I thought the news was good, but my son didn't feel that way. I'd let him on it during dinner, as we sat beside each other on the deck, taking in the view of the city below.
"You've seen how much of a strain they've been for me, so I think it'll just make things so much easier in the long run. You understand."
I'd told my son I was getting the breast reduction I'd wanted for so long, and suddenly he was regarding me as if I'd told him I was going to stop paying his tuition for college. His eyes were almost always kind, as blue as a tropical ocean and equally inviting, yet his anger could turn them dark in a heartbeat, as they were now — so much so that I had to pause for a moment and regroup.
"That it?" He asked me. "That all you have to say?"
"Well, yes," I said. "I don't think you realize how much of a constant hindrance they are."
I could feel them now, my embarrassing, heaving bosom overflowing from my sundress, hovering inches above the table top like massive watermelons.
"Robert says he'll do it free, if it's the money you're worried about. He's been so kind these last few months."
"If by 'kind' you mean he's wanted in your pants all that time."
"James — quit it."
As if my son's mood had affected the weather, the sun suddenly got lost in a cloud, and a gust picked up that pinned his shirt to his body. In that moment his carved pectorals became quite defined through the fabric, if not indecent, so prominent that I figured containing his tank of a chest must have been no different than the torture I went through with my breasts every day. I was sure the girls ogled at him just as the men did to me, and with that in mind, his lack of empathy grew frustrating.
"I'm done," James said, pushing his plate forward.
"Honey, I don't see what the big deal is. It won't affect you at all. And it's a quick surgery, I'll be in and out."
"It's not about me, or your health" he said stepping forward, picking up my plate along with his own. "It's this guy trying to buy his way into your panties. He's no better than all the rest of them, you realize that, right?"
"You just miss your father," I said under my breath, shaking my head. "I think that's all this is about."
He laughed. "Screw dad AND Robert. We're better off alone, if you ask me."
On that note, he went back inside. I'm not sure what he meant by that. He was only here for the summer before he went back to school, and so often I was alone. That was why I was so grateful for Robert. He'd approached me at a mutual friend's party, another surgeon that shared his office space, and we immediately hit it off. My son had been fine at one point with my seeing him, but with mention of this surgery, that all suddenly seemed to change.
I followed my son inside, and when I saw him doing the dishes I slipped away to the bathroom to freshen up. Even in my reflection, my breasts were all I could focus on. It was all anyone could focus on, it seemed. They'd started to grow in middle school, and by the time I graduated high school they were rather enormous, and even with their pillow like quality giving them a massive robustness, I'd been fine with them and all their added baggage (no pun intended) . . . up until recently. I'd noticed the very first signs of sag, my breasts straining at my already capsizing bras, and I made mention of it to Robert one night. I'd just turned thirty-five, and his offer to work on them coincided right with my finding them painful to carry around. Besides, I was fine with my other features — working out had left my backside firm and perky, and I'd been afforded the high cheekbones and full lips that all my friends squawked over when reading their gossip mags.
When I returned to the kitchen it was empty, and I found my son in the living room playing video games; he was splayed out on the couch, and his head was propped up on its arm. "There's you are," I said.
"Not right now," he said. He looked so darling when he was pouty. He'd recently started parting his hair like he was straight out of the fifties, a crisp pompadour that curled back and profiled his face into that of a gentleman's — yet right now he was shade too red, and his acting like a child brought out the maternal side in me.
"Now now, let mommy make it better," I said. I snuck in behind him, and he picked himself up just enough for me to swing my leg beneath him and hold his upper body up against my chest, my chin on his head. I stroked his shoulder like I used to do to calm him down, and rubbed his chest in a soothing manner.
"You going to tell me why you really got upset?" I asked.
He sighed. "You . . . look fine," he said. "I just don't get it."
I laughed a bit. "What's that suppose to mean, mister? You think I'm self-conscious?"
"No. It's just that this guy shouldn't be changing what's already perfect."
"Isn't that sweet," I said. I couldn't blame my son. His love for me — for my body — had been hardwired into him since he was an infant. He'd never wanted to let go of my breasts when he was nursing, and even when he was a toddler he'd try to sneak his way under my blouse or grab at my breasts through my shirt whenever he could.
"But it's not about my looks," I said. "They're painful, honey. It's for my health. Imagine trying to heave these things around everywhere."
He said nothing, and I thought I might've been distracting him from his game. I noticed that his head was squarely beneath my breasts, so much so that he'd propped them up to the point of their being on the brink of falling out of my dress. His body was so heavy, so strong, that I could feel myself pinned beneath his weight, and he must've been trying to relieve the pressure by repositioning his buttocks repeatedly, but it only managed to make my sundress slowly rise up.
"Did you ever think about if you have
more kids?" James said.
"Where's this coming from?" I asked.
"Well, I'd just hate the idea of them not having the same opportunity I had." He said this in an almost mournful voice, and right then "Game over" flashed on the television screen, and he directed his controller to turn the console off.
"The same opportunity? Did someone skip health class? I don't want any more kids – believe me, you're all the kid I need, James — but even if I did, my breasts would lactate still. If that's what you're worried about. We shouldn't even be talking about these sorts of things, honestly."
