Slim Chance (12 page)

“He’s an actor,” I said defensively. “Where are you going with this?”

“Ah, an actor. And a good one, too, it seems.”

“Oh, shut up, Morgan,” I laughed. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of what? I’ve been there, Evie, and I’ve
done
that. You’ll remember that I’ve had two of my trainers for lunch. On the whole, they’re tasty, but not all that smart, unless you count an instinctual understanding of what a woman wants to hear.”

Morgan believes that my overwhelming success at losing weight validates Jade’s daily existence, so he can’t help but be
come personally involved in my life, which is what accounts for anything beyond financially motivated pleasantness. It’s not that what Morgan was saying had never occurred to me—it had. But I’m also a pretty good judge of character, and I know when I’m being taken for a ride. At the very least, Jade doesn’t
despise
me or anything like that. I’d know it if he did. We never have a hard time making conversation, and he’s told me all about his life and I’ve told him all about mine. But even if it’s not real friendship, I’ll take it, whatever it is—the anticipation of hanging out with a gorgeous, fantastic guy at the end of a hard day’s work makes it all worthwhile.

“Evie?”

“Hi, Claire. If you’re calling to bother me about Mom, I’m hanging up.”

“Wait—give me a second. I want to say my piece.”

“Fine,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“It’s been over a month since the party, and I think that’s more than enough time for you to have absorbed the information. This is no great tragedy, Evie, and I think you’re old enough to understand that. Your mother is very upset, I’ll have you know, and I think she’s suffered plenty already.”

“Actually, I’m still not quite sure about that.” The thought of Mom being upset and guilt-ridden was an interesting reversal. I had to admit, it was strangely liberating.

“Forgiving someone is a gift you give yourself. It will lighten your heart, and I know you need that right now, Evelyn,” Claire said quietly.

It wasn’t like her to get all serious. “Are you going Christian on me, Claire?”

“Just call her, please. Put this nonsense to rest.”

“I just don’t know if I’m ready to speak to her yet,” I said.

Bruce, who was reading in the bathtub—an irritating habit of his which had ruined countless perfectly good magazines and
books—had been listening to the conversation, and called out, “Call her, already! You know you want to!”

“Shut up, please!” I yelled back.

But I suppose enough was enough. My curiosity was starting to get the better of me, anyway, and I had a lot of questions I needed resolved about the whole thing. “Fine, Claire,” I said into the receiver. “I’ll talk to her. But you call her and tell her. I’m not calling first.”

“Hallelujah!” Bruce jumped up out of the tub and ran into the kitchen, stark naked and dripping wet, waving his hands in the air. “Hallelujah!” he yelled again. For some reason, he’s always labored under the misconception that random nudity is good for a laugh.

We agreed to a meeting on neutral territory, in public, so that Mom wouldn’t be able to make a scene. I still anticipated problems, though, so Bruce, whose fairness and objectivity no one could fault, agreed to come along as a mediator. Despite his earlier insistence on seeing things from their side, I was now pretty sure he was sympathetic to my position (
Cosmopolitan,
January: “Quiz of the Month: Do His Loyalties Lie with You?”).

When we walked into the restaurant, they were already there. Mom smiled.

“Hello, Claire,” I said coolly.

Bruce rolled his eyes and said to no one in particular, “It’s gonna be a long night.”

I took off my coat and sat down.

“Evelyn,” Mom gasped. “You’re so
thin.
”

Bruce looked at me hopefully as if to say, “See? She wants to make nice.”

“Well, I’ve lost a few pounds,” I conceded.

“Fifteen, to be exact!” Bruce added.

“More than that, I’d say,” she said. “I don’t remember the last time you looked this good.”

“Oh, she looked beautiful before,” Claire added, and turned
to me. “But I’m happy if you’re happy. Maybe we could go shopping for some new things.”

“I would like that very much,” I said. Good of her to make a peace offering, too. After all, she was far from innocent in this whole debacle.

“Shall we order?” Bruce asked. He was always hungry. Sometimes I think he has a tapeworm of some sort.

“Let’s have a drink first,” Mom said, and ordered a Bloody Mary.

“I’ll have one, too,” I said to the waiter. “With extra celery.”

“So?” I said.

“So,” Mom said, and breathed out slowly.

Bruce tried to break the uncomfortable silence with small talk about his job and the New York Rangers, but for once, nobody was very interested in what he had to say. By the end of the meal, and a few drinks later, things loosened up a little.

“I was right, you know, about Lucia,” Mom slurred.

“Right about what?” I asked.

“She didn’t come here just for your party. She was here to help my father with some things. Business things,” she said cryptically.

No one took the bait, so she added, “The city is threatening to take away his house because he hasn’t paid his property taxes in four years.”

“Well, well, well,” I sighed. “Once again, Mom, you were right. And we know you just have to be right. God forbid my aunt should come to my engagement because she actually loves me, and was happy for me. So thanks for clearing things up.”

“This isn’t what we’re here to talk about,” Bruce interjected.

“Yes, forget about that, Lillian,” Claire said. “Why don’t you tell Evie what you wanted to tell her.”

“What I wanted to tell her?” Mom asked, feigning confusion.

I turned to Bruce. “I don’t know why I’m here. She’s only going to make me crazy.”

“Didn’t you tell me you wanted to apologize?” Claire said gently.

Mom sighed, and thought for a minute.

“It’s like pulling teeth,” I muttered. “Why can’t you just say it?”

“Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?” she said. “My own father hasn’t spoken to me in twenty-seven years because of this.”

It hadn’t occurred to me—the real reason he hated her.

“I knew I was pregnant when your dad died,” she continued. “But I never got the chance to tell him. I was waiting for Christmas morning. God, maybe he wouldn’t have been up there that day if he knew. You think you have all the time in the world….” she stared into her glass for a bit, then continued. “Anyway, after he…the accident…I told my parents… My dad disowned me, said it was my fault Andrew died, that God was punishing me for being a tramp. He wouldn’t even let my mother come to the funeral.”

A lump throbbed bigger and bigger in my throat. “That’s awful,” I managed.

“It’s true,” said Claire.

Tears welled up in Mom’s eyes. “So I
am
sorry,” she blurted. “I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, about your father and me. I’m sorry I didn’t marry him when I had the chance, when he asked me to. I’m sorry my father was right about everything. I’m sorry I spoiled you for so many years and always let you get your way. I’m sorry I wanted you to stay here with me and not go away to school. And I’m sorry you hate me so much, Evelyn. I’m most sorry about that. I’m sorry you hate me so much. But I’m
not
sorry that I want you to have what I missed out on, what was taken from me, from us. And I’m
not
sorry if I do everything in my power to make you realize that so you don’t end up like me. No, I’m not sorry about that at all.”

Stunned silence. We all just stared. Her chest heaved in and out as if she’d just run a marathon.

A waiter approached her from behind. “Would you like another drink, ma’am,” he asked. Startled, she practically fell off her chair.

“Get away from her,” I snapped.

Mom got up to leave the table.

“Don’t go, Mom. Sit down,” I said. Bruce grabbed her hand. She sat down. Never had I seen her so vulnerable, so pathetic. It was awful. What was the fun in kicking someone when they were down? That’s not what we were about.

“I’m sorry, too,” I said. “Not as sorry as you, though.” I thought a little comic relief might do some good, but no one laughed. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” I continued. Claire nodded at me. “And I know you thought you were protecting me. From what I don’t know, but I do believe you tried to do the right thing. I was just mad because you were the one who was always so obsessed with me getting married, and then this, and I thought it was so hypocritical. But I can see that it wasn’t.”

She grabbed my hand. “Thank you, Evelyn.”

I squeezed it back.

Bruce motioned to the waiter. “We’re feeling much better here, and I think we’re ready for some dessert. Mom, do you want some desert?”

Mom?
Had he completely lost his senses? Granted, we were having a Hallmark moment, but
please
—calling your in-laws Mom and Dad went out with the baby boomers.

“I mean, would you mind if I call you Mom?”

She reached over and squeezed his cheeks between her hand. “Of course you can, Bruce. And I’d love some dessert. I’ll have the tiramisu. Evelyn, you look like you could use some, too. And wipe that look off your face.”

“Don’t even joke about something like that, Mom, because it’s not funny. Just bring me some herbal tea with sweetener, please.”

“So long as you don’t make a pig of yourself, dear,” Claire said.

“I’ll ignore that,” I retorted. They make fun of me when I’m fat, they make fun of me when I’m not. I was beginning to think it had nothing to do with the way I looked.

“C’mon, have a cannoli, Evie,” Bruce pleaded. “You love cannoli.”

“No I don’t,” I said, and shot him my sharpest “shut your trap now while you’re still ahead” look.

I still needed some closure on this. “Mom, before we’re too far off topic, can I ask you something? Like does all this mean that I’m not really a Mays? Shouldn’t I have your last name? And if you were never married, shouldn’t
you
have your last name?”

“Don’t worry, you’re still a Mays. It’s on your birth certificate. Technically, though, I suppose I’m still Lillian Valerio, even though I’ve gone by Mays for so many years. Nobody ever asked me to prove it.”

“What about your wedding band?” asked Bruce.

“My father gave it to Lucia after my mother died, and then she gave it to me. So I’d have a piece of her, too. She was a wonderful lady, Evelyn. From another time. It’s too bad you never got the chance to know her.” She thought for a moment. “If you like, you can have it to wear as your ring when you get married. If that’s all right with you, Bruce.”

Her wedding band was lovely, an intricately woven band of gold and diamonds.

“It’s fine with me,” he said. “It’s a beautiful ring.”

“Thanks, Mom, I’d really like that.”

“I suppose I don’t really have much of a use for it anymore,” she said with a smile.

T
oday was a milestone. No words could describe the moment I slid my absolutely gorgeous size-eight Vera Wang wedding dress over my hips for the first time. It almost ripped from the effort, and I couldn’t zip it up, but I didn’t really care. Last month, even with an industrial-strength pair of control-tops, it was hopeless. Now, standing here in Mom’s bedroom, ten pounds lighter, I was wearing a size eight. A
small
size eight. The hunger, the fighting, the sweating, the agonizing descent into obsession and madness—it had all been worth it. The wedding was exactly five months away and I was right on track.

When I got home and told Bruce the good news, he was decidedly less enthusiastic.

“I think you have an eating disorder,” he said dourly.

“I
wish!
” It was hard not to die laughing at the thought. “Me? With an eating disorder? That’s a good one. Unless there’s such a thing as a dyslexic anorexic!” I hadn’t told him what I’d learned about binge eating, but I don’t think it would have helped my case. Thank God I hardly saw him anymore—he’d probably tie me up and force feed me.

“I’m serious, Evie. Think about it.”

Even though I knew he had a bit of a point, I also knew he’d never be able to understand that I was still mostly in control of things. And besides, it was only temporary—as soon as I was where I needed to be, I would start eating healthier and just maintain. But admitting that he was right, even a little bit, would have just made things worse. And I wasn’t the only one with a problem. “You’re the one who’s in denial,” I told him. “As soon as you realize that you
like
me fat, and that my weight problem served a purpose for you, then we’ll talk. Until then, I can’t trust a word you say on the topic.”

He always seemed to forget that I minored in psychology. You see, some people use weight as a shield to protect themselves from painful emotional issues. My being fat probably allowed Bruce to hide from his feelings of failure at not living up to his overbearing mother’s expectations that he find a woman who met her impossible standards.

He cracked his knuckles and breathed out deeply. “All right, I’ll admit it once and for all: I like you fat. In fact, I
love
you fat. I love you no matter what you look like.”

“Aha! You see? You see? You’ve been trying to sabotage me. All these years. You’re
such
an asshole!” And I’d just thought I was big-boned.

“You know, Evie, I used to find the warped way in which you view the world endearing, but now I find it a little bit scary and a whole lot irritating. Do you hear what you’re saying? Do you really think that you have a weight problem because I dig fat chicks?”

“
Had
a weight problem,” I corrected him “But in a nutshell, yeah. That is what I think. I’ve been fat since you met me—that’s probably why you liked me in the first place—but now that I’m getting thin you’re pulling away from me. Do you know we haven’t had sex in almost a month? You’ve become emotionally distant, Bruce. It’s like you’re somewhere else.”

“I know EXACTLY how long it’s been since we’ve had sex,
and the reason for that is because you come home from the gym every night at ten and you’re too tired to even say good-night to me. And on the weekends, you’re either shopping or running. So do NOT lay the whole sex thing on me.”

“You’re the one who’s been cold and aloof.”

“She said while filing her nails.”

“Funny.”

“And just for the record, what attracted me to you in the first place wasn’t your body.”

“Are you saying I wasn’t attractive?” He could be so hurtful.

“EVIE! You can’t have it both ways! God, you’re so exasperating.”

“Don’t yell. Go on. Why did you like me, then?” There’s always time for compliments, even when you’re bickering.

“Well,” he sighed, and thought about it for a little too long. “It’s hard to remember these days, but I guess I loved your attitude. You were just so damn funny. And your utter ridiculousness. I’d never met anyone like you.”

“Nobody ethnic, you mean.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes, as if to say, “Yeah right.”

“But now I’m just completely exhausted by you. You’re changing, and I’m pretty sure I don’t like it. And you can rest assured it has nothing to do with the way you look. It’s how you’re acting—you’re completely obsessed. You’re barely eating a thing. You look unhealthy, your skin is gray, your breath is bad, your hair is limp!”

Ohmygod. Bad breath? Had Jade noticed?
“Are you serious?!” I asked, appalled.

“Evie, I just want things back the way they were. I want to spend time with you like we used to.”

“You’re making it sound like I’m wasting away into nothing. Don’t forget that I’m still a cow. It just so happens that I’m somewhat of a smaller cow.”

“You’re not a cow. You’re five foot four and 140 pounds. I’d
say that puts you squarely in the camp of average. So be warned, Evie. I’m keeping my eye on you. You’re not going to get away with anything—I won’t let you.”

Average.
That had a nice ring to it.

People at work were far more impressed than Bruce was. They couldn’t get over how much weight I’d lost.

“It’s just thirty pounds,” I told Andrea by the coffee cart one afternoon. “I have at least another twenty to go if I don’t want to look like a total pig in my dress.”

“Still, thirty pounds is a lot. Have you sworn off eating entirely?” she asked politely.

“Actually, I owe it all to exercise. I have an excellent trainer. I could give you his name if you like,” I said, knowing she’d never take me up on it.

“No thanks, I’m fine the way I am. Chocolate?” she offered, holding out what looked like a peanut-butter cup. “It was my birthday this weekend, and there was an enormous box of them on my desk this morning from all the girls.”

“No thanks. I’m still stuffed from lunch.” I’d have to remind people not to do that for me this year—was there a subtle way to request a fruit basket instead?
Was I crazy?
My birthday wasn’t until September, why was I worried about eating chocolate six months from now? Maybe Bruce was right. Maybe I really did have a touch of anorexia. Even worse, why did the possibility delight me so much?
It’s just until the wedding. Then I’ll be normal again. I swear.

“Oh—sorry!” she giggled. “Of course you can’t. But I didn’t want to be rude.”

Not that I really wanted one, but even if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have given the little bitch the satisfaction. I was no stranger to these types of subversive diet-wrecking tactics. From Bruce’s subtle attempts to trick me into ordering pizza for dinner, to Bertie’s incessant yammering about the importance of
sampling wedding cakes, I knew by now how to bow out gracefully from any manner of caloric situation.

Surprisingly, I think it was Pruscilla, who herself had lost more than eighty pounds since her surgery last October, who admired my resolve the most. Last week, during a departmental “lunch” meeting which lasted until 4:30, I managed to almost completely ignore the trays and trays of catered food spread out over the boardroom table. By sheer determination, I consumed only an olive which had fallen off someone’s salad, two and half celery sticks and four cups of black coffee. Even Pruscilla, whose stomach was the size of a shot glass, couldn’t resist a few bites of a ham-and-cheese croissant. Afterward, she whispered to me, “You must be ready to faint—you haven’t eaten a
thing
all day,” which I took to be quite a compliment, since it was obvious she was looking to me as an example of what and what not to eat.

Who would ever have imagined it? Me, Evelyn Mays, a model of self-restraint for the new millennium. It was as much of a surprise to me as anyone, but if I could inspire just one person to see the value of living a more calorically restrained lifestyle—and all the aesthetic benefits that come along with that—then it would all be worth it. So what if I was hungry and miserable on occasion, and completely consumed by thoughts of a stupid white dress hidden in the back of my mother’s closet? Success tasted better than any chocolate peanut-butter cup ever could, from what I remembered.

The filthiest of the diet industry’s dirty little secrets is not the inherent failure preprogrammed into the powders and pills and infomercial exercise equipment (
Shape,
March: “Weight-Loss Witchcraft: A Billion-Dollar Business”), as is the commonly held wisdom on the subject. I propose that the vendors of these products are far less cruel than they seem at first glance. They are simply attuned to the financial payoffs of human nature, which dictates that we’re willingly deceived into deceiving ourselves.

It’s eat now and pay later, but if you don’t want to pay later,
the easy way out is readily available—for a surcharge. Whatever guilt you may encounter from supersizing those fries is assuaged by the belief that tomorrow’s herbal supplements will make it all okay; if, for some unfathomable reason, grape-seed extract is no match for those fifty or hundred or two hundred extra pounds, there’s a doctor waiting in the wings who’s willing to remove ninety percent of your stomach—and an insurance company delighted to pay for it all, based on a careful cost-benefit analysis.

No, it doesn’t take a marketing genius to get an unhappy forty-five-year-old, four-hundred-pound woman from Hayseed, Arkansas, to believe she’ll look like Kate Moss if she diligently takes her fat-metabolizing capsules. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not particularly deceptive, either. She knows, at least subconsciously, that it won’t work. But her desperation speaks louder than her doubts, and her common sense is stifled equally well by either a Twinkie or Suzanne Somers’s New and Improved ThighMaster. She’s no victim, at least not in that sense. So is it fair to curse the quacks for selling us exactly what we want? Probably not.

I believe we should put the blame where it really lies—squarely on the shoulders of the fashion industry. The greatest cruelty, the most contemptible scam, perpetrated against the overweight people of the world is that the clothier has orchestrated the entire charade for his own benefit.

It’s a simple shell game, and one I know all too well: The more weight a woman loses, the more clothes she buys, discarding anything old and large that reminds her of her former self; conversely, the more weight she gains after her methods ultimately fail, the more new fat clothes she must purchase to cover her ever-expanding flesh. Herbal supplements are expensive, sure, but not as expensive as a new wardrobe two or three times a year. Yes, the fashion world is the real winner in this whole mess, pulling the strings from behind the scenes, with a complicit diet industry happy to turn a profit in its wake. I, for one, am out
raged by the lack of accountability in this matter, and intend to expose the entire ruse. For it is one thing to bank on a woman’s insecurities when she’s feeling large and hopeless, but to bilk her when she’s at her thinnest, transforming her vanity into corporate profits—that’s just
monstrous.

All this to say, I’d virtually maxed out both of my credit cards since the engagement party, and sincerely believed it wasn’t my fault. Nobody ever told me how expensive it would be to lose weight. I’d budgeted for the sessions with Jade, of course—that expense was a necessary evil—but the shopping was completely unexpected. Had I known all of this beforehand, I’m not sure I would have even bothered at all.

“On the surface, it looks bad, I can admit that. But it’s not like I’m being frivolous,” I told Morgan one day. “These are all things I
need.
They really are. Can I help it if I’m the sort of person who likes to present a certain image of herself to the world, who must maintain a certain standard? You know what I’m talking about, in your line of work. Going around in saggy-assed jeans and oversized tops just doesn’t make a good impression.”

“It certainly doesn’t,” she concurred. “And what’s the alternative? It’s not like you have a
choice.
I mean, you can’t go around naked, or barefoot for that matter. The new shoes were an absolute must. And while we’re on the subject, if you don’t mind my asking, exactly how much weight
have
your feet lost?”

“Well…none, I think, but I just don’t like my fat shoes anymore. They don’t look right with most of my new stuff.”

“Don’t say another word—I
completely
understand,” she said.

It was sometimes hard to tell if she was humoring me or not.

“But as a concession to my creditors,” I continued, “there is some room to play around with my gym-clothes budget. Since most of the stuff I’m buying is stretchy, anyway, there’s no reason why it can’t take me all the way through to one hundred and twenty pounds. And if my spandex shorts are baggy in a couple of months, then so be it.”

“That’s the spirit! You’re already on your way to financial freedom.”

“But it’s hard, Morgan, it’s
so
hard,” I explained. “The shopping is murder. It’s going to be the end of me. Bruce is freaking, he really is. I don’t know what I’m going to do. You’re the financial whiz. You’ve got to help me….”

“Have you considered cutting up your credit cards?”

“No.” As if.

“Well, how about this. I knew this girl in college who went on a completely crazed spending spree one day that she knew she couldn’t possibly pay for. Afterward, she was so disgusted with herself that she cut up her card. Of course, she instantly regretted it, and called Visa immediately to request a new one. It took them two weeks to send it to her. As soon as she got it, she went to the mall. At the end of the day, she cut the card in half, then called Visa again. It went on like that for years. She was smart—she limited her spending to just two days a month. Maybe you could try something like that.”

I thought about it for a fraction of a second, and decided against it. There was no need to get completely hysterical just yet.

Morgan sensed my reluctance. “Maybe I’m not fully understanding your problem,” she said. “Are you more worried about how you’re going to pay for everything you’ve already bought, or that you won’t be able to buy anything more? Because if it’s that, then why don’t you just get another card?”