I Finally Give Back

I Finally Give Back

Soft sobs might have been missed if anyone else was in the bathroom. Eavesdropping with the illusion of concern, I peek under the stall, see an aluminum walking cane’s feet. This feels like a college dormitory bathroom, one where I might walk in on a weeping girl, but Twilight Zone-ish. I finally ask, “Need any toilet paper?”

I wipe, stand, zip and wait for a response that’s a long time coming. Washing my hands, I hear, “Please. Yes, I need help. I can’t reach my bag on the door’s hook.”

Puzzled, I reach over the stall and lift a bulky bag to me. “Should I slide it to you under the door?” “No,” she says, “I can’t bend to reach it.” “Could you tell me what you need and I could hand it to you under the stall wall?”

I feel clever. She doesn’t reply right away. “I guess,” she says, “that’s the best way to go about it.”

I move into the neighboring stall, “What do you need?” She sounds defeated when she asks me to collect one of the incontinence briefs from the pocket with the zipper. I try to be unceremonious —the white rectangle disappears quickly.

“I’ll just—” I stop. I cradle her bag by a sink. When she swings open her door, cane in hand, she looks proud, as if she readjusted her spirit when she wrestled with her diaper.

She looks me up and down.

“Thank you,” she says and leans her cane against the sink’s lip while she washes her hands.

“You know,” she says, watching bubbles slide into the drain, “it’s a bitch.” I don’t reply. She wouldn’t hear me over the motor and whine of the hand-drying machine. I smile and hand her bag to her as she turns to walk three legged from the small room.

“Sometimes, you hate your body,” she turns in retreat. “Sometimes, you want to kiss every part.”