The Fun Part

My beauty, or lack thereof, has been a constant in my life.

I remember my mother’s screeching voice like it was yesterday. “MEL. Stay OUT of the sun, you’re going to get dark.” I had already looked stupid with the white cast of the sunscreen casting an ugly oily shine to all my features. My sharp nose got sharper. The zit on my forehead became unmistakable. My brown skin tanned anyways.

My transformation to adulthood bore the scars of my trauma. I never went on vacation to tropical climates. I weighed my body obsessively, tracking every calorie I forced down. I poked and prodded myself with the latest in science, from preventative botox to elective labiaplasty and porcelain veneers. Every inch needed to be mended.

When men complimented me, I did not dare to hold eye contact, afraid that the spell would break. If they looked at me too long, would they recognize me for who I was?

A fraud.

I’ll never subject you to that.

As if you’ve heard me, you tap against my womb until I can make out a tiny foot. I rub my bare hand on it, grinning softly.

The door opens revealing a white lab coat and gorgeous brown hair, “Ms. Stevens?”

I get up with a jolt, “Present.”

As if recognizing my edge, the doctor smiles, “Follow me. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

As we enter the long corridor, I feel obliged to respond, “I’m not.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not afraid.”

He stops before me, a glassy definitive gleam in his eyes, “Good.”

We enter a large white room with metal fixtures, diagrams of the human body, and tiny glass vials with brightly coloured liquids. There are stacks of customer files, alphabetically sorted behind his brown hair, calming any subconscious nerves I had. They’ve done this a million times before.

“I’m Dr. Green.” I’m met again with his dazzling smile, “I’ve been working in the genetic modification space for about 30 years now. I’ve seen all the shifts from when it first became available for general consumption to now.”

He hands me a brochure.

“Give Your Child The Best Chance In Life.” I read aloud.

My hand rests on the table and he reaches out and pats it.

“I too was a subject to the original experiments.”

My eyes snap up automatically.

“It changed my life. It was just one thing I no longer had to think of. I knew that I could focus on academia or athletics or anything I wanted because I was the cream of the crop genetically.” he speaks, never breaking eye contact.

I nod.

“Everyone deserves that.” he says, already writing, as if the question has been settled for decades.

If I wasn’t before, I’m entirely convinced, “Yes. I want to do it.”

He gives me a few more pats for good measure, before swirling his chair and pulling out my file. It’s filled with all relevant documentation - my lab results, my genetic history, and notes from brief psychotherapist sessions I went to a few years ago.

“I looked at your file and your genes are already immaculate. No family history of any cardiovascular or other genetic health issues. Most of our conversation today will be focused on the fun part!” Dr. Green speaks animatedly, “Eye colour, skin colour, skin texture, propensity for acne.”

“Green eyes, tan skin which doesn’t tan easily, smooth skin, no acne ever.” I speak almost immediately, knowing that I’ve already thought about this a million times over.

“Oh wow, I love a woman who knows what she wants!”

Without intending to, I feel myself flush.

He pushes a stapled list towards me filled with a hundred questions related to visual appearance. Right. The fun part.

I fill it out in silence, finishing in ten minutes. I’ve already searched most of this stuff up and so I know exactly what I’m looking for.

***

Aliza Stevens is 6 pounds at birth and looks exactly as I imagined her to be.

She has a natural charisma, as if she knows she is blessed. Sometimes as I stare at her symmetrical face. Her features are so beautiful, they look almost alien, I feel a tinge of jealousy. I also feel a distance. Who is staring back at me? Where did she come from?

She does not have my father’s nose, nor my mother’s eyes. Obviously, I didn’t want her to. But if she isn’t made of them and isn’t made of me. Who is she?

When she’s finally old enough to speak, she spits out flames of ember at me. She fights strangers in grocery stores for staring at her. She uses her appearance to get out of things she doesn’t want to do. She milks her pretty privilege until I completely lose sight of her.

At seven, a cashier lets her keep a candy bar she didn’t pay for. At ten, a teacher apologizes to her for accusing her of plagiarism. By thirteen, she cries on command, red-eyed and trembling, and the adults around her bend their morals without restraint.

She lies.

She cheats.

She gets away with it.

The other mothers never miss an opportunity to share their thoughts.

“She’s going to be such a heartbreaker one day.”

“Forget school, put her in modelling immediately.”

“I have a nephew. I think they’d get along so well.”

When she’s fifteen, she comes into the kitchen while I’m dicing onions, shaking.

“What is it, my angel?” I try to soothe her, but my voice sounds thin, even to me.

She stands in the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen. She is a masterpiece of my own making: the tan skin that never burns, the eyes the color of evergreen trees, the nose that is a straight, narrow line of perfection.

“Am I adopted?” she asks, too calmly for tears.

The knife slips, nicking my thumb. A bead of dark blood wells up. “Why on earth would you ask that?”

“I don’t have your chin,” she whispers, “I don’t have Dad’s ears. I don't even have the same skin. When we stand next to each other in the mirror, it looks like a glitch.”

“I told you,” I keep my voice steady, “You look like your aunt Betty. Your grandma’s cousin. It’s a recessive trait.”

She looks at me as if she might shatter if I speak too loud, “Please, tell me the truth.”

I lie.

We grow apart and she moves out. She is in and out of therapy, never feeling like she truly belongs anywhere. We try to connect but she doesn’t understand me.

How can someone receive such an enormous privilege and remain ungrateful? I’m constantly flabbergasted and annoyed. When she calls me, my disdain spills into my words.

She stops calling.

On a rainy night, as I’m washing dishes, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I have long given up beauty regimens and in the dim lighting, I look like my mother. I’ve got smile lines and age spots. The realization makes me drop my cup in the sink. Tears well up in my eyes.

“This isn’t what I signed up for.” I whisper,

“This is all my fault.”