Teenage Waistland (7 page)

Gran was so busy showing wallet photos of herself in younger days to the doctor reviewing her chart that I stood
in her hospital room doorway for about ten minutes before she even noticed I was there. But once he squeezed past me, she got all excited and patted the space next to her on the bed. I took the armchair instead—Gran was thin and pale and I was afraid to mess with all the tubes. I nodded dumbly as she carried on about how handsome her doctor was and how she bet he spent more time with her than anybody. When she finally stopped for air, I took a deep breath and began.

“Gran, what would you say is your greatest accomplishment in life?”

“Why, all the men who’ve loved me, my darling,” she rasped—without even pausing for thought.

“But
why
did so many men love you?” I said calmly, as though this was a perfectly reasonable response.

“Because Gran is beautiful,” she replied,
straight-faced
.

“But Gran, what if
I
want to be loved for something more than how I look?” Again, not even a pause. Her certainty was maddening.

“Marcie, imagine you’re having a romantic dinner with a man, and you’re going on about your books and big ideas. He’s going to take one look at your hands and say to himself, ‘If this woman is so smart, why didn’t she get a manicure?’ ” Rage welled up inside me and that was it—I was done with her for good. I got up, mumbled something about seeing what was taking Mom so long at the coffee machine, and sat fuming in the waiting room until Abby was done with their visit. And I’m not visiting her again, no matter how freaked Abby gets about it.

My weight has gotten so dire that on the rare occasions I’m trapped in the same room with her, Gran is too horrified
to even mention it anymore. It’s like standing in an elevator with a hideously scarred burn victim. You smile politely and pretend they’re just like everyone else. But now that she’s laid off me about my weight, she’s doing double time on Abby—even when she knows I’m within earshot. “Darling, you really have to get that poor girl on a diet. I don’t care how brilliant she is. She’s never going to find happiness in her condition.”

Abby tries to defend me, but only with lame crap like, “Marcie will lose her weight when she’s ready.” How about this, Mom?
Marcie’s just fine how she is. Now, thank you and shut up
.

Jen is texting on about how glorious it is to finally be able to cram herself into size 4 jeans when Dr. Glass makes her entrance. Suddenly, I start to panic—this woman is less than half my size, and without a “polite” or “compliant” chromosome in my DNA, I’m going to say something to screw this evaluation up.

“Marcie Mandlebaum, right?” she says, coming over to me and putting out her hand. I take her tiny hand in my fleshy paw and I’m afraid to squeeze too hard—it seems so fragile.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Glass,” I stammer.

Dr. Glass smiles and moves toward her side of the desk. She’s wearing a close-fitting
white
skirt, and it occurs to me that it’s not quite Memorial Day yet. An “unspeakable” fashion faux pas like this would provide Gran with enough idiot conversation fodder to last her a year.
Clamp it, Marcie
.

“Please call me Betsy,” Dr. Glass says. She sits pertly in
her nine-hundred-dollar Herman Miller Aeron Chair (Ronny has one). Wouldn’t that money be better spent on a new couch? I somehow manage to clamp down on this thought too before it comes flying out, but my own worst enemy is hell-bent on sabotaging me.

“I guess you hear ‘Bitsy’ a lot,” it blurts. I freeze in horror, but, thankfully, Bitsy laughs.

“I wasn’t always this small, Marcie, so I kind of like it. Feel free.”

I let out a deep breath and relax. She’s not so bad. Maybe I can get through this without blowing it after all.

“Betsy Glass. Nice to meet you, Bobby.” She holds out her hand but my palm is disgustingly sweaty, so I shake just her fingertips. They feel cool even though her office is boiling.

“Hi,” I say, fumbling toward the oversized chair by the open window, but she says, “Right there is good,” and directs me to the couch opposite her desk. She’d better not want me to lie on it.

She sits down behind her desk and picks up this stapled packet, holding it level with her boobs.

“Nice handwriting,” she says. “Did you fill this out?”

“My mom did. They’re completely my answers, though.”

“That’s fine.”

“We just went over them together.”

Betsy smiles. “Bobby, that’s fine. Tell me about—” She looks up from the paperwork and catches me staring. My eyes fly over to this football in a plastic display case on a shelf behind her, and she raises an eyebrow and swivels around.

“Oh. That’s my son’s from high school. They won the sectionals in 2006 and he was MVP.”

“Nice. What position?” I say as coolly as possible, but my balls are sweating and I’m already worried I’ve nuked my chances to get into this trial.

“Running back.”

He’s probably lean and mean like Craighead
.

“He’s at Michigan State now.”

Probably getting laid all the time
. I cross my arms over myself.

“I’m thinking about applying early decision to Notre Dame,” I mumble. Football is my best shot at a great school. Last year, a Notre Dame scout handed me his card in the locker room. Dad was pumped.

“What position do you play?” She’s facing me again, so I start examining the mesh patterns on the bottom of my jersey.

“Offensive lineman—right guard.”

Betsy frowns. “So your job is …” She stops and waits for me to finish her sentence.

“I create holes for the running play and protect the quarter back from tackles so he can make the pass,” I explain.

“Right. My son’s tried for years to get me to understand the game.” Betsy smiles. “I think about the quarterback as like the king in chess. The other players can’t let anyone get to him.”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“So, as the lineman, you’re sort of like the queen.”

“Ye—no.” I say, but it comes out like a growl.
The queen is the only piece in chess with boobs
. I clear my throat. “I mean, I guess the pawns set the offensive line, but it’s not too much like chess.”

“Okay, the analogy doesn’t fit.” She smiles again. But I’m thinking that queen part does fit actually, which is what really sucks my king-sized ass.

Betsy purses her lips and scrunches her eyebrows a little, the same way Mom does when she’s trying to get at something. “The offensive line requires major contact. Don’t you have to be a certain size to block?”

“Um, not necessarily.” Sweat’s beading up on my forehead and I wipe it away with my sleeve. I stink. The papers on her desk are flapping around from the breeze. How the hell am I so hot?

“No?” Her face crinkles more. “My understanding is that size is the most important attribute for an offensive lineman.”

“Size is important, yeah. But strength also. And height and arm length.”

Betsy stares at me for a few moments, her lips still in a tight line. Then she takes a deep breath.

“Bobby, if getting this surgery meant you would no longer have the bulk to play for a Division One school, like Notre Dame, would you still want it?”

“Definitely,” I say way too quickly. “Yeah. I mean, I know it’ll be tough, but I’m also sure I can build enough muscle to stay big and strong.”
Big in the right places
.

Betsy sighs. “I’m not sure you’re thinking about this realistically.”

I shift to make myself more comfortable. “I get it. I do. Really.”

She picks my questionnaire up off her desk again, still shaking her head. “Bobby, high school football is one thing, but college is another. When a lineman slips below three hundred pounds, he’s usually not allowed to play. If you have this surgery, by the time you go to college next year, you’ll be closer to two hundred pounds than three hundred. I need to know you understand that this surgery
will
put any college
football career you’re thinking about in jeopardy. At least as a lineman.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, nodding down at my filthy fingernails. My dad and I have the same ink-black freckle below the nail of the forefinger on our right hand.

“Bobby?” I look back up at her. “That means having this surgery is likely to affect the colleges you’ll be accepted to, and that will affect other things down the road. Your decision will ripple throughout your life, present and future.”

I nod and keep eye contact this time. I don’t know what to say to convince her.

Betsy shakes her head again. “Bobby, I need to hear you say it. I need to hear that you understand what I’m saying, and I need to hear that you mean it. Is this surgery important enough to you that you’re willing to give up football and everything it means to your future?”

Rivers of sweat feel like they’re pouring out of my forehead, but I don’t even try to wipe them away. “Yes! I want it—this surgery. And if—and
yes
, I’m willing to give up football and everything it means in order to get it,” I practically shout. And the certainty I hear in my own voice is so startling, I almost believe it.

Betsy stares at me hard, but I keep my eyes stuck on hers like my life depends on it. “Okay,” she finally says, looking down to rustle through her papers. “Let’s bring in your parents—okay, just your mom is here—and talk about the lifestyle changes this surgery requires.”

“Mom.
Mooom
.” I’m knocking on her door for the third time this morning, listening for sounds of movement while I finish getting ready. “We should try to leave by two-thirty, the latest,” I say. I’m careful. If I open her door, if I rattle her cage, I’ll blow this. But our appointment with Dr. Glass is at three-thirty and it takes a good forty-five minutes to drive into the city and find parking. I have to get her up now or we won’t make it. “I’m wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. You could wear that maroon terry zip-up,” I call in again. Nothing. “You know, the one Julius sent you at Christmas?” Nothing still. I head back down the hall, then stop and raise my voice a bit. “I’m making us an early lunch, okay?”

When I reach the kitchen, I hear shuffling overhead. She’s finally moving. I purposely didn’t mention that Char and Crystal have the appointment before ours. Mom can’t bear anyone seeing her like this, and the possibility of running into her ex–best friend is sure to keep her burrowed under the covers for life. I’m scanning the refrigerator
shelves, looking for something to ease Mom’s stress, when I hear her bedroom door open.

“East?” she moans, as if my name takes too much energy to say. I slam the fridge and race upstairs. Her door is open, but she’s back in bed and her room looks like a tornado churned through her closet and flung everything out.

“But—but you promised.…”

Mom rolls onto her side with a moan and pulls the blankets up so I can’t see her face. “Please. I’m sorry. I just can’t. Not today.”

I pick up this fraying, stretched-out gray sweater thing. “Here. Put this on. You’ll look good in this,” I try. But she doesn’t even lower the blanket to look.

“I’m so sorry, East. Please just reschedule. I’ll do it another day, I promise. I feel too awful to get out of bed.” She’s whimpering into her pillow and I just stand there unable to feel my limbs. Finally, I manage to back out of the room and close the door behind me before I burst into tears. I’m an idiot to think anything could ever change, that anything good could ever really happen. What’s the point of even trying?

Five seconds later, I’m curled in a ball beneath my covers, sobbing. My arm has just enough life in it to fish around my night table for some Reese’s Pieces—and to send my alarm clock crashing to the floor. I sit up. Sunshine is streaming in through my lace curtains and here I am in bed just like my mother. I fling myself out of the bed and pick up the clock—it’s noon! I spin around to grab my phone and speed-dial Char’s home line.

“Char!” I blurt into the phone. “Thank God I caught you.”