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Sally Goodwin

It wasn’t that she was hard to get along with, my mother. Not really. I do remember that she was firm when dealing with the help. She wanted things done her own way. We had a cook and a housekeeper, and James who looked after the outdoor chores. If you did your job and performed to her expectations, she was quite pleasant. If not, then she could be quite direct. Still, with my father gone most of the time and eventually out of the picture completely, she managed the household at Brookwood very efficiently.

I think I must have been six or seven when she began to need a personal assistant. Seven, yes, that’s right. Sis was at boarding school and home for her tenth birthday, and Mother’s situation had gotten to the point where she needed someone in the house full time to assist her. Although the rest of the family knew she had Muscular Dystrophy, she described her situation as ‘just not feeling herself today’ or other phrases. As a seven year old, I only knew she was frustrated and angered by the weakness she found so inappropriate.

It was under these circumstances that Sarah Goodwin and her daughter Sally came to stay at Brookwood. Mother had interviewed a number of women and settled on Mrs. Goodwin partly because she was a sturdy, healthy woman, intelligent and well enough educated to be a reasonable companion and partly because our place could accommodate a woman with a daughter who required some help of her own.

Sarah Goodwin was single now. Her husband had died in the military and while she had some pension from the government, she still needed the income to make a decent life for herself and her daughter. Little Sally, her mother had explained, had been born physically disabled and required assistance in the mornings and at various times through the day. In exchange for the extra room and time required to assist Sally, Mrs. Goodwin offered to work for my mother at rate that appealed to Mother’s managerial outlook.

I remember hearing some of the discussions as I listened through the closed parlor doors.

“No, she’s not mentally handicapped,” Mrs. Goodwin was saying. “She’s really very bright. I’ve been teaching her her school work and she’s right up with her age level. Perhaps a bit ahead.”

My mother had sounded pleased with that. “So she’s paralyzed, then? Or an illness? What exactly is the little girl’s problem?”

“No, Ma’am,” Mrs. Goodwin had said. “She’s perfectly healthy and everything she’s got works perfectly. Perhaps we could...”

At that point, I recall, Cook had come across me listening at the doors and I scampered back up to my room. That night all kinds of images danced in my young mind. What was this little girl like? Pictures from my books of fairy tales appeared and as quickly disappeared. Was she like a Centaur, part girl, part horse? Or perhaps a Mermaid with a long sparkling tail? Maybe, I thought, she could have wings like an Angel and be able to fly.

Two weeks later Mrs. Goodwin and her daughter came to stay at Brookwood and my questions were answered.

Sally was a pert, chatty little curly-headed blonde. Sitting in her wheelchair, she looked pretty much like most kids her age. No horse’s body, no shiny tail and certainly no wings.

But then again, she didn’t have any legs, either. Or arms.

It was an image that has stayed with me these twenty years. Pretty little girl in a peach colored dress, looking at me with big, smiling, blue eyes.

“Hello,” she said to me. She wiggled around in her chair and while she didn’t have anything you could call shoulders, managed to make the tiny sleeve of her dress flap in a sort of wave. “My name’s Sally. What’s your name?”

I looked across the study to my wife, relaxed on the divan, reading a magazine.

“Do you remember when we first met?”

“What dear?” She looked up. The blond curls were auburn now, but the eyes were as blue as the day we met.

“Do you remember that first day when your mother and you moved in to Brookwood?”

“Of course I do. That was a very big day for Mom and me. I was so full of questions. Going to this big house and Mom said there was a little boy my age. Certainly I remember. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking back. I remember I had all these fantasies about what you’d be like.”

“Fantasies? About me? Like what?”

I spoke about the images I had conjured up from my children’s books.

“I guess you must have been pretty disappointed when this kid with no wings or fancy tail shows up.”

“No, I wasn’t. I was fascinated.”

“You were so cute,” Sally said. “ I really didn’t know what to expect either. You were the first boy my age I’d ever seen. I remember you were standing there in that little suit, all dressed up.”

“Right. And I remember you waved at me and asked me my name.”

“So I did. Do you know how long it took me to figure out how to flip my sleeve like that?”

“A long time?”

“Forever! See, I just knew that you’d be expecting to shake hands or something with whoever this new girl was and I knew I couldn’t do that or much of anything else and Mom wanted me to stay in the wheelchair for that first day at least. So I figured if it looked like I was waving, that would do it.”

“I still don’t know quite how you did that.” I gazed at Sally, stretched out on her tummy on the divan. Where shoulders should be there is only a tiny button that breaks the smooth line from her neck to the rest of her torso. On those rare days when she wears a top the contour appears unbroken.

“Mom must have tried a dozen dresses on me ‘til we found one that fit just tight enough around my chest so it would move when I wiggled my little collarbone. I finally found out that if I did that and moved my neck at just the right moment it would make the sleeve flap. Neat, eh?”

“Certainly was. I don’t remember you wearing dresses much after that though.”

“I really hated to be bound up in clothes even then. Any kind of clothes. I mean, here I was, all full of energy and wanting to run around just like you did and Mom wanted to let me do as much as I could, but couldn’t have me rolling around on the ground in decent clothes she could barely afford, so she just made me sit in the chair and look pretty. Hated it. I guess clothes began to represent a kind of bondage to me or something. Funny, most girls love clothes. Not little Sally, that’s for sure. I mean clothes are pretty and all that, but oh, you know that story.”

The lamplight glowed on the sensuous curve of Sally’s back. She has perfect skin.

“How did you work things out with your mother? I seem to remember you rolling around on the floor or doing your wobbly version of walking pretty much au natural.”

“Same deal as with the prosthetics. Remember how I said that I just threw one tantrum after another until she said I could go without the artificial arms and legs? Talk about confining! Whew! Any how I didn’t want to pull the same stunt exactly, so I kept at her and just wouldn’t do half the things I could perfectly well do for myself, like eat, or do my homework, stuff like that. Finally she let me go around just in shorts and those I wriggled out of as soon as she got out of sight. Mom’s a closet Naturist anyhow, so it wasn’t really too hard.”

“I remember my mother’s reaction,” I said. She was sitting on the garden bench having tea with a woman from The Landscape Association and here you came, wriggling around the corner on the grass, not a stitch on and I remember you switched yourself around so you’d pass by with your head toward them instead of your whirling bottom. Very considerate. I think you were headed to the croquet court or something.”

“Right. I really enjoyed being outdoors and being able to roll around and the soft grass tickling my body. I liked to go around and smell the flowers that James took such care of. It was so much more fun than just sitting propped up in that wheelchair. I think I was chasing the cat at the time. Remember her? The one with the white paws? I remember that. I was eight that summer. That woman was wearing this huge hat with a purple ribbon on it. Right?”

“Right, and all my mother said was: ‘Try to get up and walk more, dear. People have much more respect for when you stand up.’ Not a word about you lack of clothes. Remember?”

“She was neat, your mother. She was right, too. Image and attitude were very important to her and in a lot of respects I think she was right on the button. I think it was her interest that really encouraged me to keep on trying to balance myself upright and rock along that way instead of rolling around on the ground. Walking, if you could call it that, without any legs at all was really slow going for me at that age and I was so full of energy and impatience. I’d probably have kept spinning along like some kind of animal for years if it hadn’t been for her.”

“I remember you toppled over a lot.”

“Oh, sure. I had a terrible time keeping my balance in those days. Wasn’t ‘til my body started to develop and my hips broadened a bit that I really got to be able to walk the way I can now. But it was fun to feel the grass under my bottom as I was learning to walk. Barefoot in the grass. That was the winter I decided to be able to go up and down stairs by myself. Remember?”

“Oh, indeed I do. You had this caterpillar kind of technique at first, then you worked out that way of holding a balustrade under your chin and swinging your bottom up to the next step. I remember you took a few tumbles, too.”

“For sure. One time I was almost to the top and lost it and went head over tail all the way to the bottom. Your mother was a little concerned, but she checked me out and pronounced me fit as...’fit as a fiddle,’ that’s what she said.”

“She wanted to make sure you had the utmost in social graces, too.”

“Oh, yes.” Sally giggled. She has a wonderful playful giggle. “Your Mom got pretty agitated when she came in and saw me trying to put a third spoonful of sugar in my tea!”

“I suspect it wasn’t the amount of sugar, my dear!”

“So OK, it was the way I was holding the spoon. But dear heart, I was just trying to be elegant and you can’t carry on a high tone conversation with a spoon handle in your mouth.”

“True, but I think she was more taken aback by the alternative you chose.”

Sally giggled again. “People always make such a fuss over that. I suppose it was a little shocking for her to see me trying to hold a spoon in my little place down there that most women of her generation can barely admit even exists!”

“She did have a hard time with that.”

“So did my Mom. I remember the first time she saw me trying to pick up a crayon in my pinkie and she just stood there with her hand to her mouth. I was rolling all around trying to get a grip on this blue crayon and the paper had gotten wet and come off and it just kept slipping out, no matter how hard I squeezed. I was just so determined to pick up that crayon. Gosh. I remember asking her why I could feel the muscles inside squeeze and nothing much happened with my outside stuff. Like was there something wrong with me or something.”

What did she say?”

“She tried to explain the design and usual function of that part of a woman’s anatomy and why things were the way they were for the purposes of child bearing and so forth. By the time she was finished I’d figured out how to pick up the crayon and had colored most of the sky in the first picture in my coloring book. I don’t remember the details of her explanation anymore, just how neat it felt coloring in that sky. Kind of itchy and nice. A feeling I hadn’t had before. Fun. I used to color for hours on end after that. Sometimes I’d get the shivers and have to stop, but then I start up all over again.”

“It still must have been difficult for your mother to accept .”

“Sure. But she’s a really strong person and didn’t want to put limits on me. She encouraged me to be as independent as possible. ‘Figure out how to do it yourself,’ she’d say. Gosh I can hear her say that. Even today when I call her she wants to know what new way I’ve discovered to do something.”

“My mother never was completely able to accept your techniques at the dining room table. Rather like putting one’s feet on the table, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I guess. I worked very hard to make sure only my pinkie was around the food, not my bum. That wouldn’t have been nice at all. I remember the first time Mom not only washed my face before dinner. She washed my pinkie too, before bringing me to the table. That’s when I knew it was OK to pick up a fork or spoon like everyone else.”

“Well, not exactly like everyone else.”

“I remember the expression on your face the first time I held a spoon that way. Your eyes were so big!”

“You’ll have to admit, your technique has become a lot more polished.”

“Practice, Dear One, just a lot of practice.”

Sally wriggled around on the divan until she was upright, leaning on the cushions.

I just decided those little pink folds down there were as close to hands as I would ever have and tried to use them the way I saw everyone else doing things. Even washed them before meals. Every day. Before dinner, especially. Just the way I do it now. Mom was very strict about that. She said that if I was going to stick my pinkie up on the table, at least it would have to be as ‘clean as a whistle’,” and if I couldn’t figure out how to wash myself, she’d do it for me. So I learned in a hurry.”

“I remember a long discussion about our genitals. You were so curious about what I had.”

Right. I don’t remember what started that, but I was so curious about what boys had and what they could do with whatever that thing was. Funny. I had all these fantasies about penises. Thought they could do all kinds of wonderful things. I used to dream about them at night.”

“Were you disappointed that day when you finally saw mine?”

“Not disappointed, exactly. But I guess I was expecting more. Remember, you lay down in the grass next to me and I reached over and rubbed it with my pinkie and it got all hard and stuck straight up. How we laughed.”

“I remember the day you and your mother moved away. I remember hoping that even though my mother had finally succumbed to MS that somehow you would stay on.”

“We wanted to stay. I did, at least, but Mom’s job was over and the administrators decided that it was time to leave. What was I? Twelve? That’s right. Twelve. Tough time to move. I was beginning to like you a lot.”

“And I you. That’s right I was twelve and Sis was fifteen. Brookwood was put up for sale and I went to boarding school, then college.”

“And that’s where we met up again and so forth.”

“Right. It was that two college mixer. I didn’t even recognize you at first. Here was this intensely sexy looking girl in a wheelchair, no arms or legs, but a very attractive outfit. That must have been it. I just didn’t recognize you with clothes on!”

Sally giggled again. “That was so much fun. I spotted you right away. Same body language, same cute smile. I wanted to jump down out of that chair and come bouncing over and say ‘hi’!”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Oh, I was trying to be cool. I needed to act just right in front of the other girls. Pecking order, that sort of thing. Your mother’s training had not been wasted.”

“I just remember how fantastic you looked. Make up, fancy outfit and that incredible figure that you’d developed.”

“Boobs. You can say that, dear. They’re called boobs. God heavens we’ve been married for six years! Repeat after Mommy, B-O-O-B-S. Lordy, you’re as Victorian as your mother!”

“Oh I am not.”

“Sure you are. You even have to turn out the lights to make love. Anyhow, my roommates got a big kick out of them too.”

“Your roommates?”

“Sure. I had mouth sticks to type with, but I wanted to show off. First thing Freshman year in front of my two roomies rolled my power chair over to the computer, rubbed my nips on the keyboard ‘til the stuck out and then typed my homework. They just stood there totally paralyzed. Next thing they were begging me to show them how. They got pretty good by the end of the year. We all just smiled and giggled when we passed on campus. Secret stuff. You know.”

If I remember correctly, you and your mother found a little place in upstate New York when you left Brookwood.”

“Right. She got this afternoon job at a library and we did schoolwork in the morning. Afternoons I did homework, did the cleaning and so forth. Place was pretty small. Just a couple of rooms, but we did have use of a small back yard. It was OK.”

“Were you still able to go around in the nude?”

“You make it sound so weird! No, I didn’t have to get all covered up around the house unless people came by or something.”

“I remember that picture your mom showed me of your fourteenth birthday party. You had a little blue dress on and you were already starting to look like a young woman.”

“Oh yes. The party. That was OK. Mostly kids from the apartment building. See, when I was about thirteen my breasts started to puff out and I was just terribly self-conscious. First you have to remember that I had expected to be able to move them all around and do things. Somehow I wanted them to be the arms I never had. But of course, they just were glandular tissue with no muscle or bone and I was so very disappointed. Every night I tried and tried to make them obey my commands but they just stuck out and got bigger and bigger. I could make my nipples stick out most of the time, but I could do that since I was six. Even then, they’d either stay out when I wanted them to relax or go soft right in the middle of something important. Like your sweet but unreliable penis, dear.”

“Oh, really!”

“Oh come on. I’m just teasing, but it’s the same thing, really! I did start wearing clothes, but when I finally discovered how I could actually use the rascals to do a few things, and clothes just got in the way, why I was my old self again.”

“I suppose a lot of girls have a hard time understanding and accepting the changes that happen to their bodies as they pass through puberty, but you don’t seem to have suffered too greatly.”

“You weren’t there, sweeetcakes. Growing breasts was the easy part. Just imagine what it must be like for a innocent little girl to suddenly suffer the pain and emotional roller coaster of a menstrual cycle. No, you couldn’t. You still have trouble with that. My sweet little pink pee place changed into a monthly disaster. And got hairy. Not nice, pretty hair, either. I couldn’t even stand to look at it myself. I became more handicapped than I had ever been in my whole life! I wouldn’t feed myself, brush my teeth or anything. Mom about died. I even stopped doing my homework. Well, for a while. Had to write holding the pen in my mouth and I hated it. Mom finally brought home my first electric shaver and that helped a lot. At least I could do a few thing for myself again, for most of the month anyhow. Besides I liked the way it felt.”

“The vibration?”

“Yep. But for pure sensuous pleasure I still much prefer the way you do me with brush, shaving cream and razor. That’s what I really like.”

Sally looked down. Her breasts were remarkably large, almost incredibly perfect cones. She has indeed developed some marvelous techniques that allow her to perform many every day tasks with them. Even when relaxed, they seem to be reaching out anxiously for something to touch, to embrace.

“Boobies finally turned out OK. Not quite up to doing international sign language for the deaf, but I learned to type with them and that was the turning point..”

She rounded her back, bringing them together before her.

“Still can’t get my nips close enough together, though. Hard to pick up little things.”

She relaxed, leaned back and turned a page of the magazine with what our cook had always referred to as ‘her privates’.

“Everything considered, I think you’re one extraordinary woman,” I said. “I’m so very happy that we met again at that mixer.”

“I am too,” She said.

“Mommy?” a small voice came from the hallway.

“Yes, sweety?”

“I’m all ready for bed, OK?”

“All washed and teeth brushed?”

“Yes.”

“All right then, do you think you can get up the stairs by yourself?”

“I can’t get up that first step. Would you come show me again?”

In the doorway, swaying back and forth to keep her balance, was our daughter Samantha. She looked exactly like her mother at that age. Same blond hair and yes, the exact same body. In every way she was the image of her mother, except for the eyes. Samantha has deep lavender eyes.

Sally slipped easily down from the divan and putting one motherly breast along her daughters side, there where a shoulder might have been, she and Samantha slowly swiveled their way toward the staircase.

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