Getting Waisted (16 page)

Things went from bad to worse as I acted out like a bratty seven-year-old child, but how I enjoyed every minute of my rebellion. I was paying for this spa—or in this case, a fat camp—but no longer wished to be here, not because it was too hard, but really because it wasn’t what I expected. I had wanted a mindless escape with some pampering and a light amount of fitness and health training but instead I was at a gulag that not only wanted me to burn off the pounds, but also wanted me to bare and share my soul in public. Not happening. Ultimately I found my people, the few Teflon-coated black sheep who also resisted the cajoling, prodding, and pushing to march to a beat that we couldn’t quite follow.

But then I was busted for stealing grapefruits from one of the trees right outside my room. “They’re grapefruits for God sakes! Not cupcakes!” My emergency stash of candy was found in the toe of my hiking boot by a tattletale maid—please don’t tell me she was cleaning my shoes.

I was called on the magic carpet to stand trial before the Goddess-in-Chief, who was worried I might stage a coup. I could only imagine that if
I
were
to stage a coup, it would involve butter, sugar, and flour. I was given the speech: “You continue to do what you have always done and you
will
get what you always got.” I threw caution to the wind and said, “I hope that means ice cream.” I was banished from the spa. I was disruptive and my attitude was toxic to those who were serious about cleansing themselves of bad habits. I felt released, but not in the way the Spa Gods had intended. I felt comfortable with my decision not to be bullied into
feeling.

I arrived home to an answering machine full of messages. Five of them were from my mother and several were from my agent to tell me he got me a national commercial. Of course he didn’t tell me that I would be wearing a hot-pink leotard and most of the shots would be focused on my leather-strapped derriere, being jiggled and shaken, as I stood on one of those ridiculous vibrating machines, all shot in a very tight and supposedly funny close-up. What this had to do with Scotch tape was beyond me. By the end of the fifteen-hour day, my rear end was quivering all on its own, and I was yet again feeling demeaned.

I had hoped to come home and drown my sorrows in a nice hot bubble bath while scarfing down a large bowl of anything with cheese, then climb into bed wearing my favorite flannel nightie, but once again the answering machine was full with calls from my mother. I shut the machine off along with the rest of my crappy day.

I woke up full of sinner’s remorse. “I will only eat greens today, maybe a little chicken, skinless, and I will drink gallons of water until I flush the evil toxins from my body and mind, and I will hit the treadmill and power walk until I am once again worthy. I will. I will. . . . Maybe just a teeny bit of bacon, a bite of sausage, with a side of hash browns, crispy . . . ” I turned the phone back on and played back the messages. My mother’s first message sounded tired and fed up but by the time I got to the last one, she had unraveled and was not making much sense. What I did hear was, she was at her wit’s end and couldn’t take another minute of my father’s crazy behavior. I called back but there was no answer. I tried again half an hour later. Still no answer. I panicked and grabbed the keys to my car. What if something had happened and he was in the hospital—or worse?

So much for not feeling; it was not possible.

15

Throwing in
the Towel

Cost
No one cares

Weight lost
Seriously?

Weight gained
Yes!

I couldn’t understand where my parents were.
I had checked with the hospital and my father’s doctor, and thankfully he was not in either place; yet neither of them was home. They never went anywhere together! My curiosity was further piqued when I saw a newspaper lying open to a heavily ringed, red-circled ad for used cars. I could feel the agitation pinging from it. Neither of them drove. It didn’t make sense. I heard a taxi screech to a halt in front of their house. My mother bolted out of the cab and stormed inside, hauling a suitcase behind her, followed by my very confused father. The front door slammed.

Seeing me sitting at the kitchen table, her shoulders slumped down in release at having someone who might understand. “He is old, like parchment, and he needs to be in a home where he can have proper care. Yesterday, he walked to the bus stop in his pajamas and he wasn’t going anywhere. He had his paper and pencil and stood there taking names and numbers until Mrs. Soumis from down the street got him to come back home. I can’t do it anymore! I’m not young either.” She grabbed the newspaper and waved it in my face. My father had still not made it into the house. Her finger stabbed at the circled ad: “Old Volks Home.” She was more amped up than usual, explaining her eyesight was not what it used to be. She had seen the words “Old” and “Volks” and called the number and asked the man who answered, if they took old
volks
? He said they did, so she packed my father’s bag and called a taxi. I had begun to feel something like panic mixed with incredulity sweep over me as she continued, “When we arrived at the address from the phone book, it was a used car dealership, not a home for old volks. Volkswagens!
Aaach
!”

I was fighting to keep from spinning out of control on so many fronts. That she had tried to take my father to be warehoused in an old-age home without talking to me, and probably without discussing it with him, either, was bad enough, but that she had taken him to a used car dealer was awful. My mother’s Austro/Hungarian accent somehow extended to reading as well. She was always mixing up her V’s and F’s but this was too crazy. “You took Daddy to live in a used car dealership?” Despite the absolute sadness attached to this misbegotten adventure, I fell apart, hysterical with laughter, which infuriated my mother even more. But then she, too, recognized the insanity of what she had done and collapsed in laughter right alongside me.

My father walked into the kitchen and took in the unusual picture of his wife and daughter gasping for breath as we laughed until tears were pouring from our eyes. “Well, that was a rather odd outing.” His understatement only set us off again. He continued, “I think a cup of . . . a cup of . . . of . . . what is it that I want?” My father was losing it at an alarming rate. All his years of half-life had become his reality. A vat of ice cream injected directly into my veins would have been good right at that moment.

So began our Sunday-in-the-country drives to find my father a home. My mother and I sat in the front and my dad sat in the back, lost in his own head, counting the many uses for corn as we drove
by one full field after another. “Corn . . . corn . . . oh yes, more corn . . .
What do they do with all that bloody corn? I suppose cornflakes, corn chowder, corn bread, corn fritters . . . oh, cream of corn . . . right, right, oh corn dogs, very strange indeed . . . popcorn!”

We passed one pretty Victorian mansion after another; very few were still private homes, but there were quite a few that had become funeral parlors. I’m guessing they sent a message of stately calm and serenity. A few were now bed and breakfast establishments, but the majority, it seemed, had been transformed into elegant looking retirement homes. There were peacocks in front of one, Harbor House, a retirement community; a pond in front of another, Winston Manor, home for the aged. We pulled up in front of several of them, hoping to see a sign from my dad that he responded to one of them more than the others. He seemed oblivious but I believed he was in denial.

We parked in front of a particularly appealing red brick mansion, The Folger Home, and went inside. It was just like all the others. The entryways were warm and welcoming but the farther in you went, there were no peacocks, just rows of pigeons in pajamas, all waiting but they didn’t remember for what. They were sitting in large waiting rooms devoid of life, waiting for the end of theirs. Reading from the brochure, Queen Elizabeth was doing the hard
sell: “A place to care for your elderly in the way you would care . . . ”
I hoped not, but it was a done deal, and I sent her home in a taxi. I didn’t want her to get him settled, as I knew he would be forever unsettled with her overcompensating presence.

“It looks nice here. They serve tea in the lounge at four every afternoon, just like in England.” I was chirping, my voice was becoming higher and higher. “They have chess and backgammon, and I saw some people painting. I think you might like that. There are a couple of nice looking men your age . . .” Of course they were his age. I was babbling like an idiot. He was quieter than usual as I unpacked his suitcase. It had so little in it: a few well-worn sweaters, a pair of nice grey pleated trousers, a couple of pairs of pajamas, a McDonald tartan bathrobe, and his favorite slippers. There were no dress shoes but he wouldn’t need them. “I’ve packed your favorite books and a brand-new atlas with big print. I know how you like to roam the world. There’s a bag of soft caramels. I have a feeling once you settle in, you’ll be quite happy not to have to hear Mummy’s nagging and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a couple of single ladies, just waiting to chat you up. ”

The stillness shrouding him was like a thick impenetrable fog and I couldn’t shut up as I tried to pierce through. I looked at him to make sure he was breathing. He was standing so still. I could barely breathe. This was his last stop; he knew it and I knew it. I helped him to sit but his body was stiff like stale saltwater taffy. I had to help him unbend, one wrong move and I worried a piece of him would snap off. I touched his arm . . . I wanted him to know . . . I don’t know
what
I wanted him to know. I understood his fear. He softly reached up and patted my hand. I was supposed to be reassuring him, not the other way around. I wanted the blood in his legs to pump and I wanted him to run. A friendly Filipino male nurse arrived to check his vitals. I kissed my father and bolted from the room. I felt like a traitor.

The director of
T
he Folger Home asked me to step into her office to discuss my father’s care and other pertinent issues. After answering my questions she pulled a sheaf of papers from her desk that I needed to sign. She wanted to know who to notify in the event of death. “Is there a Mrs. Parker?”

A hard brittle voice leapt from my throat, “No, there isn’t. You call me. Is he going to be okay?”

She draped her arm comfortingly around me as she walked me through the lobby to the front door. “He’ll be just fine. It’s like a cruise ship with lots of people in the same boat . . . ”

The stresses and strains had begun to take their toll on me and I wasn’t sleeping well. I was uncharacteristically moody and unable to focus on work, but work was the one thing that calmed me. I put my heart and soul into designing a line of blouses, skirts, pants, and dresses that would look good on us Chubinskis. It was sexy and playful, but still classy, managing to cover the parts us big girls wanted and needed to conceal, but made the most of what was intended to be on display. And none of it was black. It was vibrant, feminine and pretty and I called the line, Full Bloom. My sketchbook was almost full, but instead of taking it to a manufacturer to have the samples made, I put it away along with my ambition to be the Coco Chanel of fat fashion. I wasn’t in any condition to take the leap. My addiction escalated, manifesting in a wholesale slaughter of anything resembling food. With every bite I got angrier and angrier but I didn’t know at what or whom, so I turned it inward. With my father now firmly in a home, my mother had finally abdicated any pretense of her bogus marriage and I understood I was now solely responsible for his life. I couldn’t breathe and I kept my hands deep inside my pockets so the shaking wouldn’t be visible, even to me.

Every day I drove to the old peoples’ warehouse and I sat in the parking lot looking up at the gray windows, looking to see if I could catch a glimpse of the gray man I had abandoned there. I saw only slow moving shadows. I would take a deep breath, suck it up and head inside. But on this day, doing what I always did, I took a deep breath and lifted the door handle to get out, but my legs were cemented to the floor. I knew I was supposed to get out of the car and go in with a smile on my face but I couldn’t do it. I left, squealing my tires as I bolted from the parking lot.

I called my close friend Arlene. I needed someone safe to sit across a table from while I ate to stuff down my feelings. An unsettled storm was brewing, moving in on me. I was fidgety and irritable and couldn’t even concentrate on the menu. “I’ll have the chicken. You must have some kind of chicken. I don’t care if it’s battered or bruised, just any kind of chicken. Thank you.” Arlene looked at me, trying to see how she could help. She had barely uttered a full, concerned syllable when I slammed her hard. “I’m fine!” I apologized and excused myself. I had to go back. Arlene squeezed my hand in gentle understanding and I handed her a bunch of bills, which she wouldn’t take. I told her I would call her later and I was out the door. This was my father. What was I thinking? He had already been abandoned by my mother.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped out into a cuckoo’s nest of vacant-eyed, scrawny pigeons all sitting in their wheelchairs, waiting. I walked right past my father. He, too, was sitting in the waiting row—death row. He was wearing mismatched pajamas and a three-day stubble and no teeth, the man two wheelchairs away was wearing
his
McDonald tartan robe. I found his teeth in a glass next to his bed and gave him back his smile. As I released the brake on his wheelchair to take him to the cafeteria, all the pigeons looked up at me with pleading eyes, begging me to take them, too. They lurched forward, trying to squeeze onto the elevator but the doors began to close as the man wearing my father’s bathrobe jammed his wheelchair in the gap. The alarm bells went off. He stared at me in defiance, refusing to budge. I needed to know the penalty for killing someone already on death row. A pair of orderlies came and pried him loose but by then my father had lost interest. I returned him to his room.

Oh God, my heart just skipped. It skipped a beat. I got in my car and I drove home. I was having an out-of-body experience. I was driving but I was sweating. Who did these people used to be? They had lives; they were me. They used to answer phones, pay bills, kiss and be indignant over stolen parking spots. Now they were shriveled and diminished, just bits and bites of memory, bursts of rage, and endless hours of nothingness.