Conversations With the Fat Girl (10 page)

am snapped back into reality The house: a tiny cottage with picture

windows and hardwood floors and creeping vines that make it look right

out of the English countryside. ?Holy shit! When did you hear? When did

you hear??I scream. Cole walks toward the phone and gives me a nonverbal

warning for my sailor mouth even though there are no customers in the

coffeehouse. Nonverbal meaning he zips his mouth and then gives me the

finger. ?Marian from the management company called me last night to tell

me. She said your credit reports looked great and you can move in Fourth

of July weekend.? ?Oh my God! Oh my God! Can you believe this??Another

look from Cole shoots my way I recoil. ?Thank you so much.. . oh my

God!?I whisper. It is one of those Vaseline-lens moments. I am a 1950s

ten- year-old tomboy with a red baseball cap, striped shirt, and

dungarees. I hold my dog after being saved from the rapids and say,

through the tears, ?We did it, girl ... we did it.?Cole throws me a

washrag and grunts at me to clean the counters. Nothing could bring me

down off this high. I am free from Faye's indentured servitude.

74 68 Liza Palmer

After work, Mom picks me up and we head over to the new house. Mom and I

pull down the street and count down the numbers. We park in front of an

aged green archway leading into a courtyard of twelve identical Green

and Green Craftsman cottages. The scents of night-blooming jasmine and

honeysuckle float through the air as we look for the individual numbers

on the homes. The doors are open, and I can hear voices and music

playing. We walk past cat after cat after cat. Black and white. Orange

and white. Calico. There must be thousands. There it is. Mom and I

scamper around the house, looking in windows, measuring the side yard,

and trying to figure out wall space to ascertain possible art placement.

We are giddy ?Gh-ello? Can I help you vis somesing?? A small German lady

wearing a frilled white skirt and a tight black belt is cautiously

approaching us. ?Hi. I ... uh I don't know if it is common knowledge

that number 12 is being vacated, and I don't want to give out

confidential information. More importantly, I don't want to say

something that might stand in the way of me getting that cottage. Maybe

this German lady has a niece or something. A homeless niece. A homeless,

German, cottage-thieving niece. We ... we heard that maybe one of the

cottages might be for rent, so we thought we'd take a look at it. Ijust

got off work.?I cross my arms and look at Mom, who is writing down

measurements. ?Oh, yes. Number twelve, right? How did you find out about

zis? Haf zey advertised?? ?Oh, my mom's law firm is in the same office

building as the management company. She gave me a heads-up about this

place.?The minute I say it I know I have made a mistake. Mom smiles

absently as her name is mentioned. ?Oh, so dis is how it verks.?She

tangles her fingers together

75 Conversations with the Fat Girl 69

in this odd Mafioso kind of way We'll be sleeping with the fishes for

sure. ?What? No ... I just need a place to live, and my mom. I mean we

heard about this place, so I grow nervous and once again look to Mom.

The German lady is not even a blip on her radar. At least she'll look

better in a bathing suit than Faye. ?Can we help you with anything

else?? Mom says in her stern attorney voice. ?Veil, good luck vis da

house. I viii see you later.?Off the little German lady goes. We are

left in the courtyard alone again. ?I don't know what Der Führer's

problem is, but you'd better watch out for her,?Mom says as she walks

back over to the porch of the house. The cottage is stunning. The porch

is covered with red bougainvillea and purple ciematis. French doors lead

inside the living room; windows line every wall of the small house. And

I do mean small. The house is a mere 462 square feet, which means it

quite possibly could have less space than my current home. The size is

the only ?flaw?that makes the rent affordable. The tenants are still in

the house, but they aren't home this evening. I peer in the living room

window, taking it all in. There is a full working fireplace. On the

other side of the front room is a built-in buffet. All the woodwork is

done in old Craftsman style. There are hardwood floors throughout. A

galley kitchen completes my visual tour. Later, Mom drops me off at

home, and I knock on Faye's door. She answers with a sort of grumble.

I'm sure this is her version of a greeting to those lesser beings who

live in little rented houses that can be packed into thirty-six boxes.

?I want to confirm with you that I will be moving out Fourth of July

weekend.?I don't breathe the entire time I speak. ?You have to sign a

letter that Stan is writing saying you

76 70 Liza Palmer

offered to move out in such a short time.?She speaks through her metal

screen. I feel the constant urges to snatch her through the metal

pinholes. ?I'm not signing anything, Faye.?My mom's a lawyer I barely

sign greeting cards anymore. I begin to turn away I'm not going to fight

with her. As a matter of fact, I have already taken pictures of the damn

bulldozer and documented every crazy-ass thing Faye has done over the

years. ?Well, Stan'll bring it back when he's done and you can take a

look at it.?She is now emerging from behind her black security door. I

feel honored until I see her tiny pink terry-cloth robe. It doesn't

quite fit and seems to separate at the only portion of her anatomy that

hasn't been exposed to >ears of California sun. I shudder. ?Faye, I have

not, nor will I ever, sign anything you put in front of me. I didn't

sign a rental agreement and I'm not signing a forty-eight-hour eviction

agreement. I'm moving out and that's that.?1 approach her straight on,

my breath quickening. My fists tighten and my shoulders rise. Faye

perches herself on one leg as she itches the back of the other with the

disfigured yellowing toenails I always refer to as ?The Kraken.?I

continue. ?Furthermore, since you're tearing the house down, I won't be

cleaning it before I leave.?Faye nonchalantly closes her robe, cutting

off my view of the gates of hell. I continue.. ?And I'll sign a letter

confirming that.? I stand there just long enough. Faye leans against the

doorjamb in all her glory, highball in one hand and TV Guide in the

other. What could she possibly be thinking? Why am I standing here

waiting? I am paralyzed. ?Well, Stan'll bring it back anyway.?

77

Who's That Big Fat Girl, Mummy?

Following Olivia's directions to some elite bridal salon in the thick of

Los Angeles, I feel like a traitor. This is the biggest event of my best

friend's life and I can't seem to get invested in it. In the beginning,

Olivia used to carry her ?before?picture around in her wallet, proudly

showing off her incredible weight loss. But, she confided tome one

night, she had gotten rid of the picture after noticing that the people

who'd seen it looked at her differently-as if she were somehow flawed.

She felt she was no longer perfect in their eyes. So she set about

building a history of the Olivia Morten who stood before them now. The

Olivia Morten her co-workers came to know played competitive tennis, was

homecoming queen twice running, and did some catalog modeling on the

side during college. It served no purpose, she argued, to tell them the

true stories of our adolescence, because they all had to do with our

isolation and humiliation or take place in a drive-through. But those

stories show our determination to survive and how we leaned on each

other during those times. Our history is that woman getting stuck in the

booth at the restaurant. Still, it's all being taken down frame by

78 72 Liza Palmer

frame. Apparently, Olivia told her mom to get rid of all the pictures of

when she was fat before Adam came for his first visit. Mrs. Morten has

rid her shelves of all our pictures, whether Olivia's fat is in them or

not. Sometimes I don't feel up to being in this new life of hers. I

remember the first time I met Dr. Adam Farrell. Olivia had dropped his

name a few times, and I had a good feeling about him. I had a crush on a

boy named Adam in college. My Adam wore a red suit to graduation.

Whether this was Olivia's Adam or the memories I had of my red-suited

Adam, I liked him the moment I heard Olivia mention him in passing.

Olivia was invited to his parents' house for their annual Halloween

get-together where the invited guests ooh and ahh at the sons and

daughters of some of Washington, DC'S, best- heeled citizens. Adam is

the child of two university professors. His mother teaches Byzantine

architecture; his father teaches philosophy. Adam reads the Washington

Post in the morning while he holds court at some of the most erudite DC

tables. I flew in to DC on that Halloween weekend despite my fear of

flying. I arrived just after the big holiday get-together was over. I

called her, a little drunk and slightly hysterical from my flight. We

planned to meet in Georgetown. I stood on the corner by one of her

favorite bars and watched as Olivia frantically pointed to Dr. Adam

Farrell in the car behind her. ?He wanted to come,?Olivia gushed. ?Is

this the Adam??I asked. ?What do you think of him? Isn't he gorgeous!

How is this even a guy I'm dating, you know? He's even more beautiful

than Ben Dunn and Shane Presky combined!? Shane Presky was the guy

Olivia lusted after in college. He was a world-champion swimmer who went

on to medal in the Olympics. Needless to say, Shane Presky didn't know

Olivia existed. She continued.

79 Conversations with the Fat Girl 73

?How do I look? Oh my God, the party, I have to tell you . . . isn't he

amazing? I am so glad you're here. What if this is the beginning? I just

want to fly him back to Pasadena right now and show him off, you know I

can't believe a guy who looks like that is. . . you know. . . willing to

be seen with me. Go out with me??Olivia was talking so fast. Where was

this coming from? She would have gone on and on, but Adam had left his

car unattended and was inching his way up to us to see what the holdup

was. ?What going on??Adam was unreal. Looking at him was like seeing a

celebrity in real life-you just can't believe how beautiful they are.

Oddly, he looked nothing like my red-suited Adam from college. ?Oh, we

were plotting out our night Olivia was speaking so fast it sounded more

like, 0, we'replodnight. But we all got the gist. ?You must be Maggie. I

can't tell you how much I've heard about you,? he said, extending his

hand. I felt faint at the prospect of touching him. Adam's handshake was

weak. Still, I thought, You're the one. He was the man in our fantasies.

Gorgeous. Successful. Intelligent. You're the one who's going to take my

best friend away I finally pull into the parking lot of Martine's Bridal

Salon. Olivia and her mom are waiting by their car in front of a corner

coffee shop because Martine's is not open yet. Paulette Morten is the

absolute embodiment of the Pasadena ideal. Her Barbara Walters blond

hair is perfectly coiffed. Her face is pulled a little tight, yet the

crow's-feet around her eyes remain pronounced. She hates it, but it's my

favorite thing about her. She wears only St. John suits with matching

Ferragamo handbags and shoes. Paulette Morten never leaves the house

without her organizer, a

80 74 Liza Palmer lunch date at the Valley Hunt Club, and her

ex-husband's credit cards. Mr. Hobbs Morten, not present today, is a

businessman based in Los Angeles. I've met him twice: once at Olivia's

high school graduation and once at her college graduation. I don't think

anyone really knows what Mr. Hobbs Morten does for a living except that

he makes lots and lots of money. I've never really thought much of him

at all. I'd like to say that he was this imposing character with a

reddened face and cigar dangling- but he's not. Mr. Hobbs Morten looks

like our accountant. He's now shorter than I am and is slightly balding.

His face is pale, and he always looks worried. I remember when Olivia

told me he was going to be at the high school graduation. I imagined a

cartoonish Boss Hogg character rolling across our football field in a

white Cadillac with bullhorns mounted on the front grille. Instead, he

drove a Japanese import, wore a red bow tie, and was all around quite

pleasant. Mr. and Mrs. Morten were divorced when Olivia was eleven years

old. Ever since then, Olivia doesn't talk about him or his new family I

do know he is invited to Olivia's wedding, but nothing untoward will

take place because Paulette Morten surely would have none of that. We

decide to have a small breakfast before the big day. Upon entering the

coffee shop, I catch a glance of myself in one of the mirrors. They have

many I now hate this coffee shop. I lean into Olivia as we wait in line.