“My uterus my Universe,” Samantha said, and that’s how the whole conversation began.
Turns out Samantha has endometriosis, which is why she’s always in so much pain when she gets her period. But it wasn’t until she got to LA that the pain became unbearable and she started throwing up, right in the middle of a photography shoot. When the photographer’s assistant found her nearly passed out on the bathroom floor, they insisted on calling an ambulance. She had to have her insides scraped out, and then they sent her back to New York, to rest.
“I’m going to be scarred for life,” Samantha moans now. She pulls down the top of her jeans to reveal two large Band-Aids on either side of her ridiculously flat stomach, and peels away the adhesive. Underneath is a large red welt with four stitches. “Look,” she commands.
“That’s awful,” Miranda concurs, her eyes shining with strange admiration. I was worried that Miranda and Samantha would hate each other, but instead, Miranda appears to have accepted Samantha’s position as top dog. She’s not only impressed with Samantha’s worldliness, but is doing her level best to get Samantha to like her. Which consists of agreeing with everything Samantha says.
Putting me in the position of being the disagreer. “I don’t care about scars. I think they add character.” I can never understand why women get so worked up about these tiny imperfections.
“Carrie,” Miranda scolds, shaking her head in accordance with Samantha’s distress.
“As long as Charlie never finds out,” Samantha says, leaning back against the cushions.
“Why should he care?” I ask.
“Because I don’t want him to know I’m not perfect, Sparrow. And if he calls, I need you to pretend I’m still in LA.”
“Fine.” It seems weird to me, but then again, the whole situation is weird, with the blackout and all. Perhaps it’s even Shakespearean. Like in
“Sparrow?” Miranda asks, jokingly.
I give her a dirty look as Samantha starts talking about my sex life with Bernard. “You have to admit, it’s odd,” she says, propping her feet on the pillows.
“He must be gay,” Miranda says from the floor.
“He’s not gay. He was
“All the more reason to be horny,” Samantha laughs.
“No guy dates a girl for a whole month without trying to have sex with her,” Miranda insists.
“We’ve had sex. We just haven’t had intercourse.”
“Honey, that ain’t sex. That’s what you do in sixth grade.” Samantha.
“Have you even seen it?” Miranda asks, giggling.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” I point my cigarette at her.
“It’s not one of those bendy ones, is it?” Miranda asks as she and Samantha chortle.
“No, it’s not. And I’m insulted,” I say, in faux outrage.
“Candles. And sexy lingerie. That’s what you need,” Samantha coos.
“I’ve never understood sexy lingerie. I mean, what’s the point? The guy’s only going to take it off,” I object.
Samantha flicks her eyes in Miranda’s direction. “That’s the trick. You don’t take it off right away.”
“You mean you run around his apartment in your underwear?” Me.
“You wear a fur coat. With sexy lingerie underneath.”
“I can’t afford a fur.” Miranda.
“Then wear a trench coat. Do I have to teach you guys everything about sex?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“Especially since Carrie’s still a virgin,” Miranda screams.
“Honey, I knew that. I knew it the moment she walked in.”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
“What I can’t understand is why you’re still one,” Samantha says. “I got rid of mine when I was fourteen.”
“How?” Miranda hiccups.
“The usual way. Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill and the back of a van.”
“I did it on my parents’ bed. They were away at a conference.”
“That is sick,” I say, pouring myself another drink.
“I know. I’m a very sick puppy,” Miranda says.
When is this blackout going to end?
“Babies! That’s all it’s about. Who ever knew the world would be all about babies?” Samantha shouts.
“Every time I see a baby, I swear, I want to throw up,” Miranda says.
“I did throw up once.” I nod eagerly. “I saw a filthy bib, and that was it.”
“Why don’t these people just get cats and a litter box?” Samantha asks.
“I will never call a guy. Never ever.” Samantha.
“What if you can’t help it?” Me.
“You have to help it.”
“It’s all about low self-esteem.” Miranda.
“You really should tell Charlie. About the procedure,” I say, feeling wobbly.
“Why should I?” Samantha asks.
“Because it’s what real people do.”
“I didn’t come to New York to be real.”
“Didja come here to be fake?” I slur.
“I came here to be new,” she says.
“I came here to be myself,” Miranda adds. “I couldn’t be, back home.”
“Me neither.” The room is spinning. “My mother died,” I murmur, just before I pass out.
When I come to, light is streaming into the apartment.
I’m lying on the floor under the coffee table. Miranda is curled up on the couch, snoring, which immediately makes me wonder if this was secretly the reason Marty broke up with her. I try to sit up, but my head feels like it weighs a million pounds. “Ow,” I say, putting it back down again.
Eventually I’m able to roll onto my stomach and crawl to the bathroom, where I take two aspirin and wash them down with the last of the bottled water. I stumble into Samantha’s bedroom and crumple up on the floor.
“Carrie?” she says, awoken by my banging.
“Yer?”
“What happened last night?”
“Blackout.”
“Damn.”
“And endometriosis.”
“Double damn.”
“And Charlie.”
“I didn’t call him last night, did I?”
“Couldn’t. Phones don’t work.”
“Are the lights still off?”
“Mmmm.”
Pause.
“Did your mother really die?”
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
