Magpie
- Ella Newell
- May 22
- 11 min read
by Ella Newell
Maggie was at the gynaecologist when she realized she might not be a feminist. With her bare feet propped up on the stirrups, her underwear bunched up inside her purse, and Dr. Jennings’ gloved hand currently prodding at the space between her legs, her thoughts were decidedly un-feminist in nature. She was not thinking about womanhood, or sisterhood, or the advancements in reproductive health that allowed her to be here now; she was thinking about how much she regretted not shaving in the shower last night when she’d had the chance.
She wanted to ask if she was hairier than average—than the last woman who sat reclined in this gynecological chair—but she knew Dr. Jennings; she knew the answer she would receive: “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” or something adjacent. Maggie desperately wanted to be the type of woman who didn’t care about this sort of thing, but she soon found herself wondering if Dr. Jennings kept a secret internal catalogue of all the vaginas she’d ever encountered. Maggie wondered a) how long the list would be and b) where hers would fall on various scales of abnormality.
Instead, Maggie asked, “What does Pap smear even mean?” She couldn’t see Dr. Jennings, as her gown was draped over her knees, so she lay her head back and directed her question at the speckled ceiling tiles instead.
Dr. Jennings chuckled. “It’s kind of gross, actually,” she said. “Pap after Papanikolaou, the man who invented the test, and ‘smear’ because, technically, it involves smearing the cells of your cervix.”
“You’re right. That is gross,” Maggie replied. “I could even get over the fact that it’s named after a man, but smear? Why not ‘swab’?”
Dr. Jennings chuckled again. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Maggie realized then that she probably wasn’t a feminist, no, that wasn’t true, she realized she was not a very good feminist; she truly did find the smear thing more heinous than the man bit. “I’m going to start calling it ‘Pap swab’, I think,” she said, still addressing the ether, the void, of the ceiling tiles.
“Well, you go for it, dear,” came Dr. Jennings’ voice, “but I doubt it will catch on. People don’t like change.”
“You’re right,” Maggie said, and recognized that she’d be a hypocrite if she argued otherwise.
“I think I might not be a feminist,” Maggie told Dorothea the next day as they sat at the old woman’s vanity. It looked as though it belonged in an antique store, or a Regency period piece: dark wood, worn brass handles, and a section that dipped down in the middle. (They didn’t make them like that anymore, Maggie thought.)
“Of course you’re a feminist,” Dorothea responded immediately. “You’re a woman and you’re gay. It’s your responsibility to be a feminist.”
Dorothea Maye was Maggie’s favorite person in the whole world; the fact that Dorothea’s daughter, Jennifer, paid Maggie by the hour to help with the cooking, cleaning, and housework was inconsequential, though Maggie’s own family would likely disagree.
Time is money, Maggie’s mother always said. And it was, Maggie supposed, but with Dorothea, it seemed as though time was measured by another currency altogether—a far more valuable one. It was measured in Dorothea’s cheeky grins, her long-winded rants about TikTok and online shopping, and her loud belly laugh, a cackle peppered with snorts that would put a warthog to shame.
“Is that how it works?” Maggie asked with a grin as she dabbed concealer under the old woman’s crinkly eyes, careful to avoid masking the laugh lines she loved so much.
“Yes,” said Dorothea, meeting her gaze. “You’re twenty-five. Take it from a woman of my age.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Shame on you, girl,” Dorothea reprimanded, swatting Maggie’s wrist. “Asking a frail old woman on the brink of death her age, you ought to know better.”
“You’re neither of those things,” Maggie retorted, then added, “but yes, you’re right, you’re right—”
“Of course I’m right,” Dorothea interjected.
“I just don’t think I’m a very good feminist,” Maggie clarified, setting down the sponge and reaching for a blush compact.
“What the hell is a good feminist?” Dorothea asked.
“I—” Maggie paused. “I don’t know,” she admitted after a moment.
“Hunh,” was all Dorothea said.
August 29 at 2:15 PM (Voicemail Transcription):
Beep… Hi Margaret. This is Shannon from Suncoast Women’s Care. I hope you’ve been enjoying the warm weather we’ve been having. I’m calling to inform you that we have the results of your Pap smear and pelvic exam from your appointment last Saturday, August 18th. As we are unable to disclose personal medical information via voicemail, we’d appreciate it if you could give us a call back at this number as soon as you’re able. Have a wonderful day. Bye-bye… Beep.
It was silent as Maggie dusted the apples of Dorothea’s cheeks with the bright fuchsia shade of blush, no doubt purchased from an Avon catalog decades ago. (Dorothea firmly believed that makeup did not expire, and Maggie had long ago learned there was no point arguing with her. She was older and therefore, wiser.) Maggie knew she should probably be unloading the full dishwasher in the kitchen, or organizing Dorothea’s pills for next week, but she didn’t want to leave Dorothea’s room. Dorothea’s bi-weekly makeovers were Maggie’s favorite part of their time spent together.
Dorothea, unlike most people her age, did not like to talk about herself—or at least, of past versions of herself. She was perfectly happy discussing her present-day thoughts and opinions, but she rarely told stories from a time before she knew Maggie, and never from when she was very young. That is why Maggie enjoyed doing Dorothea’s makeup so much—why she insisted upon it as often as she did.
The process of applying makeup was thought by many to be an act of covering up, of hiding, but Maggie knew it to be an act of revealing, of unveiling. As Maggie applied concealer, and blush, and pale blue eyeshadow, and black pencil liner to Dorothea’s face, she thought she could catch glimpses of the girl Dorothea had once been. She could picture Dorothea with the same face of makeup—likely the same products—dancing at college bars with her friends, meeting her husband, Robert (whose name Maggie only knew from Jennifer), celebrating anniversaries, and attending high school reunions, social gatherings, and Jennifer's graduations.
She could picture Dorothea in this very bedroom, with the very same furnishings: the same ancient vanity, and floral comforter, and canopied bed. As Maggie saw Dorothea’s stories laid out before her, she wondered if Dorothea also saw these past versions of herself when she looked in the vanity mirror after a makeover. She often spent a good bit of time admiring herself, but perhaps it was just her own current face she was admiring.
After all, the laugh lines, and smile lines, and the scar above her right eyebrow that Maggie could never bring herself to cover up, told a story, too—told many stories that made up the person she was today, in this moment.
“You know,” Maggie mused as she watched Dorothea gaze at herself in the mirror now, “If I didn’t have you to take care of—”
“You’d be at cosmetology school,” Dorothea finished for her. She turned to Maggie with a smile. “My dear, as I tell you every time, the door is right there. Despite what my daughter may think, we both know I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself on my own. She can replace you with another if she really cares to that badly.”
“But—” Maggie started.
“Don’t ‘but’ me,” Dorothea interrupted. “It’s unfair of you to place your unfulfilled aspirations and lack of courage on me. If you wanted to, you would. If you want, you still can.”
But Maggie had never been serious about that dream. In fact, Dorothea had always taken it far more seriously than she ever did. Maggie smiled, attempting to change the subject. “Don’t pretend as though you would not miss our talks and makeovers and outings,” she said, poking Dorothea’s shoulder.
Dorothea shook her off. “I would not,” she said resolutely. “Not in the slightest. And even if I did, it would not be enough to keep you from something you truly want.”
“It’s only a joke,” said Maggie. “I said if I weren’t here, cosmetology school is where I’d be. But I am here. And I want to be here.”
“Well then,” Dorothea said after a long moment, “I’m flattered, but disappointed.” She stood abruptly, knees crackling like Rice Krispies in the process, youthful soul and aging body at war with one another. “Now, let’s go unload my dishwasher.”
September 1 at 3:21 PM (Voicemail Transcription):
Beep… Hi Margaret. This is Shannon from Suncoast Women’s Care again. This is a follow-up to inform you that we have the results of your Pap smear and pelvic exam from your appointment last Saturday, August 18th. Again, we are unable to disclose personal medical information via voicemail, so we’d greatly appreciate it if you could give us a call back at this number as soon as you can. Have a great day. Bye-bye… Beep.
“You need to call them back,” Maggie’s mother said before spearing a green bean with her fork.
“I know,” Maggie said. She looked at her mother as she absentmindedly swirled the wine in her glass. She was reminded of her conversation with Dorothea about what a good feminist was. She realized that if she were to close her eyes and picture a good feminist, her mind would conjure an image of her own mother. Sharply dressed in a dark blouse—not too casual, but not too formal—and curly hair swept up in a careful updo, she looked as though she could have just left a feminist lecture to have her weekly dinner with her daughter. (Maybe she had.)
“Because it’s a privilege,” Maggie’s mother said, “having access to gynecological care like you do. Not every person with a vagina has that. I just don’t understand why you’re taking it for granted.”
“I’m not,” Maggie said. “I’m not trying to.”
“Is it anxiety?” Maggie’s mother questioned. “Do you just not care?”
“No,” Maggie protested. “I guess I just thought the results would get emailed or something.”
“Oh,” said Maggie’s mother. “Well, you can call them back now. You can do it now. You’ve barely touched your dinner anyway.” Suddenly, she gasped. “Margaret, are you pregnant? Is that why you don’t want to call them back?”
“No, Mom.”
“Because if that’s what you’re worried about,” Maggie’s mother continued, “we can work something out. Whatever you want, I promise—”
“I’m not pregnant,” Maggie cut her off. “I’m gay—and I told you, I’m not seeing anyone right now.”
“Well,” her mother corrected, “you’re bisexual, not gay—that’s a limiting term—unless you feel differently since you came out to me and just haven’t told me.”
“No,” Maggie said. She wanted to groan. It was impossible to have a conversation with her mother, she decided. She felt as if she were drowning under the weight of all her mother’s care and concern, drowning not in icy waters, but in a warm bathtub. She was surrounded by a comforting sort of warmth—steam, and bubbles, and rubber duckies—but she was drowning all the same. Maggie sighed. “I mean, you’re right,” she conceded. “You’re right about the gynecologist too. I’ll call them.”
“Good,” Maggie’s mother said.
But, as Maggie dialed the number and the voice of Shannon (from Suncoast Women’s Care) sounded on the other end of the line, the metaphorical bathwater surrounding her did turn cold.
“You’re quiet,” said Dorothea. “You’re never quiet.”
“You’re doing my makeup,” Maggie replied. “You never do my makeup. I’m trying to be a good canvas.”
Dorothea scoffed. “Don’t lie to me. What’s on your mind?”
Maggie closed her eyes. She enjoyed the feeling of Dorothea blending the cool foundation into her cheeks, though the fear of the potential breakout Dorothea’s ancient makeup brush might cause niggled at the back of her mind. She pushed the thought aside. What did that matter now, anyway? She decided there was no point in keeping anything from Dorothea, either.
“I think I was right,” Maggie said. “I’m a bad feminist and now my body is punishing me for it.”
Dorothea raised her thin eyebrows impossibly high. She set down the makeup brush. “What the hell are you talking about?”
The words spilled out of Maggie like apple juice in a toddler’s sippy cup: “The results of my Pap smear last week were abnormal. My cervix has wonky cells or whatever. I’ve got a colposcopy scheduled for Thursday because I might have cancer. But I also might not. I don’t know. I don’t know anything; I didn’t even pick up the phone the first two times they called. My mom is a good feminist, and I’m a bad feminist, and my vagina is abnormal, just like I thought."
Tears sprang to Maggie’s eyes, though they didn’t fall. She stared at Dorothea and Dorothea stared back.
“Oh, Maggie,” she said after a moment. “I’m so sorry. That’s the worst feeling in the world.”
“It really is,” Maggie said. “Thank you for saying that. Everyone else—my mom and fucking Shannon have told me not to worry or stress because it could be nothing, but it also could be something. It’s worse because it’s my body. It’s my vagina, and I’m being made to hate it. I don’t want to, but I do.”
“Hmm,” Dorothea hummed thoughtfully, then said, “You know, I used to have huge tits.”
“What?” asked Maggie, startled.
“Massive,” Dorothea replied. “Before my double mastectomy. I try not to dwell on it too much because, if I’m being honest, I really miss them a lot. They were my pride and joy.”
“Your… boobs?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, Maggie, my boobs. Jesus,” she sighed, “maybe you really aren’t a feminist. Can’t a woman like her own boobs?”
“Well, of course,” Maggie hastened to say.
“Good. Well, I did. Before, I was a curvy woman with huge tits and now, I am a fat old woman with a flat chest. I used to think my breast cancer diagnosis was my body’s way of punishing me for taking my tits for granted, or being too vain, or whatever else. I’ve had a lot of time to think, being as old as I am.” Dorothea put a hand on Maggie’s shoulder and gave her a knowing look. Maybe she thought Maggie would ask exactly how old that was, as she often did, but Maggie did not. “Do you want to know a secret, though?” she continued.
“What?” Maggie asked.
“You and I are exactly alike, Maggie,” Dorothea said earnestly. “We’re magpies; we’re collectors.”
“Magpies?” asked Maggie.
“Yes,” Dorothea said. “We collect and we hoard shiny things. We collect stories.” Maggie must have looked puzzled because Dorothea continued. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Every time you do my makeup, your eyes shine, they sparkle. It’s how you collect your stories.” She smiled. “Now, in my old age, I have also collected many stories—not through makeup, as you do, but through watching people, through observing them.”
Maggie listened, heeding Dorothea’s every word. She continued, “I have seen the same story time and time again. We women spend our time worrying about how we shouldn’t be worrying about superficial things. It’s when we don’t give a shit, though, when we let go of the fear and the doubt, when we can truly live.”
Maggie blinked. She looked at her reflection in Dorothea’s old vanity mirror. Foundation—many shades too light—covered the bottom half of her face, and Dorothea had covered just one of her eyelids in bright pink eyeshadow. She looked like a mess, but it was a mess that told a story.
“You’re right,” she said.
“Of course I’m right,” said Dorothea.
Maggie was worried that she might have cervical cancer; of course she was worried that she might have cervical cancer. But she was also worried that she had more pubic hair than average, or that she didn’t shave enough. She liked makeup—hell, she loved makeup, and she did want to go to cosmetology school—and Dorothea liked her boobs, and getting her makeup done, and shopping (in person, not online).
Maggie realized that she was a feminist, and a good one at that.
“You may have cancer or you may not have cancer,” Dorothea said. “You can feel about it—or anything else—however you want.” She gave Maggie one of her signature cheeky grins. “Either way, you’re a woman and you’re gay; you’re a feminist. I say you’re a feminist, and that’s coming from an eighty-year-old woman.”
October 25 at 12:11 PM (Email to magpie.williams@gmail.com. Re: Suncoast Beauty Institute Application Fall 2025):
Hello Maggie,
Thank you for your interest in applying to Suncoast Beauty Institute! We have received your application and look forward to reviewing it. Feel free to reach out should you have any questions about the application or enrollment processes.
Thank you!
Laurel Graham
SBI Admissions Director
***
Ella Newell is a writer whose work features themes of coming-of-age, nostalgia, and womanhood. She has a B.A. in English with a concentration in Creative Writing from North Carolina State University. She currently resides in Charlotte, NC, where she lives with her sisters, two dogs, and cat. Her story, “Hell Is a Spinning Teacup Ride," can be found in Lunchbreak Review (soon!) and her story, “Mermaids,” was a finalist for the 2024 James Hurst Prize for Fiction.
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