Wonderful as it was to hear Lydia’s footsteps padding lightly up the stairs again, she seemed to be floating around on her own separate cloud, physically with us, but mentally in some other world. While she beamed benevolence, she seemed disconnected. I couldn’t help feeling she was regarding her meat-eating, fun-loving, non-Buddhist family as a let-down.
Once again, I resented the monk who’d used his charisma to lure her away from us.
It’s not uncommon for a mother to lose touch with who her daughter really is. It happens from time to time either by accident or on purpose. I’d distanced myself from Mum, selfishly and sometimes callously, in favour of my independence, sanity, identity. Those were my excuses. Most strong young women toy with the notion of rejecting their roots. Especially if the voice of their mother resounds inside their heads, passing judgment on everything they do. A daughter needs to find out if her strength is real or borrowed.
I’d managed to get my head around Lydia turning her back on us and our values for a while. But the prospect of her losing touch with herself was more concerning. This floaty, spiritual being didn’t feel like the real Lydia. But if she was determined to turn herself into somebody else, I had no power to argue with her.
Besides, I felt responsible to a certain extent. If her father and I hadn’t divorced maybe things would be different. As a little girl she’d been so anxious not to hurt anyone she’d counted the days she spent in each household meticulously to ensure she gave each family equal time. Nothing like a broken home to turn children into diplomats.
But then not everything about her upbringing had been terrible. Both families, parents and step-parents, brother Rob and half-sisters adored her with all their hearts.
If she found us offensive or inferior after her time in the jungle, I wished she’d talk about it. Instead, she just smiled enigmatically with that out-of-focus look in her eyes, answering my questions with, ‘It’s hard to explain.’
Now she’d become a semi-saintly being, I didn’t know how to reach her. I wanted to reintroduce her to the delights of being a beautiful young woman in the society she belonged to.
Katharine suggested that an all-girl shopping expedition to find outfits for Rob’s wedding might do the trick. Lydia was reluctant to accompany us at first, but we dragged her along.
Katharine fell in love with a purple dress in a boutique window. With a billowing skirt and ruffled neck, we agreed it was a perfect fit. The shop assistant wrapped it in tissue and slid it in a bag. Katharine beamed with the triumph of the successful shopper-gatherer as we left the store.
Lydia appeared dazzled by the colours and styles on offer. She was drawn to demure outfits in muted shades. Whenever Katharine and I persuaded her to try on dresses with low necklines that made the most of her perfect figure, she shook her head, embarrassed. If the style exposed her arms, she reached for her shawl to cover them.
Finding an outfit I felt comfortable in also presented challenges. With my tummy tuck and new boobs, my body was a different shape from the last time I’d been shopping for evening wear. I felt like a teenager, not knowing what clothes might suit my altered body.
While the reconstruction had been harrowing, I was pleased I’d gone through with it. Because of Greg’s handiwork, I could go for days without being reminded I’d faced a deadly disease. From a personal perspective, it’d been good to have reconstruction simultaneously with the mastectomy. I’m too much of a coward to have volunteered to go back to hospital for another round of major surgery.
Fully dressed, I actually had a better shape than before breast cancer. In my bra and knickers I gave a pretty good imitation of normality. Finding a good bra had been problematic, though. In the weeks and months after surgery, I’d had to wear soft bras with minimal shape. Now I was willing to be more adventurous I was disappointed how limited the options were. Underwire bras seemed foolhardy considering their reputation, deserved or otherwise, for upping the risk of breast cancer. Yet finding an attractive bra with no underwire was almost impossible. Every lingerie department was packed with underwire bras. I’d have to seek out the most mature-looking assistant available and explain my circumstances while she apologetically produced a few dowdy options. Underwear manufacturers hadn’t seemed to realise women still want to feel sexy after cancer.
Once my underwear was removed, there was the giant abdominal scar and the missing nipple to contend with. Whenever I expressed doubt about the wisdom of putting myself through hours of extra surgery, Philip would put his arms around me and reassure me. How he always managed to say the right thing is beyond me.
Accepting reassurance wasn’t one of my strong points, however. I couldn’t quite believe him when he said I looked great. I’d seen his diplomatic skills in action with other people too many times.
Feeling vulnerable, my radar was on high alert to catch him admiring other women with unscarred bodies. Either he’s a saint, or too quick for me. I never caught him out.
While my breasts may have looked the part, they were hardly a source of erotic sensation any more. It took a while to adjust to having no feeling at all in my fake breast, and very little in the left uplifted one. I’d learnt to check my upper chest was covered before going out in freezing weather. Because of the numbness in that region it was easy to expose myself to the elements inadvertently and catch cold – or worse, flash some innocent passerby.
The girls encouraged me to slide into a full-length silvery dress. With a low neckline and no sleeves, it wasn’t my usual style. Cleavage! A victory statement against disease. With a black shoulder wrap and a few metres of Hollywood tape, I felt safely tucked in . . . and, surprisingly, almost glamorous.
After days trawling the shops with Lydia, we ended up back in the same boutique Katharine’s dress had come from.
‘There is that one . . .’ said Lydia, tentatively indicating a rack near the front of the shop.
‘You mean this?’ I said, lifting an ivory linen suit into the light. It was safe to the point of being invisible.
‘No, this one,’ Lydia said, pointing at a riot of silk and lace. ‘Do you think it’s too colourful?’
‘Not at all!’ Katharine and I chorused in unison. ‘Try it on!’
Waiting outside the changing room, Katharine and I bubbled with anticipation. We heard feet shuffling and the swish of fabric. Lydia was taking forever. Katharine bent to look under the door, but said all she could see was bare feet. We called through the door asking if the size was okay. She wasn’t sure.
The changing room door opened to reveal something amazing. Not Lydia the saint and caregiver, nor Lydia the charity-shop university student. This was a new Lydia, an alluring young woman swathed in swirls of vibrant colour. The full skirt swung sensually from her hips as she stepped forward. The tight-fitting bodice emphasised her waist. Narrow shoulder straps and black lace across the, well, it was more a chest-line than a neckline, gave the dress form and femininity.
‘You look stunning!’ I breathed.
Lydia’s smile filled the shop with sunshine.
‘I’d need a shawl,’ she said. ‘But this dress is too expensive.’
Glimpsing the price tag, I gulped. Nevertheless, a gown that enhanced her beauty and brought her back to the core of her own culture was beyond price. We bought the dress and took it home where, much to Jonah’s delight, the girls spent the afternoon rifling through my jewellery drawer.
I’d offered to buy them earrings and necklaces, but they insisted on choosing pieces from our family’s past. Katharine opted for a cameo necklace that had belonged to Great Aunt Myrtle, who like many of the women in our family had (by the standards of her generation) been oversexed and over-adventurous.