chapter nine
Healing the Fat Girl Within
Last night was the Healing the Fat Girl Within conference. I didn’t want to go. It just didn’t seem right to be preoccupied with calories and meaningless fat girl issues when my mother has cancer.
Cancer
is definitely an uglier word than
fat.
Mother said, “I’ll still have Hodgkin’s disease whether we go to the conference or not.” Aunt Mary had complained that she’d already paid $150 for our tickets. The money was nonrefundable. Needless to say, Aunt Mary got her way.
My first clue about the unscrupulous nature of things should’ve been the registration area. They were serving hors d’oeuvres— buffalo wings, cheese and crackers, sausage rolls, artichoke (ha) dip, and—
get this
—pigs-in-a-blanket. You’d think a sensitive fat girl like myself might have taken offense to pigs-in-a-blanket being served at a fat girl conference, but I couldn’t stop eating them long enough to consider the political incorrectness of it.
Mother and Aunt Mary stood on the sidelines of it all, delicately sipping Diet Cokes. I knew they were grossed out by the gluttony, but I didn’t care. For once, Mother and Aunt Mary were the outcasts, significantly outnumbered by plus-sized females who’d come from as far as Knoxville to participate in tonight’s “big” event. Even if it was a fat girl fest, it felt nice to actually fit in someplace. At first.
It wasn’t until our plump bodies were packed in Columbia State’s noisy gymnasium that I realized this fat girl “conference” was nothing more than a giant sales pitch. Every diet from A Lot to Lose to Zodiac Weight Loss was being peddled by chattering, smiling sales representatives: Hollywood Hills, Catfish Soup (no, I’m not kidding), Citrus Fruit, Herbs for Loss, Nutri Management, and Soy Solutions, just to name a few.
The first speaker was an overweight, middle-aged woman from a company called Trim ’n’ Glam. Before she even opened her mouth, I knew her product wasn’t any good; otherwise, she would’ve been skinny herself.
Next, a crunchy-granola type took the stage and spent twenty minutes showing slides about an herbal colon cleanser. Aunt Mary was so grossed out she went to wait in the lobby. After that, the director of a place called Dairy Details took the podium. “At Dairy Details we explore the effects of calcium on fat,” he explained. “We have a tightly controlled setting where we monitor very closely what goes into our clients’ bodies and what comes out of their bodies.”
What comes out?
I elbowed Mother. “What does he mean by that?” I whispered.
“I don’t care to know,” Mother mumbled.
Finally, in the middle of a sermon (and I mean that literally) about a weight loss plan called Thin for God, Mother motioned toward the door. “You wanna go?” she whispered. I nodded vigorously.
The drive home was quiet. Sullen Aunt Mary stared at the road and said nothing to Mother or to me. I could tell she was furious that she’d wasted her money. She pulled up in front of our house. Quickly, Mother got out of the car. “Thanks, Mary,” Mother called, waving her sister off as she headed toward the door. Obviously, Mother is much better at reading her sister’s bad moods. Fool that I am, I lagged behind. Even though I resented Aunt Mary for buying the stupid tickets in the first place, and I had tried to tell her we shouldn’t go, I knew she couldn’t afford to waste $150 on nothing. “Thanks for trying, Aunt Mary,” I said. “Sorry you wasted your money.”
Aunt Mary rolled her eyes and tapped the steering wheel with her pointy red nails. “Do you realize I could’ve had Tom Cruise declawed with that money?” she said. Tom Cruise is Aunt Mary’s cat. I couldn’t help thinking Aunt Mary should’ve had herself declawed. “Why can’t you just lose weight, Rosie? I mean, is it so hard just to stop doing this?” she asked, moving her hand back and forth from an imaginary plate to her mouth.
“So it’s
my
fault the conference was a rip-off?” I replied.
“No. But it’s your fault we had to go to a conference in the first place. I’m not saying I don’t understand why you gained weight. I mean, your life hasn’t exactly been perfect. No father, a young single mother who works too much . . . but you could just get a grip on yourself, you know, find a
hobby
.” The
h
in
hobby
came out as if Aunt Mary were loosening something stuck in her throat. I no longer cared that she’d wasted her precious money. I just wanted her to drive away into the darkness and never come back.
“Rosie, come on inside!” Mother called from the porch.
“You’re not so perfect yourself,” I said. “But you don’t see
me
criticizing
you
all the time. Those hideous plastic nails, for one thing. I could say plenty about those. And your love life. I mean, I’m fat, so it’s obvious why I don’t have a boyfriend, but what’s your excuse?” Aunt Mary’s jaw dropped.
“You’re disrespectful,” she said. It came out in a whisper.
“So are you,” I replied. For all her dishing out, Aunt Mary certainly couldn’t take it. I had plenty more to say, but I stopped myself. Instead, I slammed the car door and stormed off toward the house. Aunt Mary zoomed up Stewart Street and squealed tires as she made the left onto Third Avenue.
“Idiot,”
I mumbled under my breath. Mother was standing beneath the porch light, her face an eerie shade of jaundiced yellow in its glow. She didn’t say anything, but I knew she was disappointed in me.
“Sorry,” I said when we were inside.
“You should go a little easier on her,” said Mother. “She loves you, after all.”
“She loves having someone to criticize,” I corrected. “Maybe you’re lucky I’m fat. Otherwise, all Aunt Mary’s attention would be focused on you. Do you know what it’s like to be under constant scrutiny? At school people stare at my lunch tray. At the salon old ladies actually come right out and ask how my diet’s going. At home I’m harassed over a treadmill that I never asked for in the first place.”
“Okay,” said Mother quietly. I could tell she wasn’t in the mood for fighting. “Are you going up to bed?” she asked. I shook my head.
“I’m gonna hang out down here awhile.” Mother opened her mouth to speak, but I stopped her words with my eyes. She was about to tell me not to snack before bedtime, but she clamped her mouth shut and drifted off down the hallway to her room.
I thought of going upstairs, but it was too depressing to go to bed before ten o’clock on a Saturday night. Instead, I slipped off my shoes and lay down on the slipcovered sofa. The living room was the nicest room in the house, yet we barely ever spent any time there—blue walls with shiny white moldings, a fireplace we’d only used once (Mother preferred candles to real flames), a pretty floral rug purchased at a discount store that looked anything but discount, elegant striped draperies with pinched pleats that stretched from ceiling to floor (a trick Mother claimed made the smallish windows appear bigger). I gazed up at the beautiful bookcase wedged in between two windows. The massive structure was a perfect contrast to the draperies and walls. It
popped
, according to Mother.
I switched off the lamp and lay staring at the shadows on the walls. “Stop,” I whispered at the ceiling. “Please just help me stop.”
If possible, Monday was even worse than Saturday. Mother had a consultation with a specialist in Nashville, a Dr. Prescott Wheeling, some fancy Ivy League Hodgkin’s expert guy. Did Mother take me, her only child, with her to this important appointment?
No. Only Child went to school.
Did Mother take Aunt Mary?
Yes.
The two of them picked me up at Spring Hill High School on their way back from the doctor’s. I could tell by Aunt Mary’s polite coolness she was still mad about Saturday night (that made two of us). Without a word, I squeezed into the backseat of Mother’s Honda and listened as Aunt Mary rattled on and on about Hodgkin’s and chemo and radiation as if she were now some kind of expert after accompanying Mother to
one
doctor’s visit. Aunt Mary’s talking must’ve annoyed Mother, too. She shot through two traffic lights on the way to Aunt Mary’s apartment.
“Rose Warren, why in God’s name are you in such a hurry?” Aunt Mary snapped after Mother zipped through the second light. “I’d prefer not to be maimed in a traffic accident today.”
“Rosie’s due at Dr. Cooper’s,” said Mother. “I don’t wanna be late.”
“We’re not going to see Mrs. Wallace
today
, are we?” I protested. Truthfully, I’d forgotten all about my appointment.
“Why wouldn’t we be going
today
?” Mother snapped. “You know I hate it when my clients just don’t show up. I refuse to do that to somebody else. And I had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, not a heart transplant. I wish you
both
would just stop talking about this!” Mother scowled at me in the rearview mirror.
“Both?”
I said indignantly. “She’s the one—”
“That’s enough!” Mother shouted—at me.
Aunt Mary got out of the car. “Call me if you need anything, Rose Warren,” she said sweetly, then tossed a dirty look my way. I pretended to be engrossed in an English paper I’d gotten back from Mrs. Edinburgh that morning, and I made sure the A+ was in plain view. Neither of us said good-bye.
“Mother, I never agreed to see Mrs. Wallace,” I said after we drove away.
“Do you really have a choice, Rosie?” Mother asked, her voice strained and tired.
“Of course, I have a choice! This should be entirely my choice! Even Mrs. Wallace said so!” I yelled.
Mother slammed the brakes and shoved the gear into Park. “Do
I
have a choice, Rosie?
Huh?
What if I just decide to ignore this cancer? You think it’ll go away on its own?”
At the doctor’s office, Mother settled herself by the fish tank with a
People
magazine, and I paced around the empty waiting room. When Mrs. Wallace appeared in the doorway, she looked happy to see me. “I’m glad you’re here, Rosie.” She smiled and patted me on the back. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all day.
After a few polite comments, a heavy silence descended on us. I’d listened to Mother’s cheerful hairdresser chitchat a million times, yet the gene to fill silent air with polite small talk had passed me by. Mrs. Wallace and I stared at one another, as if in a game of Who’ll Blink First.
Finally, I gave in. “My mother has Hodgkin’s disease,” I announced. Mrs. Wallace’s face was a wide-open window, but she didn’t say anything. “We just found out today she has to have chemotherapy,” I went on. “Then radiation. Mother’s chances of survival are good, according to my Aunt Mary.”
“Your aunt’s a doctor?” asked Mrs. Wallace.
“No, just a know-it-all,” I replied. The corners of Mrs. Wallace’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, but it was hard to tell if she was actually smiling. I made a few more sarcastic comments about my aunt, then Mrs. Wallace and I sat in silence again.
By the end of the half-hour, I couldn’t stand it another second. I was missing
Oprah
for this woman. I don’t miss Monday
Oprah
s for anyone (Monday is the only time I can watch the show, since the salon is closed that day). “I don’t mean to be rude, but could you tell me what I’m supposed to do here?” I asked.
“This is the one place, Rosie, where you’re not really
supposed
to do anything. You can say whatever you like, feel whatever you like. Silence is okay, too. In fact, it’s kinda part of the process.”
“But silence probably won’t help me lose weight,” I pointed out.
Mrs. Wallace smiled at me. “I think considering what you’ve been through these past few days, it’s pretty impressive that you came today at all.”
I stared down at my ample lap, which took up the entire chair and spilled out over its sides. Mrs. Wallace was a nice woman. I liked her easygoing demeanor. Talking to Mrs. Wallace had to be better than colon cleansers or tainted mayonnaise diets (which, after the fat girl conference, I realized wasn’t all that crazy an idea, after all). “So should I come the same time next week?” I asked. Mrs. Wallace nodded and shook my hand. Her palms were rough but warm.
After dinner, Mother went to bed, and I headed upstairs. I couldn’t wait to tuck myself in bed and watch a gastric-bypass special on the Health Channel. While listening to the stories of surgical hell and sipping a bottled water, I tried to imagine myself going through such a grisly procedure. Judging from the patients on television, I’d probably have to gain more weight just to be a candidate. Peanut butter cups danced through my head like sugar plums, but I resisted (okay, so I didn’t have any). Instead, I closed my eyes and pictured the post-gastric-bypass-surgery Rosemary. She was thin. She would never have to worry about being fat again. She had no choice but to be skinny. Sadly, there was no more comfort food in her life either, just an endless supply of protein shakes and prepackaged astronaut food and big scars.
Fast-forward fantasy. I’m post gastric bypass and skinny. I’m also post the grieving-over-food stage. In fact, I’m completely over food. Food no longer matters to me. Why should it when I have Kyle Cox? We go to parties, to movies, to restaurants, to malls. Kyle even takes me to his parents’ house for dinner. “Hey, Dad. Hey, Mom. This is Rosie. You’ll have to liquefy her pot roast in the Cuisinart,” Kyle explains. “Her stomach’s the size of a walnut.”