusions and iron pills do that. We have iron pills for replacing iron.”

Fern frowns. “This is something holistic. Natural.”

“Iron pills
are
natural. Saving a placenta for stem-cell research that could treat a child would be a way better use.” The words spew from my mouth, judgmental and loud.

Phyllis sets down her plate. “It’s done in nature all the time. Animals eat their placenta to build up their nutrients and become strong after giving birth in the wild. They even lick their juices from the babies. Everybody knows that, Sarah.”

“Um, no.” I clear my throat. “They eat the placenta so any nearby predators won’t know that there’s a baby and come to eat it. They eat it to hide the smell of the blood. They clean the young off for the same reason, not because they need vitamins.”

Phyllis sighs. “You really can’t admit when you’re wrong, can you? You’re not an expert at everything in the world, you know. How many years have you studied these things?”

“I’m pretty sure if eating the placenta was still the best thing new mothers had going, doctors would continue to prescribe it as the optimal treatment—real doctors backed up with peer-reviewed studies.”

Phyllis shakes her head, and Fern frowns. “Judge if you want, Sarah, but it’s holistic, natural, and women have been doing it since the dawn of time. Who are you to scoff at thousands of years of something that’s helped women through the ages?”

Same way I scoff at anything that is pseudoscientific snake oil and can cause more harm than good.
Still, my cheeks burn and I feel bad.

Fern sets the plate down. “I didn’t know you were so judgmental, Sarah.”

Phyllis’s smile is triumphant as she walks out of the kitchen, leaving me with Fern’s disapproving stare. She even looks a little hurt. Too late, I realize she and Ziggy have a twelve-year-old, and she probably ate the placenta. She was feeling judged personally.

“Fern.”

She shakes her head and walks out, leaving me drowning in a room rapidly filling with my shame and uncertainty.

Chapter 23

After that, I’m not hungry, but I stop at the store for some chocolate and wine. Supper of champions. The first thing I do when I get home is pour a giant glass and log on to talk to Blake.

Me: Am I a bad person?

Luckily he’s online, and his reply comes right away.
Am I made of bananas and optimism?

Me: I’m being serious.

Him: Ah. I thought we were asking ridiculous questions. Now, what are you talking about?

I sigh and debate logging off. Blake knows me better than anyone, but he still doesn’t really know me. I barely know me. What’s the point of talking about it?
Bad day at work.

Him: Hear me on this. You are absolutely NOT a bad person. Tell me what happened.

Where should I start? The smocks? But were the smocks what brought this on? Were they really all that bad? Because now that I think about it, not having to worry about my clothes making me stand out is a good thing. One less thing for them to criticize me about. And they seem to criticize me to make me a better person in the long term. They aren’t really picking on me. I should focus less on the external and more on what I’m doing for the world.

Me: I guess I feel like maybe I’ve been too hard on them. Like maybe I’m the crazy one and they’re basically kind people trying to make the world a better place.

Him: Okay, I’m going to need you to back up. Start at the beginning of the day. Leave out no details.

Me: Are you sure? Because there are some details of today that can’t be unknown. You’ll want to scream at the floor and then wash your brain with acid. Ugh! See?! I’m doing it again! I’m judging them and being a snarky bitch.

Him: You aren’t. It’s your frustration talking. Just tell me what happened.

So I take a deep breath, a deep swallow of sparkling wine, and start typing. Sticking to the facts and not adding any judgmental comments, I spill every awful detail of the day and add my reactions and why I think I was wrong. I backtrack and tell him about perception being reality and how tired I am of Ziggy telling me to “breathe into it” instead of doing anything about a situation. Blake doesn’t interrupt at all, and when I’ve finished, there’s no response, which makes me reach for more wine and chocolate. Is he disappointed in me too and trying to think of something to say? I can’t take the suspense anymore, so I type another response before he’s answered.

Me: Are you still there?

Him: Uh, yeah. Just stunned.

Me: See? I told you I’m a raging asshole and—

Him: YOU are NOT the asshole in this situation!

My fingers hover over the keys as I wait for him to finish typing. I don’t want to feel like a jerk, but the bleak feeling weighing my shoulders and heart tell me that there’s nothing he can say to make this better. The truth is, I’m a horrible person—but I don’t want to feel like I am.

Him: The smocks suck. Uniforms are bullshit, and it’s brutal that they went about it in such an underhanded, passive-aggressive way. If they wanted to implement uniforms, they should have just come right out and told you they wanted you to wear one. Acting like they were for everyone when they only want you to have one is just mean. Besides, you’re gorgeous and could rock a paper bag, so the way you look isn’t an issue if you’re worried about that.

Me: I guess, but they were thinking of me, on some level.

Him: Disagree, but I’m not even done.

I smile and feel a little lighter. His next response takes a minute.

Him: Second of all, your ovaries are none of their fucking business. Your body is none of their business. I can’t believe they told you to stop a valid personal choice that is none of their concern. No, I can believe it because they are assholes who think they know everything about everything and can presume to boss people around.

Me: :)

Him: Still not done. Them having no boundaries pisses me off. It’s invasive and inappropriate and makes me cringe thinking of you being trapped there for hours and hours every day. I want to go over there and give them shit. I’ll swap the decaf tea bags for caffeinated! I’ll put GMO veggies in the fridge. I’ll pour fake satanic symbols onto the floor with refined, white sugar then steal you away and never take you back.

My insides are getting tingly. He always goes out of his way to make sure he asks how I’m doing, but the best part is he truly listens and remembers everything I’ve said. He truly cares.

Him: Damn it. I hate thinking of you there all alone, immersed in their bullshit, letting them make you think you’re a bad person.

Me: But maybe they’re not all bad.

Him: Period. Blood. Tea.

Me: Okay, that was supremely messed up.

Him: I puked in my mouth a little bit. Seriously, if a woman ever did that to me, I’d sue her.

Me: Yeah, that was nasty.

Him: I don’t know how you controlled your face and didn’t freak out when they told you that.

Me: It was hard. And like I told you, I didn’t. I was mean and hurt Fern’s feelings.

Him: Screw Fern. She can just “breathe into it.”

I snort, but a teeny twinge of guilt slithers through me.
Maybe their views aren’t totally bad though. I still think I might be viewing things with a bias, you know?