In the Pink Eye of the Beholder

Gloria was gorgeous. And worse, kind. As an adult, her beauty, her essence, didn't just stop traffic, it had the effect of seeming to stop time. Many a man lost minutes of his life he will never get back having caught a glimpse of Gloria, unable to avert his gaze until she was no longer in sight. The effect Gloria had on women was, of course, different, but equally profound. (I am convinced my own thigh density spontaneously increased by a good 20% in her presence.) Ironically, Gloria’s genuine passion was for making people feel good. And she’d always been that way, which is probably why the overwhelming jealousy I had of her when we were growing up, could never blossom into full-blown hatred.

I guess I should have been grateful that Gloria was my cousin and not my sister, or, God forbid, my mother. My therapist made more than a few mortgage payments from our sessions devoted to rehashing stories of my mother's well-intentioned attempts to "improve me” by making helpful suggestions of how to "be just a bit more like Gloria.”

When we were kids, making mud pies (which Gloria managed to never get on her clothes) or playing “Simon Says” (when she was rarely outsmarted by Simon and always looked elegant no matter what stupid gesture he commanded), her perfection, or rather my own feelings of inadequacy, were piercing. We could never go to the ice cream shop, get on a Ferris wheel, or just walk down the street with my mother and Aunt Patty without people feeling compelled to comment on her beauty and how well-behaved she was.

One summer, Aunt Patty and my mother signed Gloria and me up for swimming lessons. By the fourth day, while I continued to suck water in through my nose and choke every time I tried to swim from one side of the pool to the other, Gloria began her transformation into an awe-inspiring sea nymph; her arms gracefully moving through the water, kicking with minimal splash, preparing for what could have been her award-winning water ballet career had she decided to pursue it.

After the third time, the instructor said "Everyone watch Gloria,” I began imagining life without Gloria. As I stood in the shallow end of the pool, coughing, chlorine stinging the back of my throat, I began to fantasize that I was brave enough to push Gloria’s beautiful, perfect blond head under the water and hold it there, blocking out the look of bewilderment and terror on her face with the brilliant dream of my new life, free of the tyranny of trying to be "just a bit more” like her.

“Leah, come back to the deep end. I think I figured out why you are having trouble," Gloria said, breaking me out of my homicidal reverie.

While the teacher had virtually given up on me after my fifth embarrassing attempt to make it from one side of the pool to the other, Gloria still saw my potential.

“You're pulling your head out of the water when you turn to it to breathe. Keep the side of your head flat when you turn it. It will help you keep moving forwards.” She was right. and as a result of taking her suggestion, I learned to swim, rather than becoming a juvenescent murderer.

Jealous as I was, I couldn't help loving Gloria, and we really did have a great time together. I probably have Gloria to thank for my career as a writer. When we were kids I wrote goofy stories and Gloria rallied the neighborhood kids to come act them out with us.

One Christmas, Gloria insisted I play the princess in my story, "The Roller-Skating Princess.” (A lot of us kids had gotten roller skates for Christmas so a play in which we got to wear them was a must.) I was shocked. Me, a princess? I said I thought she should be the princess, and, frankly, so did everyone else. But Gloria was adamant. She even relinquished her new red satin headband for me to use as a crown.

The headband didn't look nearly as lovely in my wiry, strawberry blond hair as it did smoothing back her silken black mane, but I do remember feeling just a little bit pretty that day.

Gloria's family moved out of town when she was eleven, after which we only saw them once a year, on Thanksgiving. That time apart gave me the space to build some self-esteem not wholly motivated by the need to be like her… not rock-solid-into-the-stratosphere-self-esteem, mind you, but it was something.

Certainly, during those years I still got to hear about the various clubs Gloria led, the awards she won, and the "lovely young men” she dated, via reliable old mom. But not having her in physical proximity was a nice vacation for my flagellated ego. Being “average” seemed less like a crime with Gloria a few 100 miles away. And yet, I missed her.

As adults, Gloria and I didn't see each other for years, but she always sent me a card on my birthday and when I got my own column in the New York Times, it was Gloria who sent me a bouquet of flowers and a note that read, "Way to go, Pink!" (She had nicknamed me Pink when I was a kid, obsessed with Nellie Bly, whose own childhood nickname was Pink.)

Aunt Patty and Uncle Adam had passed away by the time Gloria moved back to the city to work for “Stuffed with Love,” a nonprofit that sent gift baskets of basic necessities, dry goods, and stuffed animals for children to underdeveloped countries. We tried to get together shortly after her arrival, but Gloria had hit the ground running and at the time I was on a deadline for my second book, Taste This! The 1000 Best Desserts in America… and Where to Find Them. (So much for being the next Nellie Bly.)

We traded phone calls for a couple of weeks until one day I received a voicemail.

“This is ridiculous, Leah! We simply must see each other. I’m sending you tickets to my fundraiser. It's at The Ritz. There will be a lovely party, then we’ll go up to my suite and have a sleepover like old times. One night off won’t kill you. Alright? Alright,” and then she hung up.

The next day she sent a messenger over with two tickets for which New York's elite were paying $1000 a pop. I only needed one, having recently flambéd yet another relationship. (I'd broken my number one rule: Never date a chef.)

When I walked into the ballroom I spotted Gloria on the far side surrounded by men in tuxedos, her chin pointed slightly skyward, nodding as one of them conveyed what he clearly believed was a riveting story. Her half-smile and twinkling eyes were enough to give him hope he had a chance with her (which might secure a donation for her cause), but not so much that she could not claim culpable deniability should she need to.

If it was possible, she was even more beautiful than I had remembered. She wore a backless, floor-length emerald green dress, stunning with her long black hair. Perfectly matched shoes, too, of course. I suddenly felt like I'd been dressed by a color-blind person with a passion for thrift stores. Gloria saw me and quickly excused herself.

She threw her arms around me. "Leah, you look fabulous! I’m so glad you're here." And she meant it. Despite the sudden resurfacing of some second-banana troll feelings, it was really good to see her.

"Me too," I said.

I searched her face for fine lines. None. Dammit. I caught myself raising my eyebrows and crafting an odd Mona Lisa sort of smile in an attempt to quickly smooth the creases that had recently begun to make their homes between my eyebrows and at the sides of my mouth.

“You look exactly the same,” she said, beaming at me. She gave me another quick hug.

”Thank you,” I said, vaguely gesturing around the room and trying not to make it sound like a question. “And you look gorgeous."

“Oh, thanks so much,” she said. “But how about your book? Your mother says this one is about the country's best desserts, right? How fun was that?”

“It was thigh-licious!" I quipped, wishing for a rewrite.

Gloria had every reason to be self-centered and self-absorbed, especially that night, yet still, after all those years, she was gracious and generous, asking me about a book people only bought when they needed a white elephant gift for the company holiday party.

I tried not to notice what seemed like hundreds of male eyes trained on her as she led me to the perfect light buffet she’d selected to impress all the black-tied deep pockets attending the event. Noting Gloria's flawless shoulders I wondered how she didn't sit for hours stroking her own buttery skin. Yet I suspected she rarely gave her complexion much of a thought.

I pondered asking what her secret was, but instead mumbled something about the world needing another food book as much as a kitchen needs another cook who has a “blamtastic!” idea for a competitive reality show. (It was writing I had fallen into, that paid well, meant little, and that I couldn't seem to get out of.)

“But Leah, you don't just write about food. You have a whole different spin, and your very first book was a bestseller! And hilarious, too, I might add."

I felt embarrassed by her lavish praise, oddly naked and childlike. Suddenly, I had a powerful urge to abscond to the ladies' lounge, the platter of crab cakes for company. I grabbed a solitary spinach canapé instead and mumbled a barely audible "Thank you" as a bit into it, somehow willing myself to not eat it all in one bite.

“No one with you, tonight, Leah?”

“No, I'm a free agent,” I said, hoping to sound worldly and confident and praying there was not the usual errant piece of green stuck behind my right eyetooth, which was pretty standard for me after consuming any green leafy vegetable.

“Ah, yes. Me as well."

“Really? I thought you were dating someone pretty seriously."

“Oh, I was, but… Well, let's just say, there has been a priority realignment." “Huh,” I said, not knowing what I meant or what else to say.

“You mingle,” she said."There are lots of delightful folks here. Boys and girls. Have fun. I have to make some rounds but let's hook up again in half an hour or so, before the entertainment. I put you at the front table with me. Afterward, we’ll go upstairs, get in our jammies and do some real catching up, OK? "

I did not mingle. I hid behind my glass of Chardonnay and hoped no one would recognize me from the picture that ran in my weekly column. Some people did and inevitably, such people would ask, "What's it like… eating for a living?” or “HOW are you not as big as a house?"

The night really was delightful. The entertainment was incredible; hip hop dancers, dancing with giant “stuffed animal” holograms, and a special appearance by Tituss Burgess singing “Circle of Life” from The Lion King, in a celestial octave that brought down the house. Gloria was an equally bright star when she thanked everyone from the podium.

Champagne flowed. Fancy pens wrote checks with multiple commas.

When it was all over, I had to go to my car to get my overnight bag. At the elevator, Gloria handed me the key card. "You can let yourself in just in case I’m in the bathroom… in the buff." She winked at me. A man walking down the hall turned around, and his eyes widened. We burst into laughter, as the elevator closed on Gloria’s giggling face and I ran toward my car.

This shared laugh was an homage to a memory from years before, the day we learned what "in the buff” meant. Gloria and I had been eavesdropping on a whispered conversation Mom and Aunt Patty were having about some neighbor caught with a life insurance salesman "in the buff.” Gloria and I had giggled like crazy and were thrilled when we found it meant exactly what we expected.

I got my bag and took the elevator to the penthouse floor. I put the key card in the door, it opened and I began to walk in, but what I saw stopped me. Gloria was sitting on the edge of the bed, a clump of hair in her hand. She was crying. I had never seen Gloria cry.

In all the years I had known my cousin, I had never seen her anything but ebullient, even when we were kids. Once she had fallen and skinned her knee playing tag. She’d gotten right up, run inside, grabbed a Band-aid, and was back in the game within ten minutes. All without a tear shed. Now, she was crying. It was like watching an angel bleed.

"Gloria, are you all right?"

Of course, she wasn't all right and I felt like an idiot for asking, but those were the words that found their way out of my mouth.

She gave a little shrug. “Well… I have cancer.” I stood there dumbfounded.

Then she flashed her best beauty pageant grin, raised the handful of hair in the air like a trophy, and said, "Started chemo, though!"

I had no idea what to say. I walked over and sat down next to her. She said that she felt great. No nausea, only a little tired.

"I guess this makes it official though,” she said, looking down at the hair in her hand.

She said the odds weren't good. "But, you gotta try, right, Leah? I mean there are bears that need to get to Burundi and pandas that… Well, you gotta try.”

She said she didn't want to tell anyone yet, that she didn't want anyone to worry or fuss. She’d broken up with "Mr. Serious” because she didn't want to put him through it all.

“Who's going with you to your treatments?" I asked. “Is someone staying with you?"

“I don't want to put anyone out. I can handle it. Truth is, I feel great, hairball in hand notwithstanding." “That's ridiculous, Gloria. I’m moving in.”

I had no idea what I was saying. What did I know about taking care of anyone? Sometimes I forgot to feed my own cat. And without near-constant phone calls from my agent, deadlines could easily pass me by. Nevertheless, I knew what I was supposed to do. I never did what I was supposed to do, but this time I was going to.

“What? No.”

“It's not a question, or a suggestion, Gloria. You are not going through this alone.” I had no idea where I got such a backbone all of a sudden. I said yes to writing whole books that I didn’t even care about. But, there they were suddenly, my missing ovaries.

“But what about your book?"

“What? You don't have room for an extra laptop at your place? Besides, it's practically finished, and furthermore, deadline or no deadline, no one is waiting with bated breath for the best-kept secret vegan joints in Chicago. P.S., they’re secret for a reason.”

She laughed, which somehow made me feel like my idea wasn’t completely insane.

“Plus, I want to keep a close watch on my number one, perhaps only, fan. I’ve still got bakeries sending me free stuff wherever I want it sent. And I know a guy in Rhode Island who makes pot brownies. Medical marijuana’s legal there. His partner’s a doctor, so… Okay, you did not hear that last part. The point is, Ma’am, I am perfect for this position because I come with free dessert and can help with any—… It’s happening.” I felt like an idiot, drawing attention to possible symptoms from chemo. Her eyes glistened.

“Alright, kid, but just so you know…” she held the hairball close to my face, “Things could get hairy.”

The week after the benefit I moved into Gloria’s condo and turned her office into what she called the "Florence Nightingale Suite."

I lived with her for eleven weeks. I took her to chemotherapy sessions, which, as I expected, made her sick and caused more hair loss. She asked me to help her go bald when it became obvious all of her hair would fall out anyway.

She sat on a stool in front of the mirrored dressing table next to her bed. As I put a new blade in the razor I realized how nervous I was. I couldn't remember the last time I had shaved my own legs and not come out of the shower bleeding.

I lathered up her head which was already covered in fine, baby chick hair, took a deep breath, then gently pulled the razor across her skull, grateful I had stopped at only one cup of coffee that morning. I managed to not leave her bleeding. When I was done we both stared at her image in the mirror. Silent. Her head was pale and bluish, a stark contrast to her still light caramel-tanned face. Her dark eyes still sparkled.

“Hey, Leah. Wanna make a wish?”

Had someone been listening it would have sounded self-pitying, morbid, and obvious. Weren’t we both already wishing the same thing?

But I knew what she meant. This was a reference to Gloria’s father, my Uncle Adam, who was the kindest of men and had a large bald head that the neighborhood kids rub for luck before important tests or big sporting events. He told us we had to really concentrate and rub twice counterclockwise in a circle, then once clockwise, then swoop our hand down, where his hand would be waiting for a “low down” slap. Then he’d wink at us and say, “Who loves ya, baby?”

A lot of the boys stopped caressing his slick crown pretty early on, but I was convinced the magic in Gloria came from Uncle Adam, so I swirled my grubby hands over his generous noggin every chance I got. And when I was applying to Columbia and he was in town on a business trip and came over to our house for dinner one night I did not decline to make a wish, swipe left twice, right once, and come down with a hearty slap on his beefy paw. My parents blamed him for the tuition bill.

I did exactly the same for Gloria, the single most beautiful bald person I’d ever seen.

“Who loves ya, baby?” She winked. I ran to get pot brownies and suggested we watch “Friends.”

One afternoon, when I was reading to her from The New Yorker Gloria said, "Leah, I gotta go." “OK,” I said, pulling her covers back.

“I don't think I can get up on my own," she said. She had been getting weaker by the day.

"Oh, OK," I said, not knowing what to do and feeling like an idiot for putting off buying a bedpan."

“I’ll carry you.” I had no idea if I was strong enough, but again, Gloria seemed to not doubt my abilities at all. She put her arms around my neck and I picked her up like a baby. She didn't feel much heavier than one. I could feel the bones through her thin skin. I remember the day I imagined drowning her so I could feel more comfortable just walking around in my own skin and felt hot from the shame of it.

“Hey, remember when we took swimming lessons together?” she whispered as if reading my mind. “You mean, when you taught me to swim?”

“No, I didn't. Did I? I don't remember that.”

I expected some karmic reward for everything I’d recycled since 1980. Gloria really didn't remember that without her I might still need a life jacket at adult pool parties.

She held on to me as I stood in front of the toilet and pulled her panties down her birdlike legs, which had once been so enviably athletic and curvy. The hair had fallen out of her pubic region as well. As she sat on the toilet and urinated, she laid her bald head against my thigh. When she was done I pulled her up, gently wiped her, then wiggled her panties up over her bony hips. She put her head on my shoulder.

“Thank you, Leah.” Her breathing was ragged and shallow.

“Gloria, there is no–“

“Just thank you, OK?” She looked at me with eyes that were now too round and big for her thin face. There were dark circles under them. She looked like a lemur, small and weak, but her eyes seemed to scream out, “I’m still here!” Still here and still, in a different way, so beautiful.

She died two weeks later. Very little else was said during that time. She was in a lot of pain. A hospice nurse came by to administer morphine.

She would go in and out of consciousness, and I wasn't certain if she was aware of me at all at times, but the nurse said that most likely she could hear me, even if she didn't respond.

The day Gloria died I was sitting in a chair next to her bed, reading her a letter from a kid in Gambia, in my best Gambian accent, which was really just an imitation of my high school German teacher and completely politically incorrect, but I was desperate to make her laugh. ”I am happy for my unicorn, our donkeys here do not have horns.” That got me. I dropped the accent. There was an arrow to turn the page over. “Haha. Just kidding. That’s for a joke. I know unicorns are just for not real wishing. Her name I call Sabahat anyway. Thank you for her and me, Nyima.”

I snorted, then swallowed hard thinking, “Ya gotta try, right kid?” Then I heard little puffs of air. I looked up from the letter. Gloria was gasping a tiny laugh. I started laughing too.

Gloria’s big, lemur eyes closed and she was gone.

I knew the next steps. Get up, call people, make arrangements. But I just sat there staring at her. I don't know how long.

Then I just collapsed across her still, frail body, sobbing like I never had, nor have since. Hot, wet tears poured down my face and I wailed like I’d seen women at the graves of children, deep and primal. Grief, shame, jealousy, years of not knowing how to be who I wanted to be, nor who I was.

I felt her bony chest poke into my cheek and could smell the baby powder I put under her arms to prevent her from chafing. I cried until I had nothing left in me; no tears, no voice, nothing. Then I got up to call the people she had written on a list she had gracefully titled “Afterwards.”

I caught my reflection in the dressing table mirror. My hair was wiry, pointing in all directions. My face was a swollen beet-red, freckled backdrop for startled-looking, bloodshot eyes evocative of an “After Meth” mug shot.

But as I stood over Gloria’s still body, I knew something had changed. Somehow my time with her, all the moments I spent not thinking of myself, that last laugh we shared together, and perhaps just letting myself let it all go right there in buckets of sobs where Gloria had also let herself go, had smoothed the sharp, piercing edges of my self-loathing and feelings of inadequacy.

Somehow, some of that certain something Gloria possessed so much of naturally had seeped a little into me. Somehow, I could see it in my reflection, that in her most weakened and vulnerable state, without even trying, Gloria had performed her final philanthropic act, and helped me become "just a bit more like her.”

Inspiration for “In the Pink Eye of the Beholder”

In the year preceding the writing of this short story, my perception of what “beautiful” actually is, and whether or not being beautiful makes one's life easier or makes a person immune to suffering, radically shifted. “In the Pink Eye of the Beholder” is a tribute to the lessons I learned.

Below are some pointed examples that have come across my path and stuck with me, reaffirming that new perspective.

Jacqui Saburido was burned over 60% of her body after a drunk driver hit her and her car burst into flames. She said allowed herself only five minutes a day to cry and feel sorry for herself. (She died in 2019 at 40 from cancer.)

Lizzie Velásquez is a motivational speaker, activist and author. She was born with an extremely rare congenital disease that resulted in severe bullying during her childhood. During her teenage years, she faced cyber bullying, which ultimately inspired her to take up motivational speaking. The hashtag she has popularized on Instagram is #DaretobeKind.

Krist Angielen Castro Guzman, a 35-year-old nurse, wife, and mother of three young children, one of them just 5 months old, died of COVID-19 during a pandemic that has taken more than 566,000 American lives do far. Though so many sacrifices should not have been necessary, they are nothing, if not beautiful.