Fat Chance (8 page)

"It isn't just my weight," I'd whispered, watching him lean in to hear me better, leaning back in an effort to maintain my sense of being apart. "It's my whole life. I can't shop for clothes without hating myself for where I shop. I can't shop for food without hating myself for the things I believe others are thinking. I can't look in a mirror without finding something ugly, and I've lived my entire adult life by the dictates of the bathroom scale."

"Really? Why?"

"I don't know," I'd said to him, sliding a fingertip under my eyelashes before the pooling tears can wreck my makeup. I meet his eyes, waiting to see what he will say to me.

"Throw it away," he'd murmured, reaching across the coffee table to push a box of tissues my way. "You can tell if your body is bigger or smaller by the way your clothes fit, Cassaundra. You don't need to wake up every morning and ask your scale if you're worthy of breathing that day."

I remember how I'd stared at him when he told me that, shocked that he could even suggest it. Weighing every day is what keeps me in line, reminds me to drink water instead of soda, and eat salad instead of fries. He'd looked shocked too, when I'd told him that.

"You just have no faith in yourself at all, do you?" he'd asked, compassion softening his tone. "Okay, here's what we're going to do."

Dr. Caswell had insisted that I switch to weekly weighing, instead of daily. He said, that way, I could keep track of my weight without undue daily stress. I didn't have the heart to argue, to tell him that going an entire week wondering what my weight was would probably increase my daily stress.

He also said that I need to work more actively on building myself up. He'd prescribed a mild antidepressant and gave me a little book full of quotes to use as positive affirmations. Grinning at my confusion, he'd instructed me to take one of each, daily.

Today's affirmation, which floats to mind as I load my groceries into the car, is a quote from Elizabeth Gilbert.
"Never forget that once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you recognized yourself as a friend."

I don't know when that time might have been, that time when I genuinely liked and believed in myself, but my heart recognizes the truth in the quote. Somehow, I have to find the ability to enjoy myself again.

Standing in the hallway, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, counting to ten. It's my fourth time here, and I'm still nervous. It's not because of the therapy anymore though; I actually like being in therapy a lot more than I expected to. After my appointments with Dr. Caswell, I always feel as if I've accomplished something big, just in unloading my personal baggage. I don't lose weight, but my appointments with him make me feel lighter somehow.

Still, I'm nervous because he's beautiful, and because I'm totally unprofessional to think so. I embarrass myself weekly, walking into the waiting room and sitting there, pretending to read a magazine while all I can think of is his eyes. I'm nervous because now there's a part of me that wants to stay a little crazily obsessed with my weight, because the misery it causes me is what makes me need him.

I know it's intense, and I'm not sure I like it; I always swore I'd never be one of
those girls
, those kinds of girls who meet a man and are suddenly so stuck to him that they can't tell where one person ends and the other begins. I don't want to be that kind of woman, I don't want to live that sort of co-dependent life. I don't want to crash and burn the way my father did when my mother died.

Then again, I've never been in love. Maybe someday, I'd like a little bit of co-dependence, that sense of having someone to turn to and someone to lean on.

I just need to remember one little thing.
That my 'someone' is not Dr. Caswell.
Sexy Mackenzie Caswell, with the searing eyes and the gently reassuring disposition.
Because I am a patient. And he probably likes the hot, supermodel type, anyway. Most men do.

Walking into the waiting room, I stop for my usual chit-chat with the receptionist. In the past few weeks, I've learned that her name is Marie. Caswell. As in, she's his mother. I like her; she always greets me so cheerfully when I come in.

"Hi, Cass," she says, smiling warmly at me.

"Hi, Ms. Caswell, how are you this week?" I ask, signing my name with a flourish on the sign-in register.

Her blue eyes twinkle and she giggles a little, which is an interesting sound coming from such an aged woman, but somehow it fits her. "I'm just wonderful," she says to me, glancing at Dr. Caswell's door to be sure it is still closed. "I had a hot date this week," she whispers across the desk.

"Is that so?" I ask. "Well, at least one of us is getting some man action."

"Oh, honey, your days are coming. I have a feeling about you."

I take a breath, trying to think of something to say to this kind little woman who has so charmed me, this woman who sees something special in me that I cannot yet see. Before I can answer, though, Dr. Caswell's door opens and a man steps out. He looks vaguely familiar to me, and he's rather handsome. He looks me over quickly, and I get the feeling that he's embarrassed to be seen here. So am I.

Behind him, Mackenzie Caswell walks into the waiting room, and something deep in my abdomen clicks on, like a space heater suddenly coming alive to warm a neglected room.

"Well I guess I'll see you later," I whisper to Ms. Caswell when he gestures for me to follow him into his office.

***

"How are you, Cassaundra?" Dr. Caswell asks me, once we've settled into our usual places in his office. He turns on his recorder and places it on the coffee table, leaning back in his chair. As he crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, I curl into the corner of the couch, playing with the fringe of a forest green throw pillow.

"I'm okay, I think," I answer. For once, I believe it, at least a little bit. Other than the fact that when he says my name, that little space heater inside me kicks up a little warmer.

I'm just a patient. I'm just a patient.

"That's good," he says. "You look cheerful today. Still following doctor's orders?"

"Yes, sir," I laugh, raising my hand to pop a quick salute. "Today's quote is Glen Beck, who said, 'Sometimes, the hardest part of the journey is believing you're worthy of the trip.'"

"And where are we on that?" Now he's getting more into the conversation; he drops his foot to the floor and leans forward, bracing his elbow on his knees, his hands hanging comfortably between.

"Believing I'm worth the trip?"

He nods. "Mmhmm."

I sigh. "I'm moving forward, I think, but I wouldn't mind moving faster. I am getting better at noticing when I'm being cruel to myself, and I spend time every morning memorizing the quote for the day. I take my meds like a good girl," I smirk.
A good little fat girl who is just a patient.

"Aww, you should get a prize," he says, laughing. We fit well, which makes him a good therapist for me, because I feel at ease with him. He isn't obnoxiously professional and he isn't afraid to joke around, while at the same time, I know he's perfectly professional in all the important ways.

"I think I'm learning that I'm the prize," I say, quietly, setting the pillow aside and looking at him directly, trying to gauge his reaction to what I think is progress.

"Exactly!" he exclaims, slapping one palm flat on the coffee table. The recorder jumps a little at the impact, and I can't help laughing. "Now tell me," he continues. "With all this change in perspective, how are you feeling about the reunion? It's coming up any day now, isn't it?"

"Yeah." I make a face as Rick's image pops into my mind.
Hey there fatty,
he used to say.
You're looking especially gross today. Get stuck in any doorways lately?

"I'm really sort of nervous about it, to tell the truth." I know it is an obvious body language, but I can't seem to keep my arms from crossing themselves, as if I'm shielding myself from view.

"Because of your brother?"

"Of course. I have great relationships with my sisters, with their mom. They've all always been so good to me, and I love getting together with them. But Rick is, well, he's something else entirely."

"Let me suggest something. It's maybe an odd way to look at things, but I think it might help you keep your perspective," Dr. Caswell says. He's leaned back again now, with one elbow pressing into the soft arm of the chair.

"Okay, hit me with your best shot," I say. I lean back against the cushions of the couch, forgetting that this displays my soft stomach more than I care for. This only happens here, in this little office-turned-living-room, this comfy little den he's created. It happens because I am comfortable here, and in this quiet, peaceful setting, I can almost forget how much I despise my body.

"How were you in school?" he asks, taking me off guard. When my eyebrows come together, he grins at me and waves a hand in a gesture that encourages me to answer.

"I was pretty good. I spent most of my later childhood moving, you know, and always in a different home, a different school. I don't think I ever finished a school year in the same place that I started it, at least, not after my father died. I had to work really hard, but it wasn't so bad because I was never anywhere long enough to make friends. So I did well."

"You passed tests, turned in homework? Studied?"

"I did," I say, pulling the pillow back into my lap, wishing I was small enough to comfortably cross my legs. I don't know why it makes me so nervous to talk about my history as a student; maybe because I was always the fat nerd in school. "What are we getting at, here?"

"Why don't you think of Rick as a test? If I'm the teacher --"

Yes please.

"-- And you're the student --"

Oh dear God.

"-- Then Rick is a test, a test to see how well you retain what you're learning. Make sense?"

My mouth has gone dry, and I cross my arms over the pillow to hide the fact that my breasts have perked up, the fact that the heater core of me is now sending heat waves through my panties.

I'm just a patient. Not that kind of student. Not for him. I'm just a patient.

"Cass?" he prompts.

"Oh, yes," I say, clearing my throat. "It makes perfect sense. All this time, I'm studying self-confidence, right? So the reunion is the test, to see if I'm strong enough to hold up?"

"Exactly."

Oh, God, let me fail the test, at least a little. Maybe not an 'f', maybe not an emotional breakdown, but please, no 'a'. Not this time ...

"And what happens if I fail the test? If I have some sort of encounter with him, and I can't hold up?"

"Well, I suppose you study more and plan a re-take."

Please, please, I need a re-take!

"And if I pass? If he's a total jerk and I can be unaffected? Or at least, act unaffected?"

"Then we celebrate your progress, and we move on to newer, harder strategies."

Hallelujah! I'll still see him! As a patient, of course.

"Okay. I shall do my best then. Do you have suggestions?"

"I'm the therapist, the teacher. Of course I do," he grins, and the dimples appear. "Carry something in your pocket or purse, with a few of your quotes written down. Choose good ones, ones that speak to you and remind you of what your goal is in this. Should you get frazzled and forget your quotes, then you'll have an easy reference. Dress in something that makes you feel confident --"

I think of that red dress, and the way I felt in it. Confident clothing? Check.