Conversations with the Fat Girl

  I take a shower and put on a pair of black pants and pull a white V-neck T-shirt from my hamper. I find myself bringing the shirt cautiously up to my nose to gauge the odor. It passes. I put it on. I pull on my long black sweater and convince myself it will be air-conditioned in the restaurant because I’m already hot from wearing too many clothes in the summertime heat.

  Olivia and Adam are at a table for two in the corner of the restaurant. I tell the hostess I am meeting friends and walk over to the intimate table. Olivia is wearing an off-white peasant top with linen pants. She has on large gold hoop earrings, and her hair is in its usual mussed state of perfection. She has added a jeweled barrette (pink), which pulls a tiny portion back from her face. She has gotten even smaller since I’ve last seen her, putting her somewhere near a weight even Hollywood would consider thin. I smile more widely than I have in weeks. Just seeing her calms me and makes me feel at home. I feel the hostess’s eyes on me as she looks around to see why no one has brought a chair for me. Olivia jumps up as I approach. I see Adam dabbing his chin and rising behind her. I imagine there is a golden glow around him this evening. She calls the hostess back and asks for a chair.

  Adam is wearing a pressed oxford-cloth shirt and khaki dress pants. He is wearing woven leather loafers. The hostess brings me a tiny, brittle-looking wooden chair and sits it at the table. Olivia hugs me and asks if I found parking, did I bring the napkin, and how work was all in a span of three seconds. Adam reaches across the table and shakes my hand. His hands are baby soft and smallish. The busboy brings flatware and a plate for my dinner, moving aside the centerpiece and a finished appetizer of some kind of grilled asparagus. I am tempted to introduce the busboy as my boyfriend just to see how it flies. I decide against it.

  “How long have you guys been in town?” I ask, settling in and shuddering at the deafening creaks emanating from my gingerbread prop chair. I am starving and eye the remnants of the asparagus.

  “We flew in yesterday morning. Olivia and I are staying at the Ritz.” Adam is pulling his cell phone from its holster and examining the numbers.

  “Have you spoken to the event planner?” I ask.

  “She’s meeting us there tomorrow morning. Will you come? You always know exactly what I’m talking about and I just don’t think that bitch understands me sometimes. This whole Italian café light thing has been a disaster. I just can’t imagine . . .” Olivia trails off, taking a slow sip of her martini. I think that is the most she’ll be “eating” tonight.

  “Sure. I work tomorrow night, so that’ll work.” The waitress approaches as Olivia and Adam order their dinners. I haven’t even looked at a menu. I pick up one of the two menus and study it as everyone, in turn, studies me—except the waitress, who can’t take her eyes off Adam. I order the chicken with a diet soda. Adam sips his red wine and looks around the restaurant while I try to situate myself so there will be no more chair creaking. I have positioned myself so all my weight sits toward the front of the chair and a little to the left. The rest of my weight is distributed on the table, where I am pressing my elbows furtively. One wrong move and the whole thing could topple over. I am so globally uncomfortable, I hear nothing but the creaks of the chair and the teetering of martini and wineglasses.

  “So how do you like Pasadena?” I ask Adam.

  “Charming. I always enjoy visiting Olivia’s mother and seeing the place my girl grew up. She really is a treasure.”

  “Oh, Dr. Farrell, you are too too much.” Olivia turns bright red, giggles quietly, and lifts her hand to cover her mouth. Are they making fun of someone right now? Is there a couple behind me who actually act like this—and are we going to take turns mocking their Victorian courtship traditions? I scan the restaurant for a man in a top hat or perhaps a woman’s parasol leaning against a booth. Confused, and a little disappointed at not finding such specimens, I turn back to Olivia and Adam as the reality hits me. This is how they act together.

  “What? What is it, honey?” Olivia continues as Adam is now patting his napkin on his chin in disgust.

  “Just . . . will you . . . just look?” Adam is staring at a booth at the far end of the restaurant. I am horrified as I turn. Olivia gasps.

  A slight man is looking on as his wife slides out of their booth. Her stomach is sitting on top of and below the table for a sliding-glass-door effect. Her napkin is still perched on her large bosom, and she is nervously laughing for she has—horror of horrors—become stuck in the booth. She is trying to push the table forward, but it is bolted to the floor. As she pushes, the booth behind her is being rocked back and forth. The young man in the booth gets out and asks if he can help her in any way. Acting oblivious, the woman’s husband, now on his cell phone, moves out of the restaurant. The woman’s laughs are becoming more and more hysterical as she sees her husband leaving. The young man waves down the waitress, who tells him if they just push the booth back, the woman will be freed. The woman yanks the napkin off her breasts and looks down on herself. I can’t watch anymore. I know that look. I know that moment. She is promising herself she will never eat again, and this is the day she will begin her new exercise regimen.

  “Ridiculous,” Adam whispers.

  “What?” Olivia leans in, smoothing her shirt down over her flat stomach.

  “How does a woman allow herself to get like that? That is the manifestation of what has gone wrong in this country. I shudder at what her heart looks like right now.” He sips his wine. If Dr. Farrell wants to call me fat, he should just come right out and fucking say it.

  “Yeah.” Olivia’s voice is breathy as she lifts her martini glass and swirls the olive around.

  The restaurant is abuzz with the goings on of the past fifteen minutes. I look over once again at Olivia. In a moment of pure fear, she catches my eye and I understand. I knew Adam didn’t know to what extent Olivia had battled her weight. I thought he knew about the surgery and the complete metamorphosis of the past five years. Now I realize he has no idea how big Olivia was. That woman could have been Olivia without the bypass surgery.

  The evening ends, and Olivia and I make plans to meet at the city hall gardens at ten thirty the next morning. Adam is meeting a colleague early for some “time on the links.” I wave good-bye to him and hug Olivia one last time. She is tiny. I feel her bones as I hug her and cringe. My best friend is wasting away and loving every minute of it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Domenic’s Underpants

  I have always dreamed of getting married in a mountain cabin with the snow falling outside. It would be a small family affair, close and warm, lit by firelight and candles. We would invite everyone for a holiday party and surprise them all with our nuptials. He would cry as he vowed his love to me, thinking secretly that he never thought life could be this beautiful. I would look at him and know this is the person I’m going to be with forever. That I never have to be alone again. Should it worry me that even in my fantasy, the man is getting married for love but I just don’t want to be alone anymore?

  I stop for coffee and meet Olivia on the steps of city hall at 10:30 a.m. She is wearing 1940s-style pants that button on the side. Her white-and-pink polka-dot top is fluttering in the wind of the morning; her tanned, flat stomach is visible with every other whispery breeze.

  Pasadena City Hall, built in 1927, was fashioned in the style of sixteenth-century Italian architect Andrea Palladio. Using building materials such as Alaskan marble, vertical-grained white oak, Cordova clay tile for the roof, and fish-scale tile for the massive dome, the city hall serves as a focal point for the entire city. The gardens have a Spanish Colonial feel to them, but the eye is drawn to the huge cast-stone baroque fountain in the exact center. Around the garden, paths of crushed granite set apart flower beds bursting with hydrangeas, azaleas, and hundreds upon thousands of annuals that are rotated throughout the year. Needless to say, it’s not your average suburban city hall.

  “She’s late,” Olivia greets me.

  “It’s ju
st now ten thirty. I’m sure she’s just finding parking somewhere.” I sip my coffee and look around at the empty parking lot. We smile at each other as my ridiculous statement hangs in the air. Olivia laughs and shoves me aside, regaining her composure.

  “Are you meeting us at Martine’s on Tuesday for the wedding dress? Badgley Mischka, can you believe it? This is my final fitting and I can’t believe I’ve left it to the last minute. But I just couldn’t, you know. I couldn’t even think about walking down the aisle in anything but a size two. Just this weekend I bought this pair of jeans and the four was too big. I thought maybe . . . maybe. I asked the girl to run get me a two. She did and it fit. You can’t imagine how incredible it feels to look at the tag of a piece of clothing you’re wearing and see SIZE TWO just staring right back at you. Girl, it’s amazing. So I knew this week was it. I called Mommy right from the store and told her we were going to that last fitting as soon as I could catch a flight out.” I try to picture a size 2 tag staring up at me. That would be incredible, because I would probably have a tiny person stuck in the back of my pants, struggling to free herself.

  Olivia looks at me, as I am obviously a little speechless. I never, not once, thought about getting gastric bypass. I know it has worked for her, but I can’t fathom such a last resort. Not that I’m doing any better. Doing nothing is certainly not something I’m comfortable with, either.

  “I have Tuesday off work. We can do it then,” I say, sipping my coffee. A flash of recognition of her faux pas passes over Olivia.

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I know you’re struggling, and I’m just over here rambling on about size twos and shit like that. Whatta bitch, huh? I’m sorry. Just please give me a little leeway right now, I think I’m going a little nuts, you know? All this wedding stuff. I just never thought it would be this big of a hassle. All of my clients are completely pissed at me, and I haven’t worked out in days. I just feel everything slipping away, you know? Just please, don’t pay attention to any crazy shit I say, okay? And there’ll be plenty, I promise you that. You’ve got to be the one that holds me steady. Just please keep me grounded through all of this. Please? Plus, I don’t even know what you’re worrying about anyway—I’ve always told you you’re fine the way you are.” Olivia is flipping her cell phone open and closed.

  “I know. But a size two would be nice,” I say.

  “Don’t try to be all pity-pot, girl. Let me just run get my Rolodex of stories that prove when it comes to being pitied for getting called fat, you need not apply. Don’t make me reenact the Thar She Blows night. I will. I’ll bend my ass over right now and make you play the parts of those fucking dickheads in that car.” Olivia grows angrier and angrier as she remembers that night.

  “I know. I just want to look nice at your wedding. I’m not trying to take away your crown, Moby.” Olivia smiles, but it quickly fades. It’s as if she wants to joke about the good ol’ days, but when she actually commits to it, she regrets it immediately.

  “So will you come? To Martine’s? You’re the only one who is ever honest with me about what looks right on me. Need I bring up the velvet pants?” Olivia quickly changes the subject again. She snaps her phone shut.

  I remember those velvet pants. They were a deep navy blue and had a huge embroidered butterfly right across the ass. Olivia wore them constantly throughout the summer before our freshman year in college. As she packed for orientation, I finally broke it to her that the butterfly made her ass look twelve times bigger than it actually was. You couldn’t even make out that the embroidery was a butterfly at all. It looked more like an homage to our nation’s purple mountains majesty.

  Olivia and I stand in silence for the next ten minutes. Her anger is escalating. She paces up and down the steps of the city hall. I sit on the top step and drink my coffee. The morning is crisp, a wonderful reprieve from one of the hottest summers I can remember. Olivia is pacing at the bottom of the steps when a high-end sport utility vehicle pulls up and parks next to her rental car. The woman behind the wheel pulls down her mirror and reapplies her lipstick. Olivia taps her foot and puts her arm at her hip. I push myself into a standing position.

  “Olivia! You look amazing!” The woman is just shy of her third face-lift.

  “Patrona? You are fifteen minutes late and I have a two-page list of problems with this site. You’re not charging me for a full hour, are you?” Olivia asks.

  “Of course not. Let’s get right to that list.” Patrona is a professional. She offers Olivia a Pellegrino from her purse and takes her hand as they enter the city hall gardens.

  I trail into the gardens behind them, Pellegrino-less, and behold the setup for an event that evening. Bustling caterers and jumpsuit-clad workmen wind their way around the gardens with various tables and bunches of flowers. The fountain is lit with white pillar candles on silver plates with gardenias floating in bunches on the water. The tables are done in all-white, with large glass bowls of cabbage roses in the center of each. Olivia gasps. She walks through the setup in a daze. There are twinkling white lights winding around every pillar, while bell jars, with a single candle in each, hang from every tree. Patrona and Olivia discuss lighting, flowers, the cake placement, the DJ stand, the dance floor, and the head table. Patrona uses the already setup event as a guide for Olivia, and it works perfectly.

  “Mags!” Olivia calls. I snake my way through the tables to find Patrona and her at an obvious focal point.

  “This is where the head table is going to be. Can’t you just imagine? You and me sitting here—everyone will have a clear view of me, right, Patrona?” Patrona nods excitedly.

  “And Adam?” I add.

  “Oh my God, of course, Adam.” Olivia’s voice catches as she tears up. “This is really happening, huh?” I put my hand on her shoulder. Patrona takes a few steps back, sensing our need for privacy.

  “Sweetie, are you okay?” I whisper.

  “I just never thought it would happen, you know? Remember when I used to walk my fat ass here all by myself every Sunday—hoping there would be a wedding going on? I never thought . . .” Olivia trails off. She pulls a perfect handkerchief from her purse and dabs at her eyes, careful not to let her mascara run.

  “Everything is going to be beautiful.” I wipe an errant tear away from her face. Olivia smiles and turns once again to where the head table will be.

  “You and me at the head table for the whole world to see.” Olivia spreads her arms wide and beams at me.

  Patrona slinks back over and begins the business of planning the wedding once more. Olivia is checking off items on various lists and passing Patrona color-coordinated card after color-coordinated card. But then suddenly at one point in their tour, Olivia holds up one finger, shushes Patrona, and tells her she is “dismissed.” Patrona skulks away as I stand there, mouth open. Who is this person?

  That night, Olivia and Adam fly back to Washington, DC. Olivia will then catch a return flight to LA for her final dress fitting. It seems Dr. Farrell didn’t want to fly home alone. As I walk Solo, I think about who Olivia is becoming: the night at the restaurant, that whole bit about the size 2s, and how she acted with that event planner. I am confused. I wonder what happened to the fourteen-year-old Olivia who brought a cricket into our homeroom one morning and named him Elmer. Does Olivia think she has to be someone else to marry Adam? She’s not fat anymore. How could she think Adam wouldn’t love her if he knew about these things? These are the things I love about Olivia. Her humor. Her uniqueness. Her confidence. It’s like it’s all but disappeared. Her new confidence is somehow forced and disingenuous. How can she not be proud of her own life?

  I walk into work a good five minutes early. Cole feigns a heart attack.

  “Whatever.” I sound like a thirteen-year-old girl when her dad asks her what is the deal with that homework and the little attitude, missy.

  I walk into the back room. I am met with the object of my suppressed desires.

  “Hey,” Domenic says as he stands over
the sink.

  “I didn’t know you were working today,” I say. I manage to act calm and cool, pretending not to notice he is wearing a new light blue T-shirt I have never seen before. I have carefully documented his entire wardrobe. I use these observations for the random fantasy when I am not doing so well at the repressed-desire thing. He looks up. I am in physical pain.

  “I switched with Dre. I guess there’s a big wrestling match on TV tonight and some people are getting together to watch it.” Domenic dips each glass in soapy water. His hands are strong and wet. I look away.

  “Wrestling, huh? And Cole isn’t there?” I say.

  “Oh. Well, maybe he doesn’t know about it.” Domenic is mumbling.

  “Cole not know about professional wrestling? You’ve got to be kidding. Let’s make fun of him for having to work tonight and missing out on all of the fun.” I turn around and make for the front of the coffeehouse and a bigger rock to throw at my Goliath.

  “Did you get the CD I left for you?” Domenic blurts out, not looking at me.

  “Oh, yeah. It was amazing,” I say, turning back. I wonder if amazing is a bit over the top. Now I’m mumbling.

  “Thanks. Which song did you like the best? I mean, were there any songs you especially . . . um . . . you skipped? I always like to know the songs people skip past.” He smiles, but keeps his focus on the dishes and not me.

  “I love song four. I put that on an old mix I had way back in the day. I remembered it was a hidden track, but that was definitely a nice surprise. I skipped seven and eight because they’re a little too punk rock for my tastes. And where did you get that one song—that.” I can’t help myself.