Carol Beth Anderson

Fundamental

CW: child abuse

It’s not just the harsh fluorescent light that’s making me look so . . . blah. It’s not even the orange curtain behind me (orange has always washed me out). This fitting room could have the soft, flattering lighting of an Oprah show set; I could be surrounded by the blues and purples that suit my coloring; and the tankini I have on would still be ugly.

It’s everything I thought I was looking for. The top has a structured, underwire bra underneath; the outer layer is a loose tank top in a perfect shade of royal blue. The bottom is a cute pleated skirt covered in vertical blue, magenta, and green stripes my mom would call “slimming.”

It’s as modest as every swimsuit I’ve ever worn. And I hate it. My torso looks like a square gift box shrouded in blue wrapping paper, and the knee-length skirt shortens my legs. I pull open the curtain, the metal rings on the rod squealing like the tires of a getaway car.

My bare feet lead me straight to a display of bikinis that caught my eye as soon as I walked into the store. I’m searching for my size when a smiling, college-aged girl wearing a name tag reading “Emmie” walks up.

“Ooh, this style will look great on you!” she says. “And the one you have on is adorable too!”

My single “Ha!” is so sudden, I see her flinch in my peripheral vision. I turn to her. “This tankini is the furthest thing from adorable.”

Emmie’s eyes go wide, like someone yanked at the tips of her black-millipede lash extensions. Then her shiny lips pull into a true grin, her eyes crinkling as she laughs. “You’re right, it’s hideous. But the one you’re looking at is perfect for you. Here.” She grabs a top and bottom from the rack and holds them up in front of me, giving me a quick, expert once-over. “This is your size. Now take off that baggy monstrosity. You deserve better than boring.”

❧

“But it was boring!” The last word sounded kind of like a siren, and I hoped it would make Mommy pay attention, like she did when she was driving and an ambulance went by.

Mommy leaned over me, her fluffy hair shining from the lights above us. Her eyes looked so big through her glasses. I pushed my little body deeper into the velvety cushion on the pew.

“I did not ask you if it was boring.” An itty bitty spray of spit hit my face. “I told you not to squirm during the service, and what should you do when I give you an instruction?”

“Obey.”

“Say the whole thing.”

“Obey cheerfully right away.”

“That’s right. You were told to be still, and you wiggled during the whole sermon. What does God command me to do if you’re rebellious?”

“Punish me because you love me very much.” I knew these answers by heart. I memorized them when I was two and still said my R’s like W’s.

“Yes. Now stand up and bend over the pew.”

Crying, I obeyed, smushing my face into my folded arms. Then I waited and waited and waited.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” Mommy finally said, “please help Priscilla to obey every single time. Please help her to know how much you love her and how much her daddy and I do too. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

What hit my tushie wasn’t a hand. I was pretty sure it was a thick, hard hymnal. Mommy never spanked me hard, but I cried hard anyway, because it was her doing it, and it didn’t feel like love.

After four spanks (four for my age—next year would be five), I stood up. I worked hard to breathe super deep so I could stop crying. Then I looked around to see if anyone else saw what happened. The pastor was standing by our pew, with his hard, hairsprayed hair and big, black glasses. Next to him was Daddy, holding his heavy Bible. The pastor was nodding at Daddy, all happy about what he saw Mommy do to me.

My heart was beating so hard that I could feel it in my whole body, BOOM BOOM BOOM. My face and chest got all hot, even more than they did when I was crying. I bet I was as red as my Strawberry Shortcake doll’s bonnet. I always got like that whenever I felt bad about anything. I hated it.

❧

In the dressing room, I look at the tags on the bikini top and bottoms. Both are mediums. I scoff—I’ve always been a large! But I don’t want to ask Emmie for another size without telling her honestly that I tried them on.

I tug down the swim skirt, leaving my undies on. Then I pull off the tank top.

In the mirror, I make myself—no, let myself—look at my nearly naked body. My parents always told me my bare skin would be for my husband only, not for any other man and not even for me, so I should stay covered unless I was taking a short shower. It’s only recently I’ve let myself get to know the flesh I wear.

My palms skim along parts of me that are slowly becoming more familiar. These heavy breasts with pale, nearly flat nipples that remind me of the small, fabric-covered buttons on a satin blazer I used to wear to church. This waist that tapers in at the sides and has a small, squishy skin-pillow on the front. These hips, round like the fruit-shaped bottles of lemon juice my mom keeps in her fridge.

At home, I’ve even touched myself in intimate ways recently. I like it. Only took me thirty years to figure that out.

❧

It was the first non-church teenage party I’d ever been invited to—my friend from school’s sweet-sixteen celebration.

Mom came inside to meet my friend’s mom. While they talked, I looked out the sliding-glass door at the patio. There were a dozen girls out there, and every one of them wore a short dress with spaghetti straps or no sleeves at all. I tried not to gasp, but I must’ve failed, because Mom’s frizzy curls shook as she swiveled her head my way.

Behind her round glasses, her eyes widened when she saw the scene outside. She pressed her thin lips together. She was gonna take me home, I just knew it, and after what I’d seen, maybe I wanted her to.

Except—I didn’t. I wanted to stay. I’d been looking forward to this party for weeks. I couldn’t let my friends’ poor wardrobe choices ruin my night. I geared up for a quiet debate with my mom.

When Mom finished talking, she came over to me and whispered, “God has put you here to set an example of righteousness.”

I blinked, mouth gaping, then nodded. Mom left.

I strode outside, hands smoothing down the skirt of the ankle-length dress I’d liked so much in the store. It was made of soft, polyester fabric, light purple with darker purple roses printed on it. The bodice bloused out over the skirt, and the neckline felt a bit dangerous, how the soft fabric skimmed over my collarbones, making the shape of them visible in the right light.

Outside, the birthday girl greeted me with a hug. She told me how much she loved my dress. I took in her barely-there straps and mid-thigh hemline and said she looked very pretty. It was true, even though I knew she’d later regret making the boys at the party think impure thoughts. At that very moment, Walter, the smartest kid in my geometry class, was standing behind her staring so hard at her rear end, it was like he expected it to start doing tricks.

I sat at a table with a couple of kids from a church down the street from mine. They were dressed just like the worldly kids; their church was what my pastor called “liberal” and “licentious.” But I had more in common with them than with anyone else.

I scarfed down a slice of pizza. Before I dug into the second slice, I turned to Jenni, a petite junior who was in some of my classes at school. “Is your youth group going to summer camp this year?”

“Yeah! Week after school gets out.”

“Lucky!” I said. “Mine’s at the end of summer. What’s your campground like?”

She shrugged. “It’s pretty small and old, but there’s a lake, so we do a lot of activities there.”

The other kid at the table was Eric, a tall, skinny guy I barely knew. He spoke through his half-chewed bite of pizza. “I spent more time in the water last year than I did in my bed! You shoulda seen the sunburn I got!”

Jenni laughed. “Your chest was so red!”

“Wait.” I put down my pizza. “Girls and boys swim together at your camp?”

They gave me confused looks and said in unison, “Yeah.”

Co-ed swimming. At a church camp. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I took a big swig of Sprite.

Jenni clapped her hands together. “Oh, I’ve got the best idea! You could come to camp with us! You could be my bunkmate!”

I gasped in delight, almost choking on my drink. I’d been to be better friends with Jenni; I just hadn’t known how to connect with her. “That would be amazing!”

She squealed.

The sound startled me back to reality. Co-ed swimming. Smile waning, I said, “Of course, I’ll have to ask my parents.”

“I’m sure they’ll say yes to an extra week of learning about the Bible!”

I was just as sure they’d say no. Mom and Dad wouldn’t want me getting Jenni’s church’s brand of Bible teaching, and they sure wouldn’t approve of me seeing Eric’s sunburned chest at the swimming pool. I tried to keep up my end of the conversation as Jenni told me how amazing camp would be. The effort exhausted me.

“Movie time!” the birthday girl’s mom called when everyone was done eating.

The soft fabric of my dress turned into shrink wrap on my neck. “Um—what movie?” I asked her as we walked inside

“In the Trees,” she replied. “Everyone, find a seat! I’ll turn on the movie and make some popcorn and other snacks.”

I’d heard of that movie. It was PG-13, so I wasn’t allowed to watch it. I didn’t want to watch it. If I did, I’d feel guilty for months unless I confessed to my parents and my youth pastor that I’d let profanity and sexual innuendos enter my mind.

Why couldn’t they have picked something more appropriate? Now I’d have to find a way to skip it, and I’d stand out from all the other kids, and it didn’t matter how long ago I’d memorized the Bible verse about how persecution is a blessing—I still hated these moments. My heart pounded so hard, I felt my pulse in my palms. Red heat flooded my cheeks, neck, and upper chest, making me even more glad the dress covered so much of me.

I tapped my friend’s mom on the shoulder. “Can I help with the snacks?” My voice came out shrill. Maybe she’d hear it as excitement, not panic.

“Oh no, hon, I’ve got it!” She pointed a remote at the TV and pushed Play. “Enjoy the movie.”

“No, really! I’d love to help. I love being in the kitchen. I help my mom all the time—I even make dinner for my family sometimes! Last night I made goulash with smoked paprika, and my dad said—”

Her laughter cut off my babbling. “Sure, sweetie, if you’re that excited, I won’t say no.”

I looked at the other teens. The guys were sprawled on the floor, while the girls piled themselves on the couches and a recliner, giggling as they squished together, two to a seat, their dresses tugging higher up on their legs than ever. Those poor young women. They thought they were free, but they were enslaved to sin. I said a quick, silent prayer for them.

“Priscilla!” Jenni called. “C’mon, you can squeeze in next to me!”

“Oh no, I’m, um—I’m good!” I gave her a smile, as fake as it was big, and left the room as the movie’s opening credits started.

❧

I pull the bikini bottoms all the way up. The silky red fabric of my undies sticks out just a bit, and I tuck the edges in, smiling as I do so. This is the first pair of red underwear I’ve ever owned, and I love them—even if I keep remembering my mom telling me that only women who are vain or promiscuous wear red undergarments or red nail polish.

The medium-sized bikini bottoms fit. Weird. They’re a flattering navy blue, and they don’t pinch at my soft waist. When I turn around, I let out a little gasp. They look great on my butt. I mean, I didn’t even know I had a butt like this—the edges of the suit come up high in the back, showing off a whole landscape of skin no one but my husband has ever seen.

Would I dare wear this in public?

I slip my arms into the top, colored the same navy blue, and reach around to tie it in back. Between my breasts, the fabric is purposely twisted, and it boosts me in a way only really ugly bras have ever done, pushing the flesh in and up, giving me so much cleavage, a small child could get lost in there. I’m so blown away by how I look that I almost miss the first thing that should’ve shocked me—this medium top fits as well as the bottoms do.

I’ve worn size large since I was in middle school. For years on end, I lived in large, long jean skirts, large blouses, and large, high-necked dresses. Lately, I’ve been making some changes to my wardrobe, allowing myself the addition of large, loose pants.

My mom’s words from a dozen fitting rooms come back to me: We women should always err on the side of bigger clothes. The way garments are cut these days, they’re made to draw men’s gazes to your shape. The fashion designers have one goal: to make men lust. Choose the proper size and style, and you’ve solved the problem.

The first time she told me that, I was eleven. I never thought to ask her what men were doing to solve their problem, if a preteen girl’s well-fitted clothing was enough to make them sin.

I do a slow spin in front of the mirror, craning my neck to catch every angle. Who knows what a man would say, but I know this: fluorescent lightbulbs and orange curtains can’t keep me from looking incredible right now.

❧

My husband’s strong arm pulled me closer, and I relaxed into him, my head on his shoulder, the couch’s leather soft and warm beneath us.

“I’ve never been so full,” Luke moaned.

“Me neither. Worth it though, right?”

“Every bite.”

We’d spent our third anniversary dinner at an expensive steakhouse talking about our dreams—kids in the not-too-distant future, the book he wanted to write, the trip I hoped to we could take to Paris someday.

Now that we were home, I wanted to revisit our past. “I was thinking back to when we were courting,” I murmured.

“Which part—having parent chaperones or secretly holding hands?”

I laughed softly. “All of it.” While all our school friends had dated, we’d followed our church’s teachings, delaying any one-on-one time, and even our first kiss, until our wedding day. I’d loved every frustrating minute of that courtship.

“Well,” Luke said, “I was thinking about our wedding night.”

I groaned, though I couldn’t keep a smile from my lips. “It felt like appendicitis, hon. The pain was even in the right place. I had no choice but to go to the hospital.”

“Ma’am.” Luke said the word in a fake Southern accent, his voice a high falsetto. His impression of the ER doctor was, as always, spot-on. “You have a very common malady we refer to as constipation.”

I couldn’t hold back a laugh, and Luke joined in. His loud, hearty guffaw was my favorite sound. It had been since I’d first heard it a decade ago at church when the pastor was praying and said “prostate” instead of “prostrate.” Luke had been the only one in the sanctuary who’d dared laugh that day, and he’d barely stopped since.

When my last giggle died out, I said, “Let’s watch our wedding video.”

“Good idea.”

I found the DVD, and Luke put it in the player. We settled back on the couch, his arm around my shoulders, my left leg pressed against his right.

We both wiped away a few tears as I walked down the aisle wearing my mother’s wedding dress. The pastor started welcoming the guests, which turned into a full-on sermon. I fast-forwarded until it was time for our vows.

On the screen, my voice wavered as I spoke. “I, Priscilla, take thee, Luke, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honor, and obey, ‘til death do—"

Luke pointed the remote at the TV and smashed his thumb onto the Pause button. The video froze with past-me’s mouth pursed into an O. Remote still in hand, Luke stood so fast, the whole couch scooted back.

“Don’t you want to watch the rest?” I asked.

Luke stared at me, arms folded, breathing hard.

I sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do it anymore. I wasn’t gonna tell you this on our anniversary, but I can’t keep holding it in—I can’t do it, babe.”

The steak in my belly turned dense and sharp. I tried to draw a deep breath, but my lungs were convinced our living room was a mountaintop, the air impossibly thin. I’d done everything I could to be a perfect wife, shooting for a combo of the Proverbs 31 woman, Jesus’s mother Mary, and my pastor’s wife. What did I do wrong? Luke was looking at me like he expected a response, so I forced out a few words. “You can’t do what exactly?”

“All of the—all of the bullshit”—his wide eyes told me his cursing shocked him as much as it did me—“we’ve learned in that church.” He half turned, shoving his pointer finger towards the TV. “I just watched you say you’d obey me. All because we were taught that’s what a woman should do. That you should obey me and take care of me and that really, you should take care of all men by deferring to them and being modest—a particular type of modesty that might change every time a new pastor comes along—and that it’s all because God said so, and fuck, Priscilla, even your namesake in the New Testament had more freedom than you’ve ever had, and I don’t believe what they taught us anymore. You should be my partner, not my slave.”

My head was shaking back and forth, the action echoed by my heart. He’s not leaving me, but he’s leaving God, and that’s—what? Better? Worse? “You’ve never treated me like a slave!”

“Well, I sure hope not, but that’s not really the point—”

I held up my hands. “Stop. Just stop.”

He did.

The temperature must’ve risen by ten degrees, and when had the overhead light gotten so blinding? I wanted to run from the room, but I couldn’t. Luke was stepping off the narrow path, and he needed me more than he ever had, to guide him back.

My voice came out a bit shrill, the words tumbling over each other. “Nothing is wrong with our life. I—I want to be modest and take care of you and all those other things; I want to obey God, and yes, that means obeying you, too, because he put you in authority over me. I want all those things, more than anything!”

“Do you?” Luke grabbed the edges of the coffee table and scooted it out of the way so he could kneel in front of me. “Is all that really what you want? Has it ever been? Or did everyone just tell you it was what you should want?”

I opened my mouth, but an answer wouldn’t come out.

Luke took both my hands, his warm, firm hold calming me. “I love you, babe,” he said. “I’m in this for the long haul, okay? You want to keep going to church, go for it. I can’t do it anymore, but if you ask me to go with you on holidays, I will. You want to keep wearing the same modest clothes your parents made you wear and listening only to hymns and gospel music? I have no problem with that. But I don’t expect any of that from you. All I want is for you to figure out if this is really the life a God who loves you would want for you. I don’t buy it anymore. I don’t know what I’m replacing it with, I just can’t hold on to beliefs that degrade the woman I love. Wherever you end up landing on this, it’s okay with me. But will you let yourself think about it? Ask the questions everyone always told you not to ask?”

It was the scariest thing anyone had ever urged me to do.

❧

Emmie strides up to me as I leave the fitting room. Seeing my empty hands, she says, “Oh bummer, I really thought you’d love that one!”

I hand her the tags from the top and bottom. “I do. I love it so much, I couldn’t take it off.” My grin is so wide, it probably looks fake. I don’t care.

“Now that’s how you know you got the right swimsuit,” she says as she walks me to the register. “When it makes you feel beautiful.”

“I am beautiful—so beautiful.”

Emmie cocks her head at my candor, and I realize I just became the odd person in the room. Again. My heart starts beating so forcefully, I wouldn’t be surprised if it broke through my chest and plopped down next to the register. Heat swamps the surface of my skin, from my cheeks to the smooth curves under my bikini top. I want to take my words back or make a self-deprecating joke. I am awkward—so awkward, I could say with a laugh.

But something urges me to stay quiet—a whisper I only started hearing recently. It comes from within, a place beyond skin and scruples, deeper than bones or blame. It’s a nook in my soul, small but expanding, formed by questions and answers and, most frightening and thrilling of all, questions that have no answers.

My previous words hover in the air. I add no explanations or apologies.

Emmie rings me up. Swiping my credit card, I inhale deeply, then let the breath go. I take my receipt, smile my thanks, and walk toward the exit. Sunlight beckons me through the glass door. As I open it, I draw another long breath, absorbing my body’s messages. The way the truth of my beauty heats my skin. The way my fast-beating heart reminds me I’m powerful and free.