Authors: Susan Vaught
Big Fat Manifesto (16 page)
"Did you like Dr. Meacham?" Mom asks as we head into a convenience store for a snack. "He seems like a nice man."
I shrug. "He's a doctor. They're all about the same."
My phone rings. I glance at the display as Mom heads toward the soft drink coolers.
It's Burke.
My heart thumps, then squeezes. The thought of talking to him feels like better medicine than any clinic could prescribe for
me. Even if he's smaller now, he's been there, been in that doctor's office, under the sheet, hearing the fat lectures.
"Hello?" I smile as I answer.
"Hey, baby," Burke says, sounding so much like his old self I can see him like he used to be, kicked back in his leather recliner,
all big and handsome and happy. "Where are you?"
"The Pick-Sack. We just got through at the doctor's, and—"
"Pick-Sack? Great! I'll be home before you guys leave, so will you pleee-ease hook me up with a candy bar? You know what I
like."
My hand clenches around the phone.
I flash on wearing that sheet in Meacham's office, and pulling it tighter and tighter and tighter until the sheet and my fat
strangles me to death, and I fall off his little table and make a mess on his ultraclean floor.
All my happiness at Burke's call starts draining away. "Listen, I was just at the doctor's office like I said, and—"
"Everything okay? You sick?" Nice of him to ask, even if he doesn't sound worried at all. I hear noises in the background,
like he's probably watching television.
My foot taps against the store's streaked tile. "No, I'm not sick, but the doctor was a bastard."
Long pause.
Nothing.
Like... Burke's not really listening to me at all.
"You remember that, right?" I try again, a little louder. "Going to the doctor, and how they act because you're fat."
"Yeah, I remember—but that's gonna be no big deal for me now, is it?" Burke laughs and goes back to paying attention to whatever
he's watching on the tube.
I grip the phone hard enough to crack it down the center.
"Jamie?" Mom calls from the back of the store. "Want one of those candy bar brownies you like?"
"Did she say candy bar brownie?" Burke's paying full attention now, practically moaning into the telephone.
Oh, hell.
"Get two," I tell Mom.
To Burke, I say, "Done. See you later, okay?"
And I hang up before he says anything else.
I can't quit thinking about Meacham and the thigh cuff and the sheet, and somehow Burke's brownie-moan blends into all that,
and I just don't want to be in that store anymore. I don't want to talk to anyone, either. I just want to go home, but I can't
ditch NoNo and the fliers, or Freddie will slay me.
Or say something about Heath.
Or say something about Heath to Burke.
To Mr.
It's gonna be no big deal for me now.
How nice for Burke.
My face is
so
hot How perfectly friggin' wonderful that Burke doesn't have to worry about fat things anymore, like clothes that don't fit.
Like reporters showing your belly on national television as an isn't-this-horrible example. Like bad doctor visits.
Like... me?
"Jamie?" Mom's at the register, and I'm standing in the middle of the store like a giant dillweed.
"Coming," I mumble, but I don't move.
Freddie wouldn't rat me out, would she?
But if she did, would it be that awful?
Right now, I'm thinking
no.
And when Freddie asks me about Heath—and trust me, the subject will come up—what am I going to tell her?
Nothing.
Because there's nothing to tell.
Except that you're heading to the cave tonight, no matter what
your parents say. Don't lie. You know you're going.
After the fliers. After Burke gets his damned oh-so-important candy bar. After everyone and everything else is taken care
of, then It's
The Wire
and the cave...
"And Heath," I admit to no one.
A few minutes later, I follow Mom out of the store like a Fat Girl zombie. Every step, automatic. Every movement, mindless.
Maybe tomorrow I'll know what to say to Freddie.
FEATURE SPREAD
for publication Friday, November 9
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
This is an open letter to doctors who actually give a damn about Fat Girls getting healthier, and I'm writing this column
right now, before the fire fades. So, yes, Dr. M., this Fat Girl's for you.
Dear Dr. M. and Similar Doctors
Everywhere:
If you want to help me or any other Fat Girl follow this one simple rule I thought you all learned way back in medical school:
Primum non nocere.
First, do no harm.
How do you harm me? Let me count the ways—and check your own medical journals, because the research backs me up. In fact,
it would take a dozen or so pages to detail the injuries. Instead, I'm offering you a Do and Don't list, in hopes you'll get
a clue.
DON'T assume all my health complaints stem from being fat. So I have stomach cramps. Do skinny people never have stomach cramps?
What? They
dol
Well, what do you do for
them?
DO give me a thorough, complete examination.
DON'T make my weight check, blood work, and blood pressure check an embarrassing theatrical production.
DO have equipment and supplies that fit my body, and weigh me privately.
DON'T lecture me or blame me or shame me. You'd think this one should be a no-brainer, but honestly, that crap doesn't help.
It sets me up to avoid medical services not just now, but forever. I'd rather die of some puss-filled, snot-swilling, eye-bleeding
infectious disease than go to a doctor's appointment And I'm not alone.
DO ask if you can help with my weight instead of assuming I'm a blockhead. I know I'm fat. I'm not unconcerned or noncompliant
or treatment-resistant. I probably know more about nutrition and weight-loss programs than you do. If you don't have new ideas
or some real and lasting support to offer, just shut up and treat me.
DON'T use wonky health-message posters. Did you know that many or even most of your teen females will actually misinterpret
those messages, feel worse about themselves, and become more likely to adopt psycho weight-loss "quick-fix" strategies? Check
the research on that. I'm right.
DO rethink the scare tactics and gloom-and-doom messages. Talk to me about hope. Help me find hope. You'd do that for any
other patient. Don't Fat Girls need hope, too?
Primum non nocere.
How hard is that?
Lights blaze from Burke's house as Mom drops me off. I fold up the feature I just finished in the car, tuck it into my skirt
pocket, then count vehicles. Burke's, Freddie's, Burke's dad's...
And great.
M
&
M are here.
Just this one evening, couldn't the vampires be off sucking blood from other victims?
I should introduce them to Dr. Meacham. They'd probably fall in love.
Gripping my brown bag from Pick-Sack like It's full of booze or grass or some other major illegal contraband, I ease up to
the door and knock, not too hard, hoping it'll be Freddie or Burke or NoNo who hears me.
Of course, it isn't.
M
&
M answer at the same time, wearing black skirts, black jackets, and disapproving frowns. They eye me, then my bag.
I work up my best bright smile. "Is there a password?"
They glare at me.
Before I can start guessing words like
hex
or
witch
or
Nosferatu,
they let me in.
I slide past Mr. Westin and his television news, and find Freddie, NoNo, and Burke standing at the round kitchen table, with
stacks of STOP GLOBAL WARMING fliers spread in every direction. NoNo's adding a splash of color to each page with an environmentally
safe marker, and Freddie and Burke are folding the papers into three sections. It's harder and harder for me to match old
Burke with this new Burke and his stylish, athletic clothes. His muscles look a little slack and droopy, but that won't last.
The bald head, though—thafs hanging around. His hair just won't grow.
"Thank God," Freddie says. She leans back in her chair and kisses her fingers. "Another set of hands. I'm a damned paper-cut
magnet."
"Don't draw negativity," NoNo cautions, and Freddie rolls her eyes at me.
I drop the paper bag with the illegal candy bar brownie on the table, give Burke a major look so I know he gets the point,
settle into one of the big armless chairs, belly-up to the table, and start folding and stacking, too.
"No paper cuts," I say like a chant, smiling at NoNo. "Nimble fingers. Nimble fingers. Drawing the positive. Imagining the
positive."
Like M
&
M failing to come into the kitchen. Like M
&
M turning into bats and going to hang from the attic rafters.
Hey, this positive thinking thing works.
M
&
M didn't follow me. Not sure about the whole bat thing, but at least they aren't in the kitchen.
Bald, fashion-plate, sort-of-saggy Burke shoots me a grin that says,
you're the best.
I'm busy trying to figure out what's different about the kitchen—other than Burke. I finally realize It's the smell. No food,
no spices. Like the kitchen hasn't been used in a month. Which it probably hasn't, if the Westins are supporting Burke and
eating away from him so he doesn't feel too deprived by his pureed diet.
For a time, the bunch of us are quiet. Too quiet. It feels weird, like more than the food smells are missing from the kitchen.
I hate this freaky disconnect, but I don't know how to fix it, so I just fold and fold and fold.
Then Burke announces, "I get to move to soft food tomorrow. Things I can chew."
Oh, ivhee. More weight-loss diet talk.
I fold my flier hard and zip my fingers down the crease. Why does everything have to be about
that
now? Any second now, he'll ask if we can tell how much he's lost, and we'll all have to say yes.
NoNo saves us with, "What do you want to eat the most?"
"Pizza," Burke says without blinking, "Nachos. Maybe a steak. But that stuff's a ways down the road. Gotta start small." His
gaze drifts to the bag. I get another grin.
Yeah, well, one candy bar brownie is small for Burke. Before he got his gut stapled, he could put away five or six and
then
go for pizza.
"If I couldn't eat for a month," I say as I fold the next flier, "I'd probably want popcorn. No, wait. Baked potato. Or some
pasta."
"Meatloaf," Freddie says, and we all give her yuck-faces.
"I'd prefer pine nuts." NoNo dabs red and green onto the little flier drawing of the Earth. "Pine nuts in olive oil with roasted
garlic over whole-wheat pasta—or maybe Shirataki noodles."
Burke, Freddie, and I pause.
"Okay," I press my hands against my stack of folded fliers. "I'm scared, because that actually sounded good."
"Shirataki noodles are made out of tofu," Freddie reminds me.
I shiver at the thought.
"Not all of them." NoNo paints another flier. "Some are just yam root. And they'd taste just like the garlic and olive oil,
since they assume the character of the flavors you add."
Assume the character...?
Freddie pinches her nose with two fingers. "Have you ever smelled those Shirataki things when you take them out of the bag?
They're in this liquid, and it smells like rotten fish piss."
NoNo sighs. "They rinse very well, and they soften if you boil them for a few minutes. I'll make them for us one night."
"Ah... thafs okay." Burke stands. "I'll take a pass on that one, 'kay?" He slides the brown bag toward him.
Nobody but me notices.
"Be back in a sec." And Burke's gone, taking the bag with him.
The silence seems to leave with him, too.
"You okay?" Freddie asks the minute Burke's out of sight. "I know you hate the doctor and all."
I manage to paper-cut my thumb, swear, and shake it off "Yeah, it sucked, but thanks for asking."
"Burke won't always be so wrapped up in his own issues," NoNo says without glancing up from her fliers.
When I stare at her, Freddie says, "Don't look surprised. We've noticed. It gets on our nerves, too."
NoNo makes green and red dots on the paper. "I think It's natural, but the obsession with his size won't last."
"No, he'll be thin and obsessed about other stuff." I fold my next flier. "Like girls. Things he can do that I can't. Clothes
he can wear that I'll never fit into. Tons and tons of other stuff."
"He's not like that," Freddie insists. "Burke's loyal. He's not a cheater."
Oh, thanks.
I hate myself, but I want to go to the cave even worse now.
Burke comes back from his private meeting with the candy bar brownie, pulls up a chair, and sits beside me.
I straighten up, like I've been caught doing something very, very wrong. But I can't help it. The whole flier-folding thing,
being here with my friends and Burke, it should be a blast, but I'm tired and hungry, and everything feels out of place and
to the left and just... not right. I don't know how to make it right. I want to leave. I want to go talk to Heath.
Because that feels right.
I'm still not believing he wants anything to do with me romantically, but I've got to find out, or the thought's gonna torture
me to death.
How can I be sitting in Burke's house right next to Burke and thinking about another guy? I want to slam my forehead against
the table until my brain unscrambles, but I keep folding fliers for five minutes. Ten minutes.
We all fold fliers, and NoNo rattles on about different types of noodles and organic flours, and how bad processed wheat and
sugar are for people. The stacks of fliers seem to stay the same size.
The clock's moving, but so, so slowly. Twenty minutes. Half an hour.
I'm going to crawl out of my skin.
Why did I even come over here?
Because I love Burke. I do. I don't want to make a mistake here.
But what's the mistake? Having a conversation with Heath about the nature of our relationship and how we need to be friends
and co-workers can't be wrong.
That's
not what you want to do.
Everyone's laughing about something.
I search Freddie's face and NoNo's, too, but I don't have a clue.
When I glance at Burke, he doesn't look right. He gives me a thumbs up, puts his hand on his belly, and belches.
For a second, I'm terrified he's about to froth all over NoNo's fliers, but he doesn't.
Freddie studies me. She studies Burke. NoNo studies her fliers.
The silence crashes back around us, except for Burke's breathing, which gets louder. He starts trying to fold fliers again,
but stops. He rubs his chest, and I realize he's sweating and there's a vein throbbing along his neck and the side of his
face.
I take his hand and feel the pound of his pulse.
"Burke?" Now I'm worried.
Is he allergic to candy bar brownies now? But that was half an hour ago, maybe longer.
How long do brownie allergies take?
Jesus. Did I kill him because I was sick of listening to him ask for sweets?
My stomach starts to hurt. Sympathy pain?
Burke belches again.
"You got gas?" Freddie asks.
Burke shakes his head. "Nah, just some cramps. It happens sometimes. Well, lots, but less than it used to when I first had
the surgery."
I swear his stomach is getting bigger as I watch, but I have to be imagining that. He's sweating a ton now.
Burke's face contorts. He looks like he's trying to pass a load the size of Nebraska.
This, at least, get's NoNo's attention. "Something's.. wrong." Her words come out in slow motion, like a bad movie..
Burke tries to wave her off, but yells in pain instead. He doubles forward, arms wrapped around his belly, and smacks his
face down on the table.
Freddie jumps away from the table along with NoNo. I shove back my chair and stand.
Burke heaves once and turns loose a load of vomit, soaking two stacks of fliers at once.
"Mr. Westin!" Freddie screams.
"Help!" NoNo yells.
I can't scream or yell because I feel glued and frozen and stuck. Acid stink floats across the room, and some other stink,
and I realize Burke has turned loose on both ends.
Oh. God.
The brownie killed him. It really did. Or blew out all his staples, or something. I've murdered Burke.
My stomach hurts and twists and Mr. Westin comes running in with M
&
M right behind him. They rush to Burke. Mr. Westin grabs the phone, but Burke's moaning and puking more and begging them not
to call the ambulance, and confessing about the brownie.
"I'm dumping," he chokes. "Just dumping." And he pukes and poops some more.
Then everyone except Mr. Westin stares straight at me.
"Do you want him to be miserable?" Mona, the older of the Ms, lets her eyes bore into me like lasers.
"Of course not," I fire back, but I can't muster laser-eyes. I feel too awful. I want to crawl in a hole and never come out.
I want to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this.
We're sitting in the Westin living room, Freddie, NoNo, and me on the couch, Mr. Westin in his armchair, and M
&
M on the loveseat across the room. The house still smells faintly of waste and air freshener.
Burke's upstairs in bed. He won't die, but he'll be miserable for the rest of the night, maybe tomorrow, too, according to
his dad.
Marlene, the meaner
M,
clasps her hands together as she glares at me, too. "Do you want Burke to be fat again, Jamie?"
Yes. No. Yes? Screw you!
Out loud, I say, "No." I shift against the couch arm and bang into Freddie, who grunts. "He just kept asking, and I got tired
of saying no. I was—too tired today."
"He was asking NoNo and me, too," Freddie admits. "We were thinking about it. If Jamie hadn't brought him something, I probably
would have, tomorrow or the next day."
NoNo nods.
"Damn that boy." Marlene shakes her head and leans back in her chair. "I can't believe he's been pestering all of you to sneak
him sweets."
Before I can say anything, Mona jumps in. "You knew he'd have to try. You know how he is."
"Stubborn." Marlene actually seems sympathetic to Burke and to me. "I know you didn't hurt him on purpose, girl, but don't
you do anything like this again."
"The boy hurt himself," Mr. Westin says. "It was his choice to make a fool move like cramming all that sugar down his throat.
It's not Jamie's job or anyone else's to be his food police."
"Urn, yeah," Freddie says.
NoNo's dead quiet, still in shock about her ruined fliers and all the body fluids. Probably just as well.
"I thought he wouldn't want food with a stomach so little." Freddie directs her question at Mr. Westin. "What gives with all
the begging for candy bars?"
"Part of his food cravings are here." Mr. Westin taps the side of his head. "Like an addict, he wants his drug."
This makes Freddie grunt again. "But if the surgery doesn't stop the food cravings, why have it? I mean, can't Burke stretch
that little stomach pouch and end up back where he started?"
Mr. Westin nods. "He could if he tried. But dumping usually convinces people not to do that."
"What's dumping?" NoNo asks in a tiny, scared bird voice.
"Yeah, really." Freddie shivers. "I thought frothing was bad, but this—much worse. Like watching somebody die."
Marlene lets out a breath. "Burke's stomach pouch dumped brownie into his small intestine too fast. It can happen any time
he eats too fast or too much. He'll get stomach pain, bloating, throw up, get the runs, that kind of thing. And his heart
will beat fast, and he'll sweat and get dizzy—it'll get his attention."
"Kind of like a punishment," Mona says. "And It's not over. There's a second kind of problem, called 'late dumping,' too.
Because he ate so much sugar, his glucose level will shoot way up, then crash back down. He won't be able to eat enough to
offset it, so he'll be hypoglycemic—sleepy and probably exhausted from low blood sugar all the way through tomorrow."
"Because of a brownie."
Damn, I said that out loud.
M
&
M don't instantly fly in for the kill, so I keep going, more out of nerves than anything else. "But he used to eat so
many
of those. How could one brownie do that much damage?"
"I'm sure Burke thought the same thing." Mr. Westin's smile seems gentle, patient, and Burke's sisters act calmer than usual,
like they've been waiting for this, and they're relieved it finally happened.
