The F Word

  And that’s when I realize that I wasn’t worried about what happened to me in that parking lot this morning so much as what it looked like. Could you see my underpants? Did I embarrass myself? Then the beeping. THE BEEPING. Adam immediately leaps into action. Calling for a nurse and pleading with me to take a deep breath.

  The Fat Me is waking up like some long-dormant volcano.

  “Take a deep breath, my love,” Adam says. I try to smile for him. I’m fine, I hear myself wheeze again. The beeping. Beeping. “Everything is okay, Liv. Liv? Can you look at me? It’s going to be okay.” I keep trying to fake being okay for Adam and this stupid traitor of a beeping machine. But, it’s not working. It’s not working.

  Back in the day, people always cheerily told me to fake it ’til I made it. Feel awkward about that new exercise regimen? Fake it ’til you make it. Feel vulnerable about walking into a crowded room alone? Fake it ’til you make it. Not sure someone will ever truly love you? Fake it ’til you make it! So, I came to understand faking it until I made it as knowing that I may be a fucking train wreck on the inside, but as long as I looked perfect on the outside, I could be happy! And I thought I was. I really did. I thought I was finally accepted and admired as someone who was to be cherished. I thought I was loved.

  I thought I was happy.

  I look past Adam and see Mom. Watching me. I focus on her. Wait until my lungs hurt, press the oxygen tubes into my nose, and inhale from the deepest part of myself. It doesn’t catch. Adam calls for a nurse and I steel myself. Okay. Shit. Something real. I can count to ten. Just count to ten. I can do this.

  One. Two.

  Breathe.

  Three. Four. Five.

  Think about the roller-skating.

  Six. Seven.

  My shoulders drop and my fists slowly relax.

  There’s the finish line, Olivia. Think about the cheering invisible crowd as I speed-skate to victory for America.

  Eight. Nine.

  Now breathe. It catches.

  Ten.

  The beeping subsides. Adam smiles and Mom finally sits back down on her rolling stool and takes a long drink of her water. She’s trying not to look worried, but come on. She’s not fooling anyone. Apparently neither am I.

  Turns out you can fake it ’til you make it for only so long before it backs up on you like a clogged toilet.

  And that shit goes everywhere, whether you like it or not.

  * * *

  “What is that?” I ask, staring at the monstrosity that’s hanging on the back of my office door.

  “That’s a Groot,” Ellen says, barely able to hold back her smirk. I examine the costume more closely. The main component of the Groot costume is a leisure-suit-adjacent cylindrical trunk with two cut-out armholes. The fabric—or whatever this hard unyielding material is they’ve used to make the costume—is airbrushed to look like bark. In an accompanying plastic grocery bag, they’ve given me a brownish long-sleeve spandex shirt, a pair of twiglike gloves, and an oversized wooden head with black marble eyes.

  “No, this is a tree.”

  “Right,” Ellen says.

  “No. Okay. Seriously. Who’s the superhero that’s kind of dangerously sexy and where’s that costume?”

  “That is literally every other superhero except Groot and you don’t get to have one of those because you explicitly asked for this costume. If you’ll recall, you were leaving the hospital and texted me in no uncertain terms that Rocket needs a Groot. And Groot is a giant tree.”

  That’s right. I got discharged from the hospital with exaltations about Groot and Adam drove me home. I made my follow-up appointments, got into my pajamas, texted Mom that I was home safe, plugged my phone into the charger, and went to sleep. When I woke up the next day, my chest hurt like it did back when there used to be smog alerts in elementary school. It felt like some new and terrible hangover. But, I got up, showered, made my morning smoothie, and met Caroline for her Vanity Fair interview with Rachel Hatayama at Le Petit Ermitage like I said I would.

  Adam said I should take the day off, adding that my “workload” was starting to “take a toll” on me. I said I was fine and that once I got the photographer’s schedule, I’d let him know when the shoot for the Christmas card would be. He just nodded, kissed my forehead, and laughed.

  “I actually don’t know if you could survive without your elaborate lists,” Adam said, looking down at me with a smile.

  “Well, I know you couldn’t, so…,” I said, tilting myself back just enough to look him in the eye.

  “Oh, I’d do just fine,” he said.

  Rage came first. At myself. This is the future being “so laid-back!” bought me. Ten years down the line and my husband is condescendingly looking at me because he literally has no idea how complicated and demanding it is to run our home, let alone do my job. To him, my lists are adorable little manic trifles and not the important kinds of things he has to worry about.

  “You’d do just fine because there are legions of women around you who keep lists of the things you need without so much as an acknowledgment from you,” I said.

  “You’re tired.” A wink. A pat on the arm.

  “I am tired.”

  “That’s what I just said.” He picked up his workbag and his travel mug, and started walking toward the front door.

  “The brass link on your workbag was broken. Do you remember that?”

  “Of course.”

  “And now?” I waited.

  “Honey, if you’re trying to prove to me that you’re still on top of things…”

  “It’s fixed. Did you even notice?” He looked annoyed. “You said you liked that travel mug, so I ordered it. And the coffee in it? It’s the kind we liked when we took that road trip up the coast to Cayucos. They had it at the Brown Butter Cookie Company. Do you remember?” He let out a long sigh. “You’re about to grab your keys, right?”

  “This is silly,” he said.

  “They’re on that same hook by the door because, do you remember how you kept misplacing them?”

  “This really is petty, Liv.”

  “It’s not petty … it’s not petty to want to be acknowledged and respected for making our home life something to be proud of. Is it so hard to look around and just say thank you?”

  “Well, while you’re buying hooks for keys and telling starlets what to say over soy lattes, I have a quadruple bypass this afternoon.” He opened the front door. “Maybe you need to see someone. Talk to someone—a professional—because whatever this is?” His eyes hit me like a punch. “Simply won’t do.” And he closed the door behind him.

  I stood there staring at the closed door. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run after him and rub his nose in the new fall porchscape I’d put together that he’d yet to notice. But, I didn’t. I just didn’t.

  “You were pretty drugged up,” Ellen says, bringing me back.

  “I’d just had a panic attack, so…”

  “So, here we are. Rocket gets his Groot. Now hurry up, you’ve got to be there in—” Ellen checks her watch. “Shit. Yeah, you’ve got to get that on now and head out. The traffic is going to be terrible. Caroline is meeting you out front at 3:30.”

  “Thank you,” I say, looking at her. Ellen looks up from her phone. “You do a lot for me. I have lists, but your lists put mine to shame.” I thought Ellen would think less of me after the whole panic attack thing. But, all that’s happened is that she’s gotten kind of nicer. Which—in the dark of the night—worries me because she’s probably planning my downfall.

  “It’s my job,” Ellen says.

  “I know. I know … I just really appreciate it.”

  “Oh. Well, you’re welcome.” Ellen stands there. Uncomfortable.

  “But I’m not driving to Altadena as a tree. That’s just patently unsafe.”

  Ellen looks relieved. “Fine. Where’s your gym bag?”

  “I have the fair tonight, so I worked out this morning. All my workout clothes are swea
ty and gross.” I point to the offending bag over in the corner of my office like it’s a pile of vomit.

  “I have some workout gear you can wear underneath. Why don’t you change into that?” She hands me a reusable bag that says “Talk Nerdy to Me” and inside I find a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra.

  “This is barely any clothes at all,” I say.

  “It’s what one wears under a tree costume.” Another look at her watch. Ellen takes the Groot costume down from the hook, drapes it over my arm—it weighs around seventeen thousand pounds—grabs a cheesy T-shirt from the goodie bag of Gus’s movie premiere, stuffs it into the bag, and opens the door to my office. “Text me if you need anything. I’ll be over at Gus’s putting his stuff in storage.”

  “This is a very bad idea.”

  “It’s a wonderful idea. That kid is going to love it. Everyone needs a Groot, just like you said.”

  “How did I choose the one non-sexy superhero?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.” Ellen closes the door to my office as we head out through the bull pen and finally get to the bathrooms. I go into one of the stalls and change into the workout gear. I pull the tight spandex brown shirt over the sports bra. The tight stall. The tree outfit. The spandex sticking to my now-sweating body. I’m panting as I contort my body to pull and tug and heave the costume on.

  “Caroline’s lawyers say they’ll file her divorce today as close to five p.m. as they can,” I say through the stall door.

  “That’s good. Hopefully the holiday weekend will buy us something,” she says. I fold my work clothes and pack them into the reusable bag.

  “She’ll be at the fair when it’s filed, so if it does start going viral she’ll be in good hands,” I say. I throw on the T-shirt and roll its sleeves up so they won’t be visible outside of the costume’s armholes.

  “And Vanity Fair?” she asks. I put on my sneakers and tuck my heels into the bag as well.

  “An exclusive snippet along with some shots from the cover shoot will go live on Monday.”

  “That’s good,” she says. I come out of the bathroom stall now clad in workout gear, a shiny grotesque brown leotard and an oversized T-shirt with Gus’s face on it.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  ROCKET NEEDS A GROOT

  “What on earth?” Caroline asks, making no effort to hold back her laughter. I shift the Groot head to my other hand and we have the most awkward side hug ever.

  I stomp behind Caroline through the full parking lot packed with cars, their trunks open and full of Halloween decorations and candy. Volunteers excitedly ready things for the Trunk or Treating that will be happening not soon enough for these kids.

  “Oh, so Super Hobo is calling out Groot?” Caroline does a little spin. Her beach towel cape, the miniature cowboy hat, and tiny rollie-suitcase are finished off by what looks like pajamas and Wellington boots. Hilariously, the Super Hobo Costume 2.0 probably cost somewhere in the thousands. The towel alone.

  “I figured I’d bring back an old classic,” she says.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  Caroline deflates slightly. Just how ridiculous we look discussing something so serious is not lost on me. “Not good. Of course, he’s been texting. And, of course, I love that he’s been texting and then I hate myself for it.”

  “Have you been texting back?” I ask, loathing that I’m thinking more about the possible leak of her texts than her actual well-being.

  “Of course not.”

  “Right. I’m sorry.” I tug on the tight collar of this costume.

  “They should be filing any minute.” Caroline checks her phone. “They said they’d call.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I feel like I should receive some kind of letter saying I’ve grieved enough and I’m ready to move on,” Caroline says, only half joking.

  “What, like: Congratulations, Caroline Lang! Your test scores look great and you’ve clearly learned from this experience. We are granting you admission to the next phase of your life. You are now relieved of any and all feelings you once had for your ex-husband.” I speak in as newscastery a voice as I can. Caroline laughs. “Please see admissions about the lovely man who’s been assigned to take you on an adventurous romp through the exotic locale of your choice. While you’re there you will be able to gaze out onto the body of water of your choosing as you cry sublimely, remembering what you’ve endured.”

  “Cue music.” Her smiles fades. “We’ve been watching too many of my movies.” She spins her towel cape around just a bit.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s going to be different. We have yet to see if it’s going to be okay.” I just nod. Caroline doesn’t need a pep talk right now. She just needs to be sad. Or mad. Or all of it. “He has yet to move his stuff out, so that’s something to look forward to.”

  “Mrs. Lang?” A volunteer dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz approaches us.

  “Yes?” Caroline asks, turning to face her.

  “Hi. I … uh … I’m in charge of the booths. I’m supposed to help with yours?” She extends her hand to Caroline and the wicker basket with the stuffed Toto that’s looped over her arm hurtles toward Caroline. “Oh, god. I’m…”

  I try to bend over to pick up the basket and realize too late that there’ll be none of that with this costume. I almost lose my balance. I grab on to Caroline’s arm and she hoists me back up, steadies me, picks up the basket, and hands it back to the poor woman.

  “Thanks. Thank you.” The woman takes the basket and can’t stop apologizing and shaking her head. “I’m Katie. I’m one of the teachers here. I’m a huge fan.”

  Caroline extends her hand to Katie. Katie carefully takes it. And I see Caroline disappear into Movie Star Mode, a welcoming smile spreading across her perfect face. Meanwhile, her entire life is falling apart.

  “So great to meet you. I hear I’m in charge of the photo booth?” Caroline asks.

  “Yes. We thought you’d be great for getting the kids to strike silly poses and all that. You know, because that’s kind of what you do … for a living.” Katie’s words just hang there. “Not that that’s all you do. I’m … I’m just so nervous.”

  “It’s totally fine. I’ll follow you, then?”

  Katie nods and starts walking toward the field that’s just past the main buildings of Asterhouse. Caroline gives me a wave. “I’ll let you know when they call,” she says, holding up her cell phone. I nod.

  “I’ll find you,” I say, shifting the Groot head again to my other hand.

  “I imagine I’ll see you coming,” she says with a wink. She turns to follow Katie, her little rollie-suitcase trailing behind her. And, just beyond Caroline, I see Ben turning the corner dressed in his football uniform from high school. Number nine.

  Fuckkkkkkkkkkkk.

  It’s a cruel, cruel turn of events, universe.

  Whatever gratitude I felt that I saw him first, and not as I lumbered (heyo!) across the field only to be peed on by some overly zealous dog, evaporates as his eyes find me. Or they kind of do, then he tries to process why I’m a giant tree and this smile overtakes his entire face. As he walks over to me, I’m fifteen again and imprisoned in this goddamn tree just like when I weighed a thousand pounds. My breathing becomes shallow. No. Oh, god, no. Please don’t let me pass out and become incontinent inside this tree. Not in front of Ben Dunn.

  “I almost didn’t see you,” he says, motioning to the row of trees just behind me, his helmet in his hand. The muscles in his forearm are taut as the weight of the helmet ebbs and flows with the motion.

  “I’m not just any tree, I am Groot,” I say.

  He laughs. “You don’t get why that’s funny, right?”

  “I grasp why this whole thing is hysterical, but no, not that part specifically.”

  “It’s his one line. It’s … never mind,” he says. We stand in silence.

  “Thanks again for letting Caroline join in,” I
say.

  “Oh, no problem. All the costumes you guys brought are great. The kids were so excited.”

  “Dad! Daaaaaaaaaad!” Louisa hurries over to Ben, dressed in some kind of wrapped linen getup and carrying a giant walking stick. Trailing just behind Louisa is a tiny Maleficent, holding upward of ten plastic bags filled with water and a single goldfish each. I see Ben’s smile fade as he takes in what’s in Tilly’s hands. “Grammy told her she couldn’t play anymore, but she won’t give ’em back.” Tilly rumbles over and leans on me. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a tree and not a person. Maybe we’re all just trees to her. Ben kneels down and starts talking quietly to Tilly. She instinctively hides the school of goldfish behind her back.

  “What’s your costume?” I ask Louisa.

  “Rey,” Louisa says, striking a pose.

  “I don’t know who Rey is, but I love all the linen,” I say. The look on Louisa’s face is a combination of disbelief and disgust. I’ve rendered her speechless.

  “Linens? Like how when Dad says to put our towels away in the linen closet?” Louisa is absently touching my costume, her tiny chocolate-smudged fingers working their way across the faux bark.

  “Kind of.”

  “Rey is in Star Wars. She’s a Jedi.” Louisa’s tone isn’t mad. Just disappointed.