Never Said (2 page)
has hated it all
since the beginning.
Hates the show we put on
hates serving
appetizers,
speaking to strangers
(she has a hard enough time
speaking out
communicating
talking
to us).
Now â
I agree with my sister.
Fat and thin.
Night and day.
Angry and silent.
Let's drop the show we put on for everyone.
None of us are who we say we are.
A
t the table, I wonder: Would I be different if I could talk to strangers without wanting to throw up, could stand at a microphone and not feel like I was having a heart attack, could remember public events (like school and office parties and church) without an anxiety attack?
Would I be different if I hadn't broken up with Garret King?
Yes, it was two months ago. Yes, young love doesn't matter, isn't real. But I still feel raw, still feel pain, still feel awful.
Would I be different if my parents thought more of me (the ugly duckling) and less of Annie (who was so lovely that adult men gasped)?
”I think . . .” I have to clear my throat.
Would this be different?
What if they looked at us like equals?
“I think . . .” I say. But there are no more words. I glance up from my plate in time to see Dad sort of smile at my sister as he leaves. It's fake, that smile. One I have seen aimed at me, at Mom, at people he tolerates. I swallow, but nothing wants to go down.
Annie stares at me. She raises an eyebrow, and I'm not sure of the code. What's she saying? Before I can figure it out, Mom says, “I told them yes, Annie. That you'd do it.”
My sister? No response. She just eats.
D
ad's left his plate and coffee cup on the table. Mom seems so . . . alone.
I'm startled by her expression.
“Remember,” she says, like she doesn't notice her husband leaving when I can see she does, “when you would pageant? Do you remember that, Annie? You would be such an inspiration for the youngsters.”
Annie nods. “That was only last year, Mom,” she says. “Of course I remember.” The heat kicks on. I breathe in deep and smell the homemade rolls. “No one forgets the pageants. Do we, Sarah?”
I shake my head, hiding behind hair that corkscrews over my shoulder. Does my sister know how I felt about all that Annie Time? All the Winning Time? The Stand-on-the-Stage-and-Accept-the-Trophy time? I had hoped I'd hidden that. “I remember,” I say. “You never lost.”
My sister looks surprised. Why? Because I know her history? Or because I speak of it?
“She's right,” Mom says. “You never lost, Annie.” Mom leans forward, hands clasped. “Think of those little girls, all dressed up.”
“Mom,” Annie says.
The chandelier is too bright.
“Glad I don't have to do that,” I say.
“Speak up, please, Sarah,” Mom says. “Not to yourself. To everyone.”
I don't have the energy to get into it now. There's too much tension. I tighten my lips like they're sewn together.
Annie won't participate in the judging. I know it. Mom should too.
“No, thanks,” I say, answering Mom, but she's focused on Annie.
Maybe Mom does know the answer.
Here's a truth: Before.
Before, I was terrified our Mom might force me to pageant. Believe me, there are lots of good things about being a normal-looking girl. Nothing on me is exquisite. No almond-shaped eyes. No heart-shaped face. No natural highlights.
Green eyes. Flat chest. Short.
Plain.
My looks kept me in the audience. Away from the stage.
Thank goodness. Oh, thank goodness.
Still, I close my eyes, remembering. Sorry. I was jealous of all the attention my sister got. It takes effort to admit this to myself. It's embarrassing. But I was jealous of being so lost. So left behind.
Now I glance up at Mom and Annie.
“I don't understand,” Mom's saying.
Annie's done with her first helping, her plate almost spotless. That nursery rhyme pops in my head, the one about Jack Spratt. “. . . and so betwixt the two of them, they licked the platter clean.” She reaches for more Jell-O with carrots. Stares at Mom as she spoons some onto her plate.
How can she stand it? This weight talk? I would leave, eat alone, never sit with anyone. Not even my family.
“Have you ever thought your constant jabber may be why I keep eating?” Annie says.
Everything in the room slows. The clock, our breathing, the beating of our hearts. It all seems to stop and wait for Mom to answer. These rhythms beat out of time.
I can see Annie and me in the French doors, broken into pieces by the panes of glass.
“How
dare
you? I am not the reason for your bad decision making.” Mom huffs then glares at me, me, like I'm the problem. “I don't know when you became so unkind.” Like I just hurt her feelings. Or gained the weight.
If you eat
long enough
hard enough
more than enough
you can do what needs to be done.
At first I didn't
realize.
I ate
because creamy chocolate
gooey caramel
salted, buttery popcorn
made me feel
better.
A few pounds
a few pounds more
and
I am in control.
T
hat's when it started. The changing. All of us. Changing.
With Annie's weight gain came Dad staying away and Mom talking too much.
Before was different.
Before, we always did Annie Family Stuff.
Before, there was me, keeping where I'm most comfortable . . . in the background. With a book. At home. Quiet. Observing.
However, home is no longer comfortable.
That's the connection, I realize, sitting here. Watching our mother stand, leave her dishes behind, follow Dad to wherever. Her face red, her eyes tearing up.
We've been stuck in Annie's fat since the first pound.
T
his must be hard, I think, having two broken daughters.
I
climb the stairs to my room.
Outside, the storm rages and an unknown fear shuttles across my chest.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Open them.
The carpet catches any sounds my shoes might have made.
I speak to myself. There's no one to hear. I can say what I want. Whisper if I want, raise my voice if I want. ”I'm not the same as my sister.”
Annie loved winning. Loved the crowds. Playing the piano in front of the world. She got what she wanted then.
Still does.
Even in this crazy world she's created, Annie gets what she wants. She sneaks downstairs at night to eat. Gets up before everyone to make breakfast. Packs a lunch big enough for two or three. We were the same size. Same weight. That was Before. Now we're twins who are different.
“It's not fair.” As the words come out I know I sound like a baby. But . . .
She wanted pageants. She got that.
Now she wants to eat, so she does.
And me? I wanted Garret. And he's gone. Tears burn my eyes. My head hurts.
How is that right?
T
he snowstorm batters the house and trees bow in the wind.
As I get ready for bed, I hear Mom. She's after Annie. Again. Or still. I'm not sure which.
I peek out my bedroom and see Mom down the hall, in Annie's doorway. The walls are lined with photos. Pageant pictures, most of them. Some of us as a family. A few of me and Annie when we were little. On the beach. At the park. Black and white. Color. It's a tunnel of photographs.
“Do you know,” Mom says, “what your father and I have done for you? How we've sacrificed?”
A part of me wants to shout, to holler, “Let it go. Leave her alone already.” But I'll never yell. The thought of confrontation makes my skin cool. My lips tingle.
Mom glances at me, like she's heard my thoughts. “And Sarah too.” She waves her hand in my direction.
I duck into my room but stand where I can hear everything. Why does Mom keep going on? She hasn't pestered Annie this way in a while. Is it the chance to get back into the business of pageants? Even if only as a judge? Has Annie gained a pound or two more and can Mom see that?
“We've all given up our lives for you. Helped you win scholarships and trophies and . . .” Mom's frustration bleeds down the
hall. I peer out at her. See the annoyance in her face. Hear it in her voice. It's dripping off her. Puddling on the floor.
Why hasn't Annie run off like Dad always manages to do? She's resilient, my sister. She has endurance.
“The doctors keep saying there's no reason you should be gaining all this weight.”
I can't see my sister, but I hear her when she finally answers. Her voice is full of sarcasm. “As if everything can be found by a doctor looking into your ears.”
The wind picks up, whistling like it agrees with Annie.
I'm punctured by the sound of Annie's words. They're naked.
“Guess what, Mom?” Annie says. “I'm fat. What's a forty-five pound weight gain in a year or so?”
That much? She's gained that much?
“You were so pretty,” Mom says. The words echo against the walls. Hit our home stronger than the storm. Colder. The comment isn't directed at me, but it stings. I gasp for my sister. Feel the cut in my own heart. I peek back down the hall, wanting to walk to Annie. Stand beside. Hold her hand, if she'll let me.
There's a long pause. The whole house tries to catch its breath.
“Are you saying,” Annie says, “because I'm fat, I'm not pretty anymore?”
Miles separate us, but I can see her hurt.
There's a fist in my throat.
Mom says nothing. Instead she twists her wedding ring around her slim finger then walks away. As she passes she says, “You helped start this.”
“Me?” Wait.
But Mom holds her hand up in my face and disappears into her room.
Annie's voice is blizzard loud. “Are you saying that fat makes a person ugly?”
No answer from Mom, except the shutting of her door.
The lock clicks.
I stand quiet. Still. The carpet is so soft. Annie looks at me.
For a second I remember sharing a bed when we were young â laughing, telling secrets, sleeping snuggled together, maybe like in the womb.
She says, “This is the way I want to be.” Proud.
Then she closes the door and I hear that lock click too.
What makes a girl beautiful?
What makes me beautiful?
W
e are torn up. Torn apart. No longer who we were. We are stuck in Annie's fat. Stuck in Mom's anger. Stuck in Dad's job.
Me. Alone. Again.
There's not a sound anywhere until, from downstairs, I hear the grandfather clock calling out the time. Like I'm released from a spell, I retreat into my room and flick the light out, lie down on my bed, and just wait.
In the bathroom
I strip off my clothes and stare at
me.
I am disgusting
sickening
Fat
fat like Mom says
as ugly as I know I look when Dad sees
me.
If the lights were on I
could see tears drip from my face
the way I used to watch myself cry
when I was little
(when I thought I could be a movie star
me).
Instead, I pinch bruises
along my thighs
where my family
won't see
them
I
stare at the ceiling, where leftover stars glow. Annie and I put some in my room, some in hers, years ago when we first moved here.
Now, when I close my eyes, I see the stars still. Pale. Almost not there.
I feel so not here. Like these failing stars. I am invisible and have been for years. Since Annie blossomed and I slipped out of sight.
Thin, she's a star herself. Fat, she still draws attention.
I roll on my side. My sister's crushed by our mom and I lie here thinking about me.
Selfish. This is so selfish.
But I can't help it.
Left-handed anger
pushes down
spilling over
and free
Unacceptable thoughts.
Hurt
Kill
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray I pray I pray
for
A place for people like me
The outcasts
The lepers
The untouchables.
All of us
The fat, too skinny
the gays, left-out straight
the awkward, the lonely, graceful.
The ones only Christ sees.
T
uesday morning dawns snowy cold. I lie in bed. Stretch.
From where I am I can see the indigo sky.
“Beautiful,” I whisper to the stars that don't glow anymore. Maybe it's time to remove those things.
I stand. Stretch again. Think school, and my stomach falls near my heels. No snow days here unless ice covers everything (we're winter stock, laughing when other parts of the country get a foot or two of snow and whine).
How I'd love to stay home and play violin. Or linger in bed and read or make hot chocolate from Hershey candy bars and thick vanilla cream.
School means I can't stay home and wonder at nothing. I've got to go.
Morning pushes at the window with its fingertips, like it wants in to warm up. The street lights are pumpkin bulbs. My room is the color of a black-and-white photo.
I shiver, and then . . . then . . . I stand at the window and watch.
This is the time Garret leaves for school.
