Conversations With the Fat Girl (23 page)

always felt I was intruding on Adam and Olivia's time together. So I

made the trip when I thought Olivia and I could have some time alone.

I called Olivia from Dulles Airport, a little drunk and a lot hysterical

from the bumpy flight. She wasn't at the gate as we had arranged, and I

became concerned. I had forgotten my cell phone, so I called Olivia from

a pay phone by baggage claim. When she finally answered, she announced

excitedly that Adam hadn't gone to the symposium after all and, wasn't

it great, we could all hang out for the weekend together. There went my

plans for some time alone with Olivia.

Worse yet, she had apparently forgotten that she had promised to meet me

at the airport and drive me into DC. Instead, she asked me to meet them

later at a bar near their apartment

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for drinks and dinner. She made a pathetic effort to make this right by

offering to pay for the airport shuttle.

As I hung up the sticky, greasy pay phone at Dulles, I knew the elephant

in the living room could no longer be ignored: Our friendship was in

trouble. I stopped and browsed in the tiny airport bookstore, picking up

several magazines for my weekend with the happy couple. I then bought

myself a draft beer and watched the tail end of a Dodger game on one of

the million televisions in the bar-holding the cheers back as Eric Gagne

saved another one. Looking back, I should've gotten right back on the

plane and flown home.

The airport shuttle took a detour through Virginia, and after

approximately three hours cramped in a tiny van, I finally arrived at

the bar. Olivia and Adam had long since finished dinner and were now

nursing their glasses of red wine. Adam was still in his scrubs from the

hospital and looked exhausted. Olivia

looked upset and stressed. I sat down across from them as a waiter

handed me a menu.

"Sorry I'm late." And I'm sorry you're a horrible friend. And I'm sorry

you're a complete pompous ass.

"It's okay," Olivia said as she massaged the back of Adam's neck.

"So what's the plan, Stan?" I say

"Would you mind if we just went home? Adam has had a

really long day. We can go out tomorrow I already have it all planned

out," Olivia said.

"Sure. Sure. Sleep sounds good." Lie.

I never asked myself why I stuck around that weekend. The only thing I

worried about was what I'd done to turn Olivia against me. Why didn't

she like me anymore? Why didn't Adam like me? Why wasn't this working? I

think the reason behind Olivia's attraction to Adam-besides his being

the ultimate

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male-was that everyone except her annoyed him. She could feel like she

was in on the joke, and no longer the butt.

When we finally got back to Olivia and Adam's apartment, Olivia had

already set up Adam's camping mattress for me to sleep on.

"Liv, this is that show I was telling you about." Adam was sitting on

the camping mattress (aka my bed), watching the only television in the

house. The one in the living room. The one you had to sit on my bed to

watch. It was now past midnight, and I was becoming exhausted.

"Oh, yeah. I remember you talking about this. Wow, is it on right now?"

Olivia said.

"Yeah, they must be replaying it." Adam pulled his keys and wallet out

of his back pocket and set them down on the camping mattress next to him.

His wallet and keys sat next to him. I realized that Olivia couldn't sit

down as she watched the show, either. There wasn't enough room on the

camping mattress, and Adam never moved over. Neither did Olivia. I

decided to take a shower and wash myself tip a bit. I grabbed my bag,

found my toiletries, and told them I was going to take a shower. I was

hoping this would give Olivia the opportunity to let Adam know that it

was time to go to bed. Maybe he could watch his show another time,

tiny-handed bitch.

I came out of the shower feeling even more tired. I was relaxed and

clean and cuddly in my pajamas. Adam was still sitting on the camping

mattress . . . alone. Olivia was standing exactly where she had been

before I took my long shower.

I loaded my toiletry bag back in my suitcase and loitered around my

waiting bed. Adam was absolutely focused on the television. Olivia was

standing stock-still with her hand on her hip, staring blankly at the

television screen. I don't know if she

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was pissed off at Adam, or if she was as riveted as he was to this

seemingly vapid show. I tried to make eye contact with her but got nothing.

I sat at the kitchen table and waited it out. I was beginning to get

cold, so I put an afghan over my shoulders as I sat on the hard wooden

kitchen chair. My head began to bob, and my eyes could no longer

voluntarily stay open. I ended up sitting in that chair for almost an

hour as Adam finished watching his show, grabbed his keys and wallet,

and silently walked into the bedroom. Not one thank you or one good

night; nothing. Grabbed keys and wallet-went to bedroom. Olivia made a

silly face and fussed with my bed. She wished me good night, tucked me

in, and said she couldn't wait until tomorrow. Yeah, me, either. Whoopee.

She also told me Adam would be working all day tomorrow. I thought that

this was payback for that evening's antics. Honestly, I couldn't tell

you for sure. That night was a peek into what Olivia and Olivia's life

had become. The two queen-size beds were a mere trailer to the

full-length film that unfolded here tonight. I didn't like what I saw. I

didn't like that Olivia never considered advocating for me. Hell, she

didn't even feel the need to advocate for herself. Her best friend of

fifteen years was sleeping with an afghan over her shoulders at the

kitchen table and she never once thought that this was anything but

business as usual. I wonder how many times she's sat in that exact same

chair waiting. This is what happens when you don't think the fantasy

through. Adam decorates with black leather couches, and I hear he goes

to black-tie affairs a lot. The part you don't hear about is the two

queen-size beds and nights spent with an afghan over your shoulders

waiting for the king to go to bed.

Back at EuroPane, I ready myself for a day at the Getty. Kate

194 188Liza Palmer

and Mom are taking the girlies to the Huntington Library to see the

famous paintings Pinkie and The Blue Boy. Emily shows me the pamphlet

she saved from last time they went. Kate rolls her eyes as she loads the

girlies into her minivan. Bella can't stop chattering about sculperrs

and how there's no dollies at Huntington, just "nakeds with their

ding-dongs showing." Emily fans herself with her beloved pamphlet and

buckles herself tightly into her seat. Mom gets into the front seat and

begins fiddling with the seat belt. I almost lunge at the van and beg

them to take

me with them.

195

Hemming a Degas

A after parking in the lower lot, I board the pristine white tram that

will climb the hills overlooking Brentwood and Santa Monica up to the

Getty Museum. I am nervous and at the same time calm. I've made this

trek hundreds of times. I often come to the Getty to get some peace of

mind. This tram ride means I'm safe. I am not thinking about Olivia or

Domenic. I can't even begin to go to the place in my mind where I would

deny myself this place, this tram ride and Marcus Aurelius. The tram

jostles forward. I catch myself and smile at a pregnant lady who is

sitting two seats to my left. If this is about trust, let's see if I can

trust in myself.

I check in with the guard and let him know that I am here for an

interview He taps a few buttons on the computer and presents me with a

name badge. It has my name on it in all-capital letters, MARGARET

THOMPSON. I can picture it on my bulletin board now He tells me to have

a seat and Ms. Urban will

be right out.

I wait for only a few seconds before I notice a woman approaching who

has got to be Ms. Beverly Urban. Her stark white

196 190Liza Palmer

hair is perfectly straight arid hangs below her shoulders. She has milky

white skin and wears no makeup. She wears black matching separates and

accessorizes with what look like African beads around her neck. Her

chandelier earrings hang low and only accentuate her beauty

"Ms. Thompson?" Ms. Urban extends her hand. I stand.

"Yes, wonderful to finally meet you." I pull at my shirt as I stand,

almost dropping my interview materials. I am trembling, yet I shake her

hand firmly.

"Follow me, please." Ms. Urban walks in front of me past the security

officer. I continue to follow her down into the basement.

The office is filled with all kinds of art-all original. Sculpture.

Tapestry. Paintings. Some photography. She sits behind her desk, flips

open a file, and asks me to sit.

"So, Ms. Thompson?" Ms. Urban is looking through a file on her desk. "I

received the resume you faxed over and suffice it to say I am thoroughly

impressed." Just listen. Let the resume do the talking until I have the

balls to jump in.

"Thank you," I manage.

"Magna cum laude from the University of California at Berkeley and then

on to San Francisco State. From there it appears that you did

restorations for some of the top museums in San Francisco." Ms. Urban

looks at me. Not quite ready Am horrified. No balls.

"You've got recommendations here from some of the most respected

curators in the business, Ms. Thompson." Ms. Urban is flipping through

the photo album I apparently pushed at her sometime in the last five

minutes. I am breathing so hard I can't make out the words Ms. Urban is

saying. I want this internship so badly I can't bring myself to come

down to earth and be present. On top of all this, I believe I'm being

complimented.

197 Conversations with the Fat Girl191

Enough. No more. If I can't believe in my own talent, how can anyone

else? If I fear mediocrity, why am I struggling so fiercely to hang on

to it? It's staring me right in the face and I'm having a nervous

breakdown at the thought of someone complimenting me on my own talent. I

am qualified. Enough-enough of this half life of numbness and the daily

grind.

"Mr. Frankel was a big fan of my in-painting. I won him over with the

cherub on page nine-if you look at the 'before' and 'after' pictures,

you'll see the subtlety of my work. I worked for him several times. He

was very generous in his recommendation." I have forgotten to breathe. I

look at Ms. Urban so clearly. I deserve to be here.

"He wasn't generous at all. Your work speaks for itself, Ms. Thompson.

Is this a Degas?" Ms. Urban's voice catches as she holds my photo album

as close to her face as she can get it.

"Yes, ma'am. They brought her in from a rough international flight. It

was due at the Norton Simon Museum for their spring installation. They

brought me in to hem the skirt and reconnect her third finger-you have

to look close." I scoot my chair up and lean over the table to point out

the restoration to Ms. Urban. She nods in agreement as she flips between

the "before" and "after" shots of the sculpture.

There are blue buckets passing me at the speed of sound. I am on. I am

funny. Even Ms. Urban laughs at a joke about the Venus of Willendorf and

myself. All hips. It's a fertility-goddess joke. In the end, she shakes

my hand and tells me she will call within a couple of weeks. I tell her

it was a pleasure and I actually mean it.

I drive home and can't keep one thought in my head. I am a mixture of

joy, fear, excitement, and a little sadness. I haven't seen Domenic

since our "date." Was that night some kind of beginning or was it just

another night with a friend? Of course, I'm

198 192Liza Palmer

feeling anxious about it. I know he's not with Erin anymore. Maybe . . .

maybe he's not with her anymore because he secretly loves me? I find

myself thinking about Beverly Urban. I finally have someone who gets my

jokes about ancient fertility goddesses. It's a small demographic, sure,

but when you find them they're loyal as hell. I get home and turn on my

computer. My mind is reeling. I decide to check my e-mail.

There's a note from Olivia that includes the addresses of bridal-shower