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* * *
You wonder most of your waking hours if you want to be Angela Ziegler or if you want to kiss her.
You think about whom you really want to be—your mother—and how your mother is everything the doctor isn’t. She is coarse and strong and proud and she smells of smoke and gunpowder. You’ve worn her beret. You’ve cradled her sniper. And that was when you felt the most like you you’ve ever felt.
The doctor, she is none of these things. She is elegant and clean and reserved. She smells like bleach and rubbing alcohol. You’ve worn her lab coat. It’s stiff in the shoulders, and it feels empty somehow. She is nothing like your mother at all, and it would not make sense for you to want to be both of them, to be two contradictory things, at the same time.
You think you want to be something the doctor finds desirable.
You see her in the hall, lingering by the windows of the gym, watching Jesse and Jack and Gabe and Uncle Reinhardt through the glass. They are all big, strong men (well, Jesse isn’t but you’ll humor him when he flexes for you later that evening at dinner), all deserving of the doctor’s attention. The doctor pinches the end of her pen between her pearly white teeth as she watches on, and you watch her, mesmerized.
You’ve grown, as your mother promised you would, and you are as tall as the doctor is now, at sixteen, and you will likely grow more. You are tall, but you are not feminine like she is. You are clumsy and gangly. You are unformed clay.
You don’t think that matters so much when you see the doctor staring at the boys in the gym. They are graceful, like she is, and you aren’t, but there is something, too, in their strong physiques, that appeals to you much more than the idea of being able to wear the skimpy witch costume the doctor wore three Halloweens ago.
Uncle Reinhardt calls out to the two of you. “Angela, little Amari, why don’t you ladies join us?” he bellows as he spots Jack.
Dr. Ziegler turns to you then, a bit surprised it seems to find you there. She offers you a kind smile and tilts her head toward the gym. “I can’t, but you should.” She winks at you. “Doctor’s orders.” Her blonde ponytail swings when she turns to walk down the hallway. You catch yourself admiring the silhouette she cuts in her lab coat.
If she wants you to be big and strong, you will be.
You want to be for yourself. You’ve already acquired some muscle in preparation for your admittance to the army. It’s not the first time you’ve exercised with these boys, nor will it be the last.
Jesse throws you a clean towel, and you meet him on the mats to stretch. “The doc ain’t joinin’ us?” he asks.
“No, she was just ogling you boys. She has work to do,” you say, and you don’t like the bitter tone you take. It doesn’t become you.
Jesse scratches the back of his head, flustered. “Ah, I don’t think so. Probably wanted to make sure we weren’t doin’ anything stupid, keepin’ hydrated—doctor stuff.” You think that isn’t so unreasonable to presume. It certainly sounds like something she would do. “Besides,” he says, scratching his cheek, “I don’t really think the doc fancies the fellas. If anything, she’s probably ogling your ma.”
“Gross! Jesse!” you sputter, and he throws his head back in laughter.
“Man, Ana Amari,” he sighs dreamily, “she was somethin’ at that Halloween party of ’41.”
“Jesse,” you growl, and he grins at you.
“Hate to be the one to break this to you, Far, but your ma is one stone cold fox.”
You slug him in the arm and work out harder than you usually do, bench more than you usually can. You consider that maybe the doctor wore that witch costume to impress your mother, and it makes you work even harder.
When you lie in bed that night, aching all over, your head is clearer. You think about how you and the doctor are not so different. If she really does like your mother, as nauseating a thought that may be, she is in the same situation you are in: a girl, vying for the attention of an older, more experienced woman, hoping desperately she will someday be enough. You find comfort in that thought.
* * *
Despite all your efforts, Dr. Ziegler never gives you the time of day. You imagine the moment you leave for deployment, she’ll sweep you up in her arms and kiss you and profess her undying love. Those are just fantasies you entertain to pass the time. You know this because the moment do you leave, she doesn’t so much as hug you. Instead she watches from the side, smiling politely, and you can’t help but feel she cares more about your mother’s reaction to you leaving than your actually leaving.
You delight in the fact that she hates war—that she must hate you, by association.
Of course, you know that isn’t true. You know that Angela Ziegler doesn’t hate the things she disagrees with, but it helps you forget her in your absence. The golden light of her memory is dim in your mind, until she’s this forgotten warmth that doesn’t hurt anymore to remember
You wonder most of your waking hours if you want to be Angela Ziegler or if you want to kiss her.
You think about whom you really want to be—your mother—and how your mother is everything the doctor isn’t. She is coarse and strong and proud and she smells of smoke and gunpowder. You’ve worn her beret. You’ve cradled her sniper. And that was when you felt the most like you you’ve ever felt.
The doctor, she is none of these things. She is elegant and clean and reserved. She smells like bleach and rubbing alcohol. You’ve worn her lab coat. It’s stiff in the shoulders, and it feels empty somehow. She is nothing like your mother at all, and it would not make sense for you to want to be both of them, to be two contradictory things, at the same time.
You think you want to be something the doctor finds desirable.
You see her in the hall, lingering by the windows of the gym, watching Jesse and Jack and Gabe and Uncle Reinhardt through the glass. They are all big, strong men (well, Jesse isn’t but you’ll humor him when he flexes for you later that evening at dinner), all deserving of the doctor’s attention. The doctor pinches the end of her pen between her pearly white teeth as she watches on, and you watch her, mesmerized.
You’ve grown, as your mother promised you would, and you are as tall as the doctor is now, at sixteen, and you will likely grow more. You are tall, but you are not feminine like she is. You are clumsy and gangly. You are unformed clay.
You don’t think that matters so much when you see the doctor staring at the boys in the gym. They are graceful, like she is, and you aren’t, but there is something, too, in their strong physiques, that appeals to you much more than the idea of being able to wear the skimpy witch costume the doctor wore three Halloweens ago.
Uncle Reinhardt calls out to the two of you. “Angela, little Amari, why don’t you ladies join us?” he bellows as he spots Jack.
Dr. Ziegler turns to you then, a bit surprised it seems to find you there. She offers you a kind smile and tilts her head toward the gym. “I can’t, but you should.” She winks at you. “Doctor’s orders.” Her blonde ponytail swings when she turns to walk down the hallway. You catch yourself admiring the silhouette she cuts in her lab coat.
If she wants you to be big and strong, you will be.
You want to be for yourself. You’ve already acquired some muscle in preparation for your admittance to the army. It’s not the first time you’ve exercised with these boys, nor will it be the last.
Jesse throws you a clean towel, and you meet him on the mats to stretch. “The doc ain’t joinin’ us?” he asks.
“No, she was just ogling you boys. She has work to do,” you say, and you don’t like the bitter tone you take. It doesn’t become you.
Jesse scratches the back of his head, flustered. “Ah, I don’t think so. Probably wanted to make sure we weren’t doin’ anything stupid, keepin’ hydrated—doctor stuff.” You think that isn’t so unreasonable to presume. It certainly sounds like something she would do. “Besides,” he says, scratching his cheek, “I don’t really think the doc fancies the fellas. If anything, she’s probably ogling your ma.”
“Gross! Jesse!” you sputter, and he throws his head back in laughter.
“Man, Ana Amari,” he sighs dreamily, “she was somethin’ at that Halloween party of ’41.”
“Jesse,” you growl, and he grins at you.
“Hate to be the one to break this to you, Far, but your ma is one stone cold fox.”
You slug him in the arm and work out harder than you usually do, bench more than you usually can. You consider that maybe the doctor wore that witch costume to impress your mother, and it makes you work even harder.
When you lie in bed that night, aching all over, your head is clearer. You think about how you and the doctor are not so different. If she really does like your mother, as nauseating a thought that may be, she is in the same situation you are in: a girl, vying for the attention of an older, more experienced woman, hoping desperately she will someday be enough. You find comfort in that thought.
* * *
Despite all your efforts, Dr. Ziegler never gives you the time of day. You imagine the moment you leave for deployment, she’ll sweep you up in her arms and kiss you and profess her undying love. Those are just fantasies you entertain to pass the time. You know this because the moment do you leave, she doesn’t so much as hug you. Instead she watches from the side, smiling politely, and you can’t help but feel she cares more about your mother’s reaction to you leaving than your actually leaving.
You delight in the fact that she hates war—that she must hate you, by association.
Of course, you know that isn’t true. You know that Angela Ziegler doesn’t hate the things she disagrees with, but it helps you forget her in your absence. The golden light of her memory is dim in your mind, until she’s this forgotten warmth that doesn’t hurt anymore to remember
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