By Trish Mcdonald
Prologue
I keep my fears in a ledger, tucked away in a paper bag. My plan is to have someone burn these journals when I die—someone I can trust to torch them, not read them first. There are secrets I don’t want anyone to know. I was hoping I would never feel compelled to share my notes, certainly not pulled to confide in anyone. Now, circumstances have intervened, backfired even, and I’ve committed to writing a story based on my journal entries.
I was told, write what you know—write about your passion. So, even though I’m reluctant to share, passion was mentioned, and I know a lot about passion.
The story is fiction while closely following my own life. Characters are composites with embellishments to protect the legacy of the living and the dead.
On the surface, this is a love story, but it’s not any love I ever dreamed about. This is a story that requires curiosity about fears, a sense of wonder in exposing them, and the courage to blow them away.
My fears are based on what others think and their judgment of me. But in truth, what I fear the most is that courage skipped me and went straight from my mom to my daughter. Somewhere in the middle, I got left out. Without fortitude, I ended up with curiosity—the writer’s kind—a mind searching for a world free of judgment and blame. In my search to find such a place—loving and safe—I’m bringing along my yellow Lab Q. She’s in the backseat with the paper bags—a witness.
“I am fearless. I am bold,” I repeat, trying to convince myself I am resolute. My fingers tremble as I try to strike the match, to destroy the journals. I stop when I hear a distant refrain—a voice, wavering but clear,
“My dearest—a story wants to be told. A love to be known. A secret to be set free.”
~
Chapter One – The Woman in the Full-Length Mirror
As he inserts the silicone cups into the fancy lace bra and glides the fabric up his legs, sliding the nylon to his thighs, I’m entranced. I can’t look away. When he leans down to put on the ankle bracelet, I notice he’s no longer paying any attention to me. It’s as if I’m not even here. He’s completely focused on her—his own girly reflection—the woman in the full-length mirror.
I want him to look at me the way he looks at her. I’m actually jealous—jealous of an image in the mirror. Is that possible? What if he only wants her, not me? She’s the woman he wants to be.
In truth, she’s kinda trashy: short skirts, stiletto heels, garish makeup. She looks like a teenage hooker—as if she’s fourteen right now. Never able to wear girly clothes growing up, she missed living those crazy days of adolescence as a girl. She’s making up for it now. Stuck in a time warp, she’ll continue to dress inappropriately for her age. As much as I love her, I can still be judgmental.
There’s no question, I’m fascinated. But one thing is clear, in order for me to be a part of this coupling, I’ll have to be an observer, a curious voyeur, a storyteller. I can’t fathom it any other way.
When I confide in my sister Liz, the therapist, she chides, “Kat, this is not perversion; hell, it’s not even on the DSM. Let’s call it a fetish. It’s just dressing up in women’s clothes. Who cares if he wears lace panties?”
There are no rules for how I’m about to live. No books for me to read. No manuals with instructions for this kind of loving. With no set boundaries, something miraculous happens: I’m liberated. My puritan upbringing, the iron panties, and the warnings about men’s laps, morph into a place far away.
I will not be prim and proper making love to a man in frilly underwear. And, oh dear Lord, I’ll finally feel safe. Safe to say what I feel, what I want, what I need. He is clearly more wounded than I am. He has shown me his soul. As unworthy as I am, he needs to turn into someone else to escape his shadows. I become the Alpha.
Pulled by my need to learn more, to understand, I journal. The writing keeps my curiosity centered. I focus on my craft and the story I tell myself.
It’s Christmas. I’m looking forward to the tree, the eggnog, and the gifts. He wants to go shopping for a velvet dress. To say I’m uncomfortable as we both peruse the dress rack in this upscale boutique is an understatement. I’m sure people know we’re some kind of weird couple. As it turns out, he’s just a very attentive guy helping me pick out my Christmas frock.
When we get home, he adorns his body with the requisite undergarments. As we pull the dress over her head, it slides perfectly down her body. The only problem is its too long. Turning up the hem on this gown is a cinch. Little do I know, this vision of being fitted for a gown for a prom, a dance, a party, is her lifelong fantasy. Imagine that, me fulfilling her dream. She gazes down and whispers, “I’ve dreamed of this day. Thank you for loving me this much.”
I wipe away the tears. This is what love looks like. But this isn’t a love I recognize. This was never the love of my dreams. It’s all very confusing. My heart is overflowing with love for this beautiful woman, yet I have no model for this love. Is it immoral, perverted, downright unlawful?
Coming up from my knees where I’ve been pinning her hem, I see her countenance so bubbly with joy. As I turn away, I hum a few bars of “Silent Night” and pull on my own holiday gown. No one will ever see our beautiful dresses. We’re a party of two: two lovers, two women, a man and a woman? When I look back, I see two people deeply in love. This is the only story worth telling.
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Trish McDonald, according to her DNA profile, is 86% Irish. For a storyteller, this “blarney” heritage comes in handy when writing about issues of childhood trauma. With a background in nutrition education, McDonald combines fiction and self-help in powerful scenes using science-based methods of body work: a yoga class, cranial sacral therapy session, reiki, music, and dancing. It is, however, the healing power of love and intimacy where her protagonist’s journey leads to self-discovery and acceptance. An education writer, McDonald’s credits include national publications, Family Circle President’s Award for nutrition programs, and various academic journal articles. An avid camper, McDonald lives in a RV park in Southwest Florida. Paper Bags is her first novel and can be ordered online. You can also check out Trish’s website here
