"Lucky"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2000, All rights reserved)

Chapter 4

     The next couple of days seemed like the recovering period after an 
illness.  When you are really sick, it doesn't matter what is on TV or if 
there is a good book around.  All you do is exist.  It is a sign of 
recovery when you begin to realize how insipid daytime TV is (well, to
be honest, prime time leaves a lot to be desired, too).  I even tried to 
pick up the work on the latest book.  Trish had laid out some ideas that
I hadn't implemented yet, so it's not like there wasn't something I 
could do.  But the limbo period between truly sick and fully recovered
doesn't provide the drive to actually do anything, only the recognition 
that you are not.  

     In a way, it was a kind of relief to have a goal that I didn't really
need to do anything about.  The day I had met Lonna for lunch I had been
considering dressing in some of Trish's clothes to try and explore that
feeling of closeness.  After Lonna set the date for "really" doing that, I
didn't have the nagging guilt that said I had to do something myself to 
. . . what?  To do something, anything, whatever it took to get my life 
back together.  Shifting that responsibility to someone else "allowed" me 
to slip back into a more passive role.  Which, in the convoluted way the 
mind has of tormenting itself, replaced the nagging feeling that I should
be doing something with the nagging guilt that a "real" man wouldn't need
anyone else's help to cope with life.  

     But then, this was hardly life, was it?  

     Eventually the phone rang and it was Lonna making arrangements to 
come over.  When she arrived, it was a sign of her commitment that I 
didn't fully appreciate at the time that Lonna had spent quite a bit of 
money getting the things she knew I would need.  If I'd have known ahead 
of time how much it would cost, I'd have called the whole thing off.  It 
wasn't like I couldn't afford to spend the money, but wasting that much on 
a whim seemed, well, wasteful.  For Lonna to get all of that without any 
commitment on my part that I'd even consent to continue with this, um - 
'game' didn't seem adequate anymore - this 'exercise' said a lot about her 
desire to help me.  

     The boxes and bags and trays of things she brought in looked like I 
was in for a major surgical procedure, not some sort of external 
masquerade.  Some of the boxes were even labeled as medical devices.

     "What's this?" I asked, pointing at one of the medical boxes.

     "Um, I think it would be better to wait until later to tell you
about that," she said.

     That was not terribly comforting.  "What's the big mystery?"

     Lonna stopped what she was doing and looked directly at me.  "Tim,
you're going to have to trust me.  What we're trying to do is make the
most convincing, the most complete transformation of you into a woman
that we can do.  You need a sense of beauty.  When you look like a woman 
and can move like a woman, you'll be able to experience Trish's memories 
as vividly as possible.  Everything I'm going to ask you to do is pointed 
toward that end."

     I snorted and said, "I'll hardly be beautiful.  You may be skilled,
but you're not a magician."

     She arched an eyebrow at me and said, "You may be surprised.  But I
wasn't talking about what you look like in some way that will show in a
photo.  I was talking about what you feel like.  You need a constant,
almost subliminal reminder that you are sensuous, and feminine.  That's
what I mean by a sense of beauty."

     I nodded thoughtfully, not so much agreeing as letting her know I 
thought I understood what she was trying to say.  Even Trish hadn't ever
expressed things that way.  But . . .

     "I think Trish knew about that sort of thing," I mused.  "She made me
wear perfume and once stockings instead of pantyhose.  She told me I 
needed to feel more, um, sensual.  I thought it was just as a prelude to,
well, you know, but you're saying it's, like, all the time?"

     "It should be," Lonna confirmed.  "At least, all the time you're 
being a lady.  You don't have to worry about it when you're working in 
the yard or something, but, well, even when a woman exercises, she wears
body conscious clothes that remind her of her shape."

     I flinched when she said that, but her head was down as she gathered
up some of her things and I don't think she noticed.  She was right, even
I had picked up on that aspect, but, well . . . Well what?  If what Lonna
was saying was true, I was going to go so far beyond wearing a leotard 
that it hardly mattered if that happened before or after she worked on me.

     "All I asked was what was in the medical box," I said, not really 
retreating, but downplaying my concern.  Lonna smiled and nodded, 
accepting what we both knew was the fiction that she had been the one
to overreact.  But, that gentle fiction bound her, now, and so she 
opened the box to reveal two flesh-colored mounds of soft plastic.  

     I hadn't expected that, but once I saw them it was obvious what
they were.  I blushed, sparking a twinkle in Lonna's eyes, and nodded
without saying anything.  After that I was almost afraid to ask what the
other things were.  

     "I assume you haven't shaved, right?" she asked.

     I rubbed my chin and said, "Yes I did.  Carefully, as a matter of 
fact."  

     She couldn't contain a little giggle as she said, "No, I meant shaved
your legs, and, well, the rest.  I take it from your question that Trish 
never had you do that."

     Then she got serious and made it seem even more like a medical 
procedure, though one that this time made her blush, "Uh, there's 
another, um, issue, too.  Some of the things that need to be done are
not very, um, modest.  I've been through this before, with Bill, and
he already knew what to do.  To show you, well, it's gonna get pretty
personal."  

     Her own embarrassment made it clear she wasn't trying to take 
advantage of the situation, just recognizing it.  I guess this was 
another opportunity to just forget the whole thing, but all the 
paraphernalia strewn around the room made that seem, I don't know,
ungrateful or something.  So instead of asking her to leave, I just
showed her that I could blush even brighter than she could, and shrugged
my consent.

     Lonna took advantage of the time I was shaving to watch the tape of 
Trish and Tammy.  Apparently Trish had told her about that, too. *sigh*  
When I walked back out of the bedroom, wearing a towel and my seemingly-
permanent blush, Lonna was actually studying the tape, not just laughing 
at the clumsiness shown there, and I even caught her nodding her head 
before she put a carefully neutral expression on her face.

     "You really loved Trish," she said.  I did, of course, but I didn't
realize what had prompted Lonna to say that.  I figured it was just 
because I was willing to do something embarrassing if it helped me feel
closer to my lost wife.    

     Lonna explained, though, that there was another element to her 
conclusion.  "You really, really paid attention to her.  I can see you
copying things that she did, things that most men wouldn't even notice.
It was almost frightening how perfectly your conscious motions mimicked 
hers."

     Before I could say anything, she burst any little bubble that might
have been forming with a counterbalancing observation.  "On the other 
hand, your unconscious motions are thoroughly masculine."

     Was that good news?  Did it make things better to know that in some
deeper part of myself I was inherently masculine.  I know I clung to that
thought as I stood there with a shaved-bare body.  

     "Bill showed me some things that I didn't even know about.  Like I 
said, a guy who can really pass as a woman knows more about women than 
they do themselves."  She interrupted her own pensive tone with a smirk, 
"Well, at least about some things.  Okay, let's get started."

     Despite her warnings, what lingered most in my mind about the actual 
transformation was that it was a study in contrasts.  Pluck hair here
and glue on false eyelashes there.  Paint face all one color then all 
sorts of different colors.  And then we got to the body things.  The first
of those was a tangle of flesh-colored straps she called a 'dancer's belt'.
Apparently it was what male ballet dancers wore under their tights.

     'Tight' was right, and Lonna's earlier warning about some things 
she needed to show me being more than a little personal was right, too.  
When it was in place, she handed me a pair of Trish's panties, then
had me stand straight.    

     "You're lucky Trish wasn't too shapely," Lonna said casually.  

     "Hey, she was beautiful," I protested, as much at being called
'lucky' again as anything.  

     Lonna looked at me and nodded.  "Yes, she was, but she was not 
particularly well endowed, and she was a bit too muscular for the 
Hollywood ideal."  

     "Well, sure, but that's because she was so fit," I claimed.

     "She was indeed," Lonna agreed again, "but not . . . Look, the
point is, if you want to match her shape, it won't be as hard as it
might have been, okay?"  

     The medical devices, actually mastectomy forms, were literally glued 
into place on my chest.  Once I had settled a bra into position (at least 
that was a little bit familiar, from my times with Trish, though the 
sensation of weight on my chest was very, um, distracting), she gave me a 
strange sort of girdle that was padded, of all things.

     "Okay," Lonna said, "you're lucky you don't need . . . "

     I interrupted her, "Please!  Lonna, don't tell me I'm lucky.  Trish
is gone.  I'm *not* lucky.  I don't ever want to hear about being 'lucky'
again.  Okay?"

     She pulled up abruptly with a hurt look in her eyes, but when she saw
whatever mine were showing her expression changed instantly to sympathy.  
She nodded, and softly said, "Sorry.  You're right.  That's a bad 
expression."

     I forced myself to calm down, then said, "No, it's just me.  I'm the 
one who should be sorry.  It's just that I've heard that so much lately, 
and it's just so . . . wrong."  

     She opened her mouth to apologize again, I think, but before she said
anything she caught herself and went on with what she had been saying.  
"You don't need a real corset.  I simple waist cincher should be enough, 
at least for now."  

     The rest of the transformation was almost familiar.  It dealt with 
the sorts of clothes that Trish had wanted me to wear.  In fact, Lonna
had me get the same dark red sweater and slim skirt.  The only shoes I 
had went with that outfit anyway, a black pair with just a bit of taper to 
comfortable low heels.  

     I thought we were done, but Lonna pulled out a wig.  

     "Trish usually just slicked my hair or something," I said, not so
much in protest as, I don't know, fatigue I guess.  

     "I know, but you said that you wanted to emulate Trish, and that you
wanted your hair to grow out.  You might as well see just how close you 
can come."

     So I resigned myself to enduring yet another slow, careful 
demonstration of Lonna's skill.  After she had finished arranging "my" 
hair, she stepped back and looked at me with a neutral but critical 
inspection I had also endured numerous times that long evening.  She 
had been working her wiles in my living room which had more space to 
spread out than the bathroom.  There weren't any mirrors there, and as a 
result, I couldn't really assess the effects.  I found myself trying to 
break through her outward expression to find the secret code of success 
or failure.  

     "I think it's time," she said.  For what?  What else could she
be planning to do to me?

     Lonna held out her hand in a surprisingly courtly gesture, and I
found my own hand reaching for hers with a sort of graceful wrist motion
I had seen so often from Trish.  Lonna smiled at the gesture, the first
sign of emotion that had broken her professional concentration for what
seemed like a very long time.  She led me into the bedroom to stand before
the full-length mirror that so often reflected Trish.  

     Trish stood there, looking out at me.  

     "Not bad, huh?" Lonna said cheerfully, oblivious to the wailing
in my mind and in my heart. 

     "Dear God, . . ."  

     I realized my heart had started pounding when I first looked in the
mirror.  At some level, some deep level where my most compelling desires
lay buried, I had wanted to throw myself at the person in the mirror.  My
Trish, returned to me.  All the terror of the last month banished into 
a bad dream.  My hopes, made real.  Yet, even as that developing sense 
that it was indeed me - not Trish - grew, my despair grew.  It was . . . 
torture.  It was taking the rips that had started to scar over in my heart 
and tearing them back apart.  

     "Tim, breathe," I heard Lonna's voice say, as though from a distance.
It seemed that she thought it was important, but all there was in my world
was that image in the mirror.  The pounding in my heart was echoed in my
ears and . . .

     I felt someone lightly shaking me, patting at my cheeks.  I opened my
eyes to see that I was lying on the floor of the bedroom, with my clothes
in disarray and the waist cincher unfastened.

     "Oh, Tim, I'm so sorry," Lonna was saying.

     "Uh, no . . need," I said, or tried to say.  

     Lonna helped me to sit up, and my hand moved up to brush my hair out
of my face.  In the mirror, Trish did the same, except, it wasn't really
Trish.  It was her motion, her hair, but not her.  

     "Tim, can you stand up?  Let's go back to the chair and I'll help you
out of all this."

     "No!" I said, suddenly more terrified of losing Trish again than of 
the pain of almost having her.

     It energized me to struggle against her hands and work my way to my
feet.  

     I took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry, Lonna.  It was just a bit
too much for me.  Call it a tribute to your skill."

     I fumbled with the hooks on the waist cincher, trying to get myself
together.  When it was obvious that I was trying to dress, not undress 
myself, Lonna lightly batted my hands away and took over.  When she was 
done, I smoothed my sweater down and then once again brushed my hair 
into place.  

     This time when I looked in the mirror, I forced myself to be calm.
That's a lot easier said than done, but by closing my eyes whenever I felt
my heart start to pound, I managed to get back in control.  After a while
- I never knew how long - I was able to look at the reflection, at my 
reflection, with an analytical perception rather than an emotional one.

     I suppose the impact of the first impression could have been excused 
by the fact the reflected image wore her clothes and had her hair.  The 
body shaper things that Lonna had inflicted on me had indeed made my shape 
much the same as Trish's had been.  I was only a few inches taller, and 
the net effect of my slightly-larger frame was lost in a sort of scaling 
up of the whole image, itself lost when there was no real scale to compare 
against.  

     There was something more, though.  When I had stopped moving, I had
settled into a posture that was so exactly like Trish that in the mirror
there was something more than mere clothes that said she had returned.  
In the same way that you can recognize someone from behind regardless of
whether you can see her face, I could "see" Trish in that image.  

     The face added to the impression rather than detracting from it.  
It took a second look, and then a third before the differences that made 
it some strange variant of my face instead of Trish's overwhelmed the rest 
of the impression.  My self-image took another hit that evening as I 
realized my real face must never have been very masculine, if it could be 
made to look so feminine.  In the way impressions have of gradually 
becoming clearer, like a photograph in developing fluid, I saw more and 
more ways in which the face in the mirror was different than Trish, but 
that first impression of unnatural similarity still screamed in the back 
of my mind.  
     
     I began to realize that the resemblance in the face was not all that 
close to hers, really - a sister maybe, but not a twin.   It was more that 
it was feminine, even quite pretty, than identical to Trish.  I didn't 
know enough about the differences between a typical man's face and a 
typical woman's face to decide what had moved my own over the line, but I 
knew that no one who saw that image would have doubted they could 
correctly identify the sex of the person they saw.  They'd have been 
wrong, but not in doubt.  Maybe it was the femininity, coupled with 
deliberately-similar coloring and makeup style, that had made us seem so 
much alike.

     "Are you okay?" Lonna asked, still worried.

     I tried to reassure her with a smile and a joke, neither one of 
which worked at all well, even if they were signs of life.  I put
one hand on my hip and waved the other around with the motions Trish
had used when she played bimbo in our games.  "Well, puh-leeze.  I'm
a LOT better than just okay.  Ask, like, anyone!"  

     Lonna didn't laugh.  Well, it wasn't that funny anyway.  But she
did smile a little, the worried frown smoothing from her forehead.  She
started to help me to the chair I had been sitting in, holding my arm
like I was an ancient near-invalid, but I gently made her let me go.  
I walked normally, well, as normally as I could walk in that snug skirt,
and passed right by the chair on the way to the kitchen.

     "Would you like some tea, dear?  You've been working so very hard."

     "Um, yes, thank you," Lonna said, amusement warring with surprise 
on her face.   

     While I was putting the kettle on to boil and setting out the 
other things, Lonna set up our camcorder.  I didn't realize she was
taping me until I turned back with a tray in my hand.  I froze, but
after a second I started up again.  If this was going to work I had
a feeling I'd be spending a lot of time in front of the camcorder.  

     When I tried to pour the tea, though, my hands were shaking so
badly that I was afraid I'd spill everything, so I set the teapot down.
Lonna reached over and poured for us both.

     "You need to take it easy," she said.  "You're trying to just 
force your way past what you're feeling, but that won't really work
in the long run."

     She was right, of course.  As I settled back into my chair I felt
exhausted, as though I had been pushing with all my might at some 
invisible obstacle until every muscle in my body was crying out for
relief.  Despite my intellectual understanding that Trish had always 
sat with excellent posture, my own body collapsed against the cushions in
a graceless slouch.  

     "I . . . " I started to try and say something, but nothing seemed
to fit.  

     After a long moment, while Lonna quietly sipped her tea, I finally
managed to ask, "Where do we go from here?"

     "Where do you want to go?" she asked.  That was a lot of help.

     "I don't know," I said, not much more help.  

     "I take it from your earlier reaction that you are satisfied you can
do a pretty good job of emulating Trish," she offered.

     "That *I* can do the job?" I repeated.  "Hardly.  I don't know where
I missed the magic wand, but this is *not* something I could have brought
about."  

     "Oh, in time you could," she promised.  "If you really want to."  

     There was the kicker, all right.  Did I really want to?  

     "I don't know," I said.  "This seems, um, this is, well, so much 
*more* than simply acting a bit like Trish to remember her better."

     "Well," Lonna said, "you certainly turned out better than I had
honestly expected.  You're a lot prettier than Bill, um, Heather ever
was.  And a lot closer to Trish than I had expected, too."  

     A *lot* closer to Trish, I silently agreed.  But that reminded me 
of the whole purpose of this, this, whatever.  I was doing it to feel
closer to Trish as a way to deal with her loss.  Was it working?  

     "Um, I don't want you to feel bad, but, well, I don't think this
is working," I reported to Lonna.

     "Why not?" she asked.  "You look fabulous!"

     "Yes, well, maybe that's the problem," I said, trying to understand
myself.  "I look way too good to make this an intellectual thing.  Instead
of looking a little more like Trish so I can do a little better job of 
feeling like she felt, I feel, um, overwhelmed in a different way."

     "A different way?" Lonna prodded.

     "Yes," I said.  "It's, um, not something that feels like a game.  
It's all too real."  

     Lonna nodded, not so much agreeing with my conclusion as with the 
possibility that it could be a problem.

     "I can understand that," she began, then said, "but I don't think
you should jump to any conclusions.  It's not necessary that you do this,
of course, but the success that is bothering you so much means it has a
lot of potential, too."  

     Now it was my turn to nod.  Potential for what, though?  

     The clock that I had somehow been ignoring all evening struck yet 
again and I realized it was 11:00.  I straightened up in my chair and
took a quick sip of tea.  Then I stood, straightening my skirt in another
of Trish's gestures that I didn't even think about until my hands were
already busy.                    

     "What do you think I should do?" I asked Lonna.

     "That's hard to say," she said noncommittally.  "For now, maybe do 
something limited until your mind catches up with what your options are.  
Let's get you undressed and think about it."

     At least the undressing portion of the job took a lot less time than
getting all made up in the first place.  We were mostly silent during my
return to "normal", whatever that meant in my life just then.  As we were
finishing up, Lonna finally made a suggestion.

     "I don't think you should try the whole thing again for a few days.  
Let yourself get used to the idea.  I'll be glad to help you whenever you
want, but I think you should take it easy for a while."

     Then another idea came to her, and there was a lot more enthusiasm in 
her voice when she said, "I'll tell you what.  You look great, but except 
for the things you do deliberately as Trish did them, you just don't move
right.  It takes a lot of practice for that.  How about this?  I'll bring
you some shoes with higher heels.  They'll force you to exaggerate your 
movements.  If you do that, plus wear the body shaper things and that 
skirt or another like it, you can practice here in your home without the
pressure of a full transformation."

     "Okay, I guess," I said, rolling the idea around in my mind.  

     Lonna pointed out a possible flaw in her own plan, "Um, well, in that
case, maybe you should leave the breast forms attached.  They'll help you
hold your body right.  If you wear a loose sweater, you could still go
out."  
 
     "Oh," I said.  "I, um, guess so.  I, uh, well, I can see that would
make a difference."  

     "Every day of my life," Lonna said, smiling.  

     So that's how I came to have breasts, artificial or otherwise.  For 
the next week I had softly-heavy weights hung from the front of my chest.
After a while, when my back started hurting, I found myself standing 
straighter, with better posture.  The pains in my back were nothing next
to the pains in my feet after Lonna brought the higher-heeled shoes.  I 
don't know where she got them, but if her thought was that practice with 
an extreme pair would make other shoes easy by comparison, she apparently
didn't want me to feel limited in my later choices.  

     Altogether it was definitely one of the stranger weeks I think anyone
had ever experienced.  I wore my body shapers most of the time, even when 
I went out.  I had a couple of baggy sweatshirts and loose sweat pants 
that hid all that pretty effectively.  Under them, though, I had on 
stockings and girdle and cincher and well-filled bra.  And when I was 
home, I wore heels and a skirt.  

     I couldn't quite bring myself to make another tape.  Above the waist, 
or, um, maybe that should be above the neck I knew I looked badly out of 
synch with what was below, but I did study Trish's tapes, looking at how 
she had moved in her heels.  Some of our tapes were call-girl/client 
games, so she even had some with the tall spikes that Lonna provided me.  
I studied her motions and tried to copy them with an almost hypnotic 
fascination.  Sometimes, I would feel that sense of being with Trish, or 
even of being Trish, but a lot of the time it was just, I don't know, 
trying to do a good job at something instead of drifting.  At least it was 
something to do.  

     Katy and Bud came by to visit after a couple of days, thankfully 
calling ahead first.  I was frantically taking off my cincher and girdle 
when I realized I'd still need to wear a bra.  I got out one of Trish's 
sports bras and wore a loose top.  Somehow, I couldn't really talk about 
what it had been like to do the whole transformation thing and after a few 
gentle questions we talked about other things.

     As they were leaving though, Katy said, "You're, um, more active
now then you have been.  Whatever you're doing, it seems to be working."

     "That's right, Tim," Bud agreed.  "I don't care what you're doing, 
just keep it up.  You seem more alive than you've been in a, well, in a
while."

     "Thanks," I said.  "I'm not sure it's helping me deal with Trish, 
but, well, it's something."  

     They both nodded, then Bud stepped through the door to start their
car.  Katy hung back just a second to give me a quick hug.  Her arm 
fell across one of the straps on the sports bra and when she pulled 
me close, I knew she could feel the shapes on my chest.  God knows I 
could feel the ones on her chest.  When she pulled back, she had a 
very quizzical expression on her face and I knew she wanted to ask me
about it, but she just nodded silently and smiled.  It was a truly 
friendly smile, all respect for my own decision with no ridicule at
all.  

     I smiled at her in return and said, "Thanks for your patience.  
I'll tell you about it one of these days."  

     I didn't expect that day to come quite so quickly, though.