The Fat Girl (11 page)

“Nothing thanks. But why don’t I go and get it?”

“No, no, no! It’s my treat.”

“She doesn’t want to be alone with me,” said my mother after Aunt Lisa had gone. “She’s embarrassed.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mom.”

“She’d never do anything so crude—not her—with her fancy house, her doting husband, and all her money. She never even had kids because she probably thought it was vulgar.”

“Mom, Mom . . .”

“Whose idea was it to call her?” my mother snapped. “I bet it was your father’s.”

She wasn’t smiling anymore. Maybe it was just as well. Maybe things finally were going to get back to normal.

fourteen

My mother remained in the hospital for a week. I went to see her every day, and so did my Aunt Lisa. We went at different times. I don’t think she complained to my aunt about me. Maybe she did. I don’t know. But she certainly complained to me all the time about her.

“She always had all the breaks,” my mother said. “Life’s been easy for her.”

“I don’t know how you can say that,” I told her. “First of all, you know she had polio when she was a child, and she still has a pretty bad limp.”

“Big deal!” said my mother. “Everybody was always sorry for her, because they thought she was so helpless. She got all my mother’s attention, and everybody in the family always said ‘poor dear,’ and ‘wasn’t she something to manage in spite of her handicap.’ Bull! It was because of her handicap that she got all the breaks.”

“Well, she really cares for you, Mom, and she’s been wonderful. So has Uncle Roger. You know how hard it is for him to manage without her at the store, but he says she should stay on here as long as we need her.”

“I don’t need her, and I don’t want her pity either, you hear me, Jeff? I want her out of the house when I get home.”

“Mom, Mom . . .”

“And how come Wanda hasn’t been to see me? She sent me one lousy get well card and that’s it.”

“I don’t know, Mom, but I’ll call her when I get home.”

I hadn’t spoken to Wanda since the Saturday my mother tried to kill herself, but my father called me at least once every day. I told him that Mom wanted to see Wanda, and that shut him up for a change.

“Dad?”

“I know, Jeff, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you know Wanda’s been taking it pretty hard. She’s been going for counseling, and I think maybe for the time being . . . until she feels a little better . . .”

“Look, Dad, Mom’s the one who’s in trouble. Let me talk to Wanda.”

“No, Jeff, not if you’re going to make her feel bad. She’s been through enough.”

My father was only worried about Wanda. All he could think of was how Wanda was suffering. Didn’t he care how I was suffering? Here I was hanging on to the phone trying not to break down and start bawling. Nothing I said made any difference at all to him. Wanda was the one he liked better—the one he fussed over the most. And now she was living with him and going out to Farrell’s for ice cream and crying on his shoulder and smelling his warm, sweaty, comforting smell.

“Jeff?”

It was like my mother and Aunt Lisa. The way my mother felt about Aunt Lisa, Wanda always had all the breaks too. Even my mother—she must have loved Wanda the best too, if she needed to kill herself just because Wanda took off.

“Jeff, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“So I really don’t want you to make Wanda feel bad. I know you feel bad too . . .”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “You don’t know anything about me.” I hung up and took the phone off the hook.

Aunt Lisa tried, but she wasn’t much help either. I was glad she was there at night, when I woke up with the shakes and heard her deep, even breathing coming from my mother’s bed. But during the day, I knew that she was an ally of my father and that he’d been coaching her.

“Wanda wants to have dinner with us tonight,” said my Aunt Lisa. “I thought we might all go out to that nice little Japanese restaurant on Judah. Maybe Roger can join us and your father too.”

“Sorry,” I told her. “I have a date with my girlfriend.”

“Don’t be like that, Jeff,” said my aunt. “Don’t go blaming Wanda for what happened. If you start blaming, it’s hard to know where to stop, Maybe you could blame me, because your mother and I haven’t been in touch for over a year. Maybe you could say it was your father’s fault, because they were divorced, or your fault, because you weren’t home that morning. It can go on and on and never stop.”

“I really do have a date with my girlfriend,” I said.

That was the only good time for me—when I was with Ellen, my big, fat, loving, happy Ellen. And she was happy now. Because of me. Maybe I couldn’t do anything right with my own family, but with Ellen I couldn’t do anything wrong.

She didn’t know the truth about my mother. I only told her that my mother had passed out and was undergoing tests in the hospital. She didn’t ask me any further questions.

Ellen was going to Weight Watchers now. She had lost twenty pounds and was growing impatient.

“It’s slowing down,” she complained. “I’m eating even less than I did when I started out, but I’m only losing a few pounds a week now.”

“There’s no hurry,” I told her.

“Yes, there is,” she said. “You’re forgetting that the prom is May 28th. I want to lose eighty pounds by then. That’s only four months away.”

Ellen kept talking about the prom. When she first mentioned it to me, I said no. Nothing and nobody was going to get me to go to the prom. She didn’t argue, but I could see she was disappointed. Then I began thinking. I began thinking about her in the shiny, gold caftan I’d seen in Lady Bountiful. We could come late to the prom and maybe everybody would be dancing as we began descending the stairs into the main ballroom. I’d coach her, and she’d move slowly, gracefully, magnificently, one step at a time. Maybe she would be wearing some kind of gold ornament in her hair and heavy gold bracelets on her arms. Her face would be radiant with smiles, and when she looked at me with those big, adoring eyes, everybody would be able to see how much I meant to her.

So I told her we could go, and all the lights went on in her face. I told her about the gold caftan. “Like in a fairy tale, Ellen. You’ll be all in gold.”

“But Jeff,” she said, “I won’t need to wear a caftan by then because I’m going to be thin.”

Thin? I burst out laughing as Ellen looked at me solemnly.

“What’s funny, Jeff?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Ellen,” I told her, patting her soft, fat cheek. “It’s just hard for me to think of you as thin.”

“But I will be, Jeff,” she said. “You’ll see. I will. I really will.”

“It’s okay, Ellen,” I told her. “I love you just the way you are.”

“Do you really, Jeff?” she said, watching my mouth again. “Do you really love me—I mean, as much as you used to love Norma?”

“Of course, you big silly. Of course I love you as much as I loved Norma. More than I loved Norma. More than I ever loved anybody. I’ll never love anybody the way I love you.”

The good times with Ellen got better and better. I started sleeping through the night again. I even went over to my father’s house and made up with Wanda. She looked smaller than I had remembered. Poor Wanda! I felt sorry for her. Poor Mom! Poor Dad! I was sorry for all of them, because I was safe and very high on Ellen.

My mother came home from the hospital, and Aunt Lisa offered to stay a few more days. My mother said no. She said some other things too, so that my aunt was barely speaking to her by the time she left. I helped her carry her things downstairs to her car, and she hugged me hard before she drove off.

“Don’t forget, Jeff. Call me if you need me.”

“I will, Aunt Lisa, and thanks for everything.”

“Tell your mother I’ll give her a ring later.” She shook her head. “I guess I’ll just have to control myself and not get sore.”

“She doesn’t mean anything, Aunt Lisa. That’s just the way she talks.”

She smiled and patted my arm. “I’ve known her longer than you have, Jeff. Long enough to know she does mean it, but maybe it’s better for her when she gets it out in the open.”

My mother was upstairs in Wanda’s room when I returned. “I think,” she said, “that maybe I’ll turn this into a sewing room.”

Wanda had been over once while my mother was still in the hospital and had collected most of her things. The room had an undressed look to it.

“Of course,” my mother went on, “I suppose the smartest thing to do would be to find a smaller apartment. You’ll be going off to college in the fall, and I’ll only need a one-bedroom place.”

“But I’ll be back,” I protested.

“Weekends, holidays,” said my mother. “. . . At first, but after a while . . .”

“Look, Mom, please,” I said, “don’t do anything right now. Don’t change anything. Let’s leave everything just the way it is.”

“My poor boy,” said my mother. “You never did like change, did you?”

She was thinner and her little face had a yellowish hue.

“Depends on the change,” I said. “If it’s for the better . . .”

“Most change is for the worst,” said my mother.

“No, Mom, not always. Take my girlfriend, Ellen. I wish you had seen her before. She never looked you in the eye. She had no confidence. She was always dropping things and bumping into doors. I’ve been working with her, and now she stands up straight and looks you right in the eye. She feels good about herself now. I’ve taught her how to dress, and she has confidence.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” said my mother.

I thought of the low-calorie pie in the refrigerator the night before she tried to kill herself, but I tried to sound cheerful when I said, “How about this Saturday night, Mom? I can bring her over this Saturday, if you like.”

“Fine,” said my mother. “I’ll make something that’s not fattening.”

My mother and I settled into our old routine. We didn’t talk about her suicide attempt, and she went back to work and started seeing a shrink a couple times a week. But nothing seemed to change. She and Wanda began talking to each other over the phone, and my father said that maybe in a couple of weeks, if Wanda felt stronger, she could come over and have dinner.

When I picked Ellen up the night she came to my house for dinner, she showed me how the tunic she was wearing gaped around her neck. I should have been pleased, but I wasn’t.

“I’ve lost twenty-three pounds now,” Ellen said, “and all my clothes are beginning to hang on me.”

“You’re pushing too hard,” I told her. “You’ll get sick if you’re not careful.”

“One day,” Ellen said dreamily, “I’m going to be thin, really thin. I’m going to wear shorts and a bathing suit . . .”

“I think we should go to Lady Bountiful and buy you some new clothes,” I told her.

“No. I don’t want any new clothes. I want to just wear these until I can get into some regular clothes. I want to watch how they begin to hang on me. If it gets too bad, my mother can always take them in.”

She had a package in her hand, wrapped in fancy paper.

“What have you got there?” I asked.

“It’s a present for your mother.”

“What kind of present?”

“You’ll see.” She smiled and looked sly, and I patted her on her shoulder. How happy she was! I felt a glow of pride thinking that only a few months ago, this rosy-faced girl with the sparkling eyes was ready to kill herself. I noticed that her lipstick seemed too pale for her face.

“What’s that shade of lipstick you’re wearing?” I asked her.

“Oh Jeff, it’s a new one—Spring Blush—I just bought it yesterday.”

“I don’t like it. It’s too pale for your skin, and it doesn’t go with the purple of your tunic.”

She looked guilty. “I just got tired of wearing those same old dark colors all the time.”

“Well, we can get you some other ones if you’re looking for something new,” I told her patiently. “But I’d better go with you. That shade is all wrong.”

“Okay, Jeff,” she said. “I’ll take it off. But which one should I use?”

My mother looked astonished when she saw Ellen. But it didn’t bother me. I was proud of the way Ellen stood up straight and looked my mother in the eye and said, “Hello, Mrs. Lyons,” in a clear, cheerful voice. She handed my mother the package.

“Oh my,” said my mother, “you shouldn’t have.” She unwrapped it and held in her hand a fat, stubby, shiny pink teapot that only Ellen could have made.

It irritated me, but I kept it to myself for the time being.

“Umm!” said my mother, holding it away from her and pretending to admire it. “It’s . . . uh . . . very interesting. Did you make it yourself?”

“Uh huh,” said Ellen. “I did, and I worried all week that it wouldn’t be fired in time.”

“Well, thank you, dear,” said my mother. “I know I’m going to enjoy it very much. Maybe we can all have a cup of tea later.”