Orange 

    Tristen Fournier

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Each morning she rose early, selflessly devoted to spurring on her important husband towards his busy day. From the moment she awoke, waking him in turn, until the time she saw his shiny designer shoes leave the driveway and disappear into the Mercedes, she would take just a single moment to herself.

 

Tiptoeing into the next room, away from the living presence of his snoring, she would draw the blinds and watch the sun heaving itself over the horizon. She would smile, amused with herself for being foolish enough to feel strong as she stared directly into its face, knowing she had the advantage for just a few more short hours. Still, she would always be in awe of it and the brilliance of its colour.

 

Orange.

 

And she was reminded of the stories her parents used to tell her about how she got her unusual name.

 

Orange.

 

They named her Orange after the colour of the sky the night she was conceived. A torrid midnight sun had hung endlessly over the rocky northern horizon.

 

They named her Orange after the first boxes of fruit to arrive in the community during the Spring when she was born.

 

They named her Orange because there were good apples and bad apples but where were all the Oranges?

  

She remembered them now like characters from some strange novel she must have read when she was younger. Already seasoned hippies by the time they’d moved to northern Canada and had their tiny daughter, her parents were determined their child would lead a lifestyle like their own, which embraced the unconventional.

 

Why then they chose a small town of 700 people, whose primary business was the mining of rare earth metals, and who were unreservedly hostile to antics such as chaining oneself to heavy equipment in protest of acid mine drainage, Orange could never be sure. Whatever the reason, the consequence for Orange was that even before that day in kindergarten when they learned to mix primary colours, she had already long realized that difference was negative.

 

Those mornings, as she stood there watching the sun, a trace of rouge would appear on both her cheeks as the memories of how they used to embarrass her came flooding in.

 

Her father, a high school teacher, had been well known among the other kids for his fondness of flowered shirts that left too much chest hair exposed and for walking around the school barefoot come summer or winter. His eccentric teaching methods, which included wailing on a harmonica to begin and end each class and the rumour that he refused to teach history because of his conviction that the moon landing was a fraud made him an outcast even among the other teachers.

 

And while her father contributed to the torture of her weekdays at school, Orange’s mother made sure to fill in on the weekends.

 

Orange’s most distinct memory of her mother, apart from the long braided hair and flowing skirts, might have been how she had always been the first, and more often the only one, to get up on the dancefloor of the Legion Hall whenever a visiting band was passing through. She could still remember the eyes of the miners, whose attendance could largely be credited to a fondness for beer rather than music, dropping instantly to the floor as this freaky woman performed some kind of Pagan strut. Then the more sensitive of the women in attendance would offer Orange sympathetic looks, embarrassed for her.

 

Gold, bismuth, cobalt, copper. It was jerked from the earth here and turned into jewelry, rechargeable electronic devices, pipes, tubes, fittings, medicines, and cosmetics somewhere else. All of that would happen somewhere else but not here. This was the place for basic materials. Here, things were simple. Here, things stayed the same.

 

But her parents were unrepentant. “We are who we are and we’re not going to let anyone change us. Not even a hormonal teenage girl.”

 

Then finally, there had come one last time.

 

Orange had been eighteen years old, huddled with some other girls her age in a forgotten corner of the school, desperately gobbling weight loss pills, when she heard a reedy note wail out, causing her stomach to drop.

 

Scrambling for her watch to check the time, she tried to remember what period it was.

 

Cursing, she pushed aside two pale, skinny, dark haired teens, their names now long forgotten, and had just broken free of their little circle when another tinny note rang off, echoing against the metal lockers. Then suddenly all at once he was there, watching, holding the harmonica like it was a sandwich in front of his face, his other hand stretched palm open towards her in a silent demand. 

 

She returned home that night to find her punishment was nothing more than a simple grounding and a lecture.

 

She could remember it still. Her mother holding her in her arms, her father with one hand on her shoulder, saying “You don’t need the pills, Orange. You’re beautiful inside and out. Your mother and I truly believe that. Stopping is a simple solution of mind over matter... Meditation, positive thinking… these things have been shown to have an effect on weight loss more profoundly than any pill.”

 

Mind over matter. More hippy bullshit is what Orange thought. They had never really taken to punishment, her parents, had always been overly embracing of mistakes. She could have been a serial killer and they would have loved her, there was no doubt. The term “free love” was more than just a philosophy but a lifestyle for them, an active offer. And for some reason it was this final show of unconditional love that caused Orange to snap. 

 

That night she made the decision to run. To the city, where the sidewalks were crowded with people who didn’t know her or her family, where she could hide amongst the masses.

 

Like a stray dog settling in against the pavement, she felt a cold comfort as she disappeared there on the sidewalk. There was safety in knowing no one here would recognize her.  She could revel in anonymity, start a new life. She didn’t want to be unique, didn’t want to be a “freak” like her parents. What she suddenly found herself desperately wishing for instead was a sameness, an unremarkableness that kept her protected against the terrifying prospect of revealing who she was to the disappointment or ridicule of those around her.

 

She was perfect for a man like Morrie.

 

Dr. Morris H. Zabielski, perhaps the most prominent surgeon in the country, didn’t have the time to get to know someone. Like other medical professionals, when it came to his patients, he understood the risk of becoming too attached. Indeed, he tried his very best to get away from treating or even thinking of his subjects as a patient, at least to a degree that was still ethically respectable. While many compared his bedside manner to that of a blue collar mechanic, it was his absolute dedication to the idea of the efficiently functioning body, the most fascinating of machines, which made him so good at what he did.

 

Oh, the satisfaction he took from the removal of a swelled appendix, that most unnecessary of organs; or the reattachment of carelessly severed fingers; even the removal of a little excess fat and skin from the inner thigh to sculpt a new chin. Guided by this enthusiasm, he had slowly become proficient at almost every kind of surgery you could imagine, and was considered by many of his colleagues to be the most multi-talented surgeon of his time.

 

But what Morrie really wanted, like a mechanic who sees vehicles come and go, every one of them a mere routine fix, was a body that could be used in a more recreational sense.

 

Along came Orange. 

 

It must have been the fervor with which he always explored her - fingers softly trailing everywhere, sending shivers down her neck and across her shoulders, then plummeting along her spine and to her thighs - which made her mistake a clinical interest for passion. It must have been the way he took notes on every shift of a mole, every episode of gas, which made her mistake his cold, scientific interest for empathy.

 

But however she had become attached, she soon found herself swept along in the powerful current of his life and his career, which continued along a path of significant achievement and prosperity to the present day.

 

And there may not have been a more important day in the career of Dr. Morris Zabielski than today. After all, this morning, Morrie would be setting off earlier than usual to perform a groundbreaking head transplant – the first ever to be performed in Canada.

 

Orange had woken up earlier than usual this morning, skipping her routine viewing of the dawn to dutifully wake her husband. She’d got the shower started, laid out his shaving things, cooked a breakfast of high protein and caffeine content, given him a massage as he ate, then allowed him to press his fingers into her own neck afterwards, though not so soothingly as she had just done.

 

No, instead he pushed at pressure points, pinched at skin, poked at her esophagus, felt her spine - thoughtfully studying those parts of her which were relevant to today’s surgery. She tolerated it all, knowing it was part of his process. Over time she had come to think of it as her contribution to his greatness.  

 

When he had finished, he stood by the kitchen window, sipping his coffee, staring out at the day unfolding before him. Orange remained at the breakfast table, aching more than a little from his probing.

 

Softly, but in a deep tone that commanded the ear to attend, he spoke. “Today may be my finest moment, dear.”

 

Watching him, she felt the same admiration and pride that had drawn her to him, as if by force, down that aisle only three years earlier. But instead of smiling as she normally would have, a look of worried concentration had appeared across her face.

 

“Everything alright?”

 

She caught herself. Lately, she’d been concerned about a deeper feeling, some strange tug that accompanied these moments, and which, she would sometimes realize with horror, felt not unlike envy.

 

“Of course. I was just thinking we must celebrate in style tonight. But has the Association planned a party?”

 

He tossed her the invitation.

 

As his date at private functions for medical professionals or award ceremonies that provided further recognition of his extraordinariness, she had come to feel most comfortable. At first, she’d been exceedingly nervous around such talented, charismatic company, all of which showered Morrie with attention.

 

“Clara, come meet Morrie. Here we have the finest surgeon our country has ever produced and an absolute prodigy of modern medicine.”

 

“And who is the lucky lady who gets to attend such an extraordinary man?”

 

“This is Orange.”

 

“Excuse me? Orange? So nice to meet you. But I must ask, how does one get such an unusual name?”

 

“Through one’s parents I suppose…” she’d offered meekly.

 

“Well, you must tell us about yourself. Surely behind such an interesting name is an even more interesting person!”

 

Unsure how to start, then panicking as she began to feel herself freeze up, she would look to Morrie to rescue her.

 

And he would. “Oh, leave her alone. She’s just a quiet girl... Don’t worry yourself with this bunch, honey. They just want to get at you so they can pick up stories to embarrass me with at the next Christmas party.”

 

It was all about Morrie. He was the sun and she a mere satellite. She had grown used to the role. Through Morrie she’d adopted the regular, fashionable city life of thousands of other Canadians.  She was able to fit right in with his scene and no one would bat an eye or make her feel like an intruder as long as she confirmed one small detail about herself.

 

“Aren’t you just the luckiest woman to have such a special husband?”

 

Smiling and trying to radiate as much pleasantness as possible, she would emphatically agree, yes, and her turn was over.

 

She really was lucky, she thought as she sat at the breakfast table now. She should always remember that.

 

Meanwhile, Morrie had gone on speaking as if to himself.

 

“Yes, it will be a moment that defines me. The man who gave the otherwise unspoiled body a new head…”

 

Orange furrowed her brow. “Or will it be ‘the man who gave the otherwise unspoiled head a new body’?”

 

“Whatever it is,” said Morrie who was uninterested in outside contributions, should they ruin the majesty of his reverie, “This is the achievement to which I’ll be indissolubly connected forever.”

 

Orange was opening the invitation. It was a beautiful card, scented too, although in a way it reminded her of the smell of the hospital where Morrie worked. It was the colour of lavender and in big curved black letters across the front it read “In Honour of Morris Zabielski MD” and on the inside “To Mr. and Mrs. Morris Zabielski”.

 

“Think of all those fresh-faced medical students, just beginning to understand the world, when one day their most distinguished professor says to them “you must know who Dr. Morris Zabielski was, don’t you?” Then looking absolutely flabbergasted when the little shit shakes his head, he’ll tell him to look it up. Just take that dog-eared textbook and flip to the index. There’ll be an entry for Morris Zabielski and when the kid flips to the right page it’ll say – “

 

“’Mr. and Mrs. Morris Zabielski…’ Am I invited?” Orange looked up with some consternation.

 

“Well of course. You are Mrs. Morris Zabielski aren’t you?” He looked her over now. “You’ll need a new dress for tonight. Something that will match my grey Armani I think.”

 

A few moments later he left, his head held high, his posture perfect. Orange watched him, thinking how confident he looked. Nevertheless, she gave cries of “good luck!” over and over, and concentrated on channeling as much positive energy as she could possibly muster his way.

 

When at last he was gone, she disappeared inside to get ready.   She confronted herself in the mirror and saw bright red pajamas, hair that was all matted down. Without makeup, there appeared dark circles under the eyes, and the mouth was only a deep-set line curving downward, with no lips to speak of.

 

In the shower, she thought about the long hours between now and when Morrie would come home. She was thankful that Morrie wanted her to buy a new dress. It always made her feel better to have something to do. Sometimes when she just sat at home, she felt like a piece of the furniture, a constant component of the home whose only purpose was awaiting his arrival. Like an armchair - something that was only fulfilled through his use. On these days that selfish tug of discontent was hardest to ignore.

 

The hot water poured down her neck, through her fingers, and down the drain. These were moments when she felt she was about to disappear.

 

Sometimes she thought about getting a job, just so that there could be some meaningful action that would make people recognize that she was there, that she was important. But she didn’t know what skills she had, what it was she could do that would make people pay attention. Buying things was easier. Things she could point to and say “this is mine,” that pointed back at her and said things about her to others. For instance, some new clothes or a handbag might say "she has taste" or "she has money" or "she is fun" and "she is colourful." Someone could look at a thing she’d bought and say "that belongs to someone, that belongs to her, it is that person's." They were extensions of herself, in a way. And she could buy it, or rather Morrie could. Yes, she thought, a new dress would be nice.

 

She had grown into a pretty girl, despite forsaking the diet pills when she left home, and she had lots of dresses. But this was no ordinary event. This was the celebration of Morrie achieving his destiny.  What she needed now, she thought to herself, as she stepped out of the shower, surveying her naked body, was something that made her stand out. She didn’t want to look like the other girls. Not tonight. No, too often she had gotten all dressed up only to fade into a background of girls dressed exactly like her, with hair just like hers, makeup just like hers. Yes, she was pretty now. But there was nothing, she thought, looking at her bony shoulders, her pale skin, nothing that was remarkable about her. No Marilyn Monroe mole that could be a trademark of true beauty. 

 

She pinched a cheek, watched it flush and then go pale again. Who was this girl before her? What made her who she was?

 

She thought a moment. No occupation. No causes - not feeding the homeless, or saving the environment. Politics were far too confrontational. Her parents had shown her the unpleasantness of that. No family, besides Morrie, or at least the rest were all estranged. Friends? She never went out unless it was work functions or other social engagements with Morrie's coworkers, who were all doctors. Even most of his coworkers’ partners were doctors, all of them with as little time as her husband for life outside of medicine. So what else? There had to be something. She was someone, after all. She had a name…

 

An unusual name. There had been many opportunities to change it over the years, to snip away that final thread connecting her to her past and yet for some reason she’d held on to it. But then there was that invitation this morning calling her “Mrs. Morris Zabielski”…

 

The tugging feeling was back as she stood there dripping wet, alone in the bathroom. But now it had transformed into something worse. This was no itch of discontent anymore but a terrible dark void and the hollow fear of never being able to fill it.    

 

A single loose tear wove crazily down her cheek. Wiping it away she knew there was nothing else to do but to distract herself, to stuff this feeling away and dispel any more self-pitying thoughts. Today was Morrie’s day and she needed a dress for his celebration.   

 

*

Sumptuous Things was the only ladies wear outlet that was sure to have the perfect dress for the occasion. The store was like a good friend. Orange could always rely on them to have the best taste in elegant clothing, an atmosphere that was cheery, and best of all, the girls who worked there actually recognized her, listened, and began to know her and what she liked, even if what she liked usually ended up being on one of the girl’s recommendations. All in all it was a place she felt most comfortable in and a secret smile spread across her face as she entered the store, which was bright with white walls, spinning racks that gleamed like polished jewels, and hundreds of dresses displayed in a rainbow of astonishing colours. They hung before her like the sweetest, plumpest fruit.

 

Somewhere here was the perfect thing, the beauty mark she was suddenly desperate to discover, a dress that would sweep her above the masses.

 

Shyly, Orange approached the woman behind the counter, with whom she was unfamiliar. A tall blonde creature with a hooked nose and sea-green eyes which pierced their way through a thick layer of mascara, Orange thought she looked a bit like some strong, beautiful bird, perhaps a hawk. She was dressed delicately in a long black dress that looked so soft Orange was tempted to reach out and touch it.

 

Instead, she spoke to the woman, who appeared deeply focused on her clipboard, in a soft voice. “Excuse me,” she began. “I was wondering if you could help me…”

 

The woman behind the counter answered “Certainly,” in a sleepy but polite voice. She raised her eyes but did not meet Orange's gaze.

 

“You see there’s a party I’m to attend," Orange continued. "A very special party. Actually it’s for my husband…”

 

But the tall woman was still refusing to give her the proper attention. She had narrowed those hawk eyes in the direction she had been looking and Orange thought she recognized a certain revulsion in her glare that she was unaccustomed to witnessing in the girls at Sumptuous Things. Then suddenly, her look transformed to one that was alert and considerate.

 

“Can I help you with something ma’am?” the woman bubbled now.

 

“But I’ve just been telling you…” Orange started before she realized what was happening and turned to look over her shoulder.

 

Behind her strolled a plump, middle-aged woman. She was picking dresses off the racks at a surprising pace, her hips brushing against those opposite her, and folding each garment sloppily across the short forearm on her left side. There was a look of almost maniacal glee in her eyes as she worked her way around the store, the woman behind the counter continuing to follow her every move. 

 

Orange turned back to the hawk-woman with a mixture of jealousy and annoyance. Why was this unattractive, clumsy lady capturing the attention of the clerk over her? Orange was a faithful customer who had come back time and time again, with a body-type that perfectly accentuated the intended beauty of the products being sold, yet the hawk-woman was more interested in this frump who probably wouldn't be able to find anything that suited her properly anyways.

 

Suddenly the plump lady was elbowing her way in front of Orange. Orange watched with shock as she dumped the mass of garments she'd been accumulating on the counter before the hawk-woman with a grunt and demanded to see them all in a larger size. 

 

The hawk-woman, who Orange noticed now from her name tag was called Linda, only smirked. "None of these garments come in a larger size than the one you've picked ma'am. Would you like me to direct you to Extrapparel? I understand they have a fantastic selection of plus-size clothing."

 

At this, the mischievous glint in the other woman's eye seemed to grow. "Plus-size? But I'm not 'plus-size', I'm hardly any different from the majority of women. And as such," she continued rapidly, "I thought I could certainly count on your outlet, since it says right outside on the sign 'luxurious and affordable for your average woman'."

 

Linda, now fully aware of the woman's intent, drew her hawk eyes to slits and stood staring the woman down for a moment. When she spoke her tone was grave. "This is a place of business ma'am. We are not here to play games. Shall I direct you to Extrapparel or not?"

 

But the woman wasn't listening. She began to raise her voice and Orange quickly noticed people walking past in the mall stop to look. "You try to outcast people like me by excluding us from your store, pushing us into this "plus-size" category like it’s some sort of limited niche you can't be expected to fill. But outside of the flawed ideals promoted by your industry, do you know who really are the lepers of this colony? You and this skinny bitch over here.”

 

Orange, who had felt herself slowly fading into the background, reverting to being a wallflower again, now found herself plunged into the foreground of the conversation against her will. A plump finger was extended at her and she felt suddenly deflated. To be called a leper after all she had done to feel accepted in her life. Orange wanted to say something to hurt this woman but she fumbled, either unable to find the words or held back by something else entirely when suddenly she heard two male voices from just outside the storefront.

 

“Yeesh. That woman seems like a handful,” said one.

 

The other man looked the plump lady up and down pointedly. “Plus some, I’d say” he added and the two of them moved on chuckling to themselves.

 

The plump woman continued to hold her head high with a sort of forced pride, but she had averted her eyes from the entrance nonetheless. For a moment she seemed to consider whether she had anything more to say, then abruptly, she spun on a heel and stomped away.

 

After she’d left, Linda shook her head and for the first time she met Orange’s eyes, offering a sympathetic look. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

 

Orange smiled back weakly but found she still couldn’t speak.

 

“You said something about a party?” Linda prompted her. Then her eyes lit up, as if remembering. “Wait.  Are you Mrs. Morris Zabielski?”

 

Finding herself addressed that way for the second time today gave Orange the jolt she needed to speak again.  “Oh. Yes… Well, no. But yes… I’m Orange,” she stuttered.

 

“I’m sorry?” Linda’s forehead knotted in confusion. “You’re what?”

 

“Yes, I’m her.”

 

“Oh,” Linda’s manner relaxed again. “Well, we’ve got your dress for you right back here. Your husband called to set it aside earlier this morning. What a darling he is, huh?”

 

It was Orange’s turn to be confused. When she finally processed what Linda was saying, disappointment and something worse attended her. She was about to open her mouth to say she would be choosing her own dress when she remembered the plump lady and the two men who had laughed at her and decided against it.

 

“How convenient,” was all she said.

 

“One moment, it’s right back here. I’ll just grab it so you can take a look.”

 

“Don’t bother,” said Orange. She turned, looking back in the direction the plump lady had disappeared. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

**

Orange failed to notice when Morrie returned home that evening. She sat in the living room staring into the dark screen of the television, her reflection looking back.

 

Morrie entered and watched her a moment. She remained as immobile as the furniture.  After a while he cleared his throat to get her attention.

 

“Um, hello? Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but I thought the country’s greatest surgeon surely deserved to be greeted by his wife on this happiest of occasions…”

 

She turned to him slowly. “The surgery was successful then?”

 

He was leaning in the doorway.  

 

“Splendid. I don’t think there has ever been a finer piece of surgical work in this modern era.” His eyes were bright, despite the dark circles that hung beneath.  

 

“They will write books about you,” she said, but it came out less than enthusiastic.

 

Morrie didn’t seem to notice. “They will… They will as long as…” And suddenly he was frowning and looked truly more tired than she had ever seen him look before, so that she had to ask.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Well, there was an episode at the hospital, just after the surgery you see.” He came further into the room and, still standing, leaned his back against the mantel of the fireplace. “The two families were there. You know, the family of the man who’s head… and the family of the body. They were both there. And I wasn’t sure at first which one to congratulate. One person was made whole by the surgery - just one. But both families seemed to think I had fixed their loved one. The family who belonged to the head believed I had given their man a new body. The family who belonged to the body, well they thought I had given their man a new head… It actually got aggressive.” Morrie shook his head, his eyes still contained some of the bewilderment he had no doubt experienced at the moment.

 

“The two families started hitting, clawing at each other’s eyes, pulling hair, biting…even the children got in on it… all of them insisting that the patient was their family member and that the other family’s man had simply been a donor... Well it turns out both of them had signed papers to that effect… Security had to be called to help separate them… Finally they turned it back to me and asked me what was my professional medical opinion? Was this a head with a new body or a body with a new head?” He paused.

 

She watched him. He was looking at her while he spoke but it was like the way Linda had spoken to her that morning when the plump lady had been in the store. It was as if he were barely acknowledging her presence, like he was only looking through her. She nodded at him to go on. Suddenly she wanted to know his answer more than anything else. Would it be mind or matter? “And? What did you say? Did you side with the head or the body?”

 

Morrie straightened, pushing out his chin. “The body is the person,” he said solemnly, never noticing the disappointment plainly crossing Orange’s face. “Yes, I should have gone with my instinct from the start. One must be firm in their principles. The body is supreme.”

She had turned back to the television and sat staring into its black depths again.

 

“But the media will want to turn it into a damn political issue,” Morrie said now, balling his hand into a fist, and turning to press it against the mantel. “It could overshadow my whole moment. My moment in history…”

 

She turned to look at his hunched figure leaning against the fireplace and felt hollow. “Let’s just try to enjoy the party.”

 

Slowly, he nodded. “Did you get the dress I picked out for you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said “I’ll go put it on now.”

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Tristen Matthew Fournier grew up in the frigid environment of Yellowknife in Canada’s far North. Finding that typing warmed his numb and frost bitten fingers, Fournier set out to be a writer of prose fiction and poetry, exploring the human condition, while often blending humour and philosophy. This led him to study at Concordia University in Montreal where he has completed a degree in creative writing. He has previously published with Buttontapper Press, Lunch Ticket Magazine, Halcyon Magazine, and Poetry Breakfast.