No Big Deal

by Bethany Rutter

  I’ve made a ‘Heartbroken Moping’ playlist that’s getting heavy rotation right now (highlights include ‘These Days’ by Nico, ‘Go Your Own Way’ by Fleetwood Mac, and Robyn’s unbeatable ‘With Every Heartbeat’). It’s one of my best – I almost want to share it with Joe, but, of course, that would be weird and the wrong thing to do. It’s filtering through my headphones as I’m lying on the sofa, absent-mindedly opening the shiny red chocolate wrapper with one hand while holding a copy of Patti Smith’s Just Kids in the other, unwilling to take my eyes off her magical prose, when in comes my mum to disturb the peace.

  ‘Eat too many of those and you’ll always be Fatty Smith, never Patti Smith,’ she says, casting a glance over me and simultaneously managing to weaponize both of the fairly innocuous items in my chubby hands against me.

  I sit up and just stare at Mum in shocked silence for a moment. She’s already switched on the TV; she’s not even interested in my response. It’s like she doesn’t expect me to have one. Or it’s not important. It’s only important for her to say what she wants about my body whenever she wants to say it. What am I meant to say? A petty part of my brain flares up to tell me how annoying it is that Katie has gone out for the evening and isn’t here to witness this! She thinks I’m exaggerating whenever I complain to her about Mum having a go at me because of my weight, but I absolutely am not. It’s the banality of it that gets me. Why? What’s the point? What’s the goal in saying stuff like this to your child? It feels like she just sees an opportunity to make a mean comment and takes it.

  ‘What’s your point?’ I say, finally. It comes out stilted, of course.

  ‘Just that you can’t afford to put on any more weight. Just because it’s Christmas, that’s no excuse,’ she replies, not taking her eyes off the TV.

  ‘Actually, I would say there’s no better excuse than the birth of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,’ I say. ‘Also, can you please just absolutely lay off me about this? Surely you’re bored of it by now?’

  Finally she bothers to look at me.

  ‘No, Emily – I am not bored of having an interest in my daughter’s health and well-being. I’ll take care of you even if you won’t take care of yourself.’

  I can feel myself vibrating with rage.

  ‘You have to stop! Just stop! You’re making it impossible for me to have a relationship with you!’ I shout, louder than I probably should.

  I leap off the sofa, storm out of the room and pound up the stairs, making the most of my weight as I stomp on every step. Up in my room, I slam the door behind me for effect and go to retreat under the duvet, but first I trip over a coat I’ve left on the floor. My general rage at the world is peaking right now. I am not in the wrong here. I am entirely in the right. But I can’t stew in my righteous anger for long; a sheepish knock on my bedroom door interrupts my rage. Dad pushes the door open and picks his way across my floordrobe.

  ‘You two need to go easier on each other,’ he says, sitting down on my bed. He takes his glasses off and leans his head against the wall. I bet it’s boring for him to be surrounded by this constant anger.

  ‘Each other? She’s my mum! She’s the grown-up – she’s the one who’s meant to behave responsibly!’ I cry. How can he possibly be on her side in this? What even is her side?

  ‘I know, I know. And you’re not wrong – her obsession with your weight is getting in the way of your relationship,’ he says.

  Yeah, I think. Not just our relationship, but my relationship. ‘So?’ I say.

  ‘So . . . you’ve got something that she’ll never have. Something that she might never learn: you like yourself. You don’t lie awake at night worrying about your body. You’re not going to waste hours and hundreds of pounds on fad diets. And no one can take that away from you. Your mum is a brilliant woman. So sharp, so intelligent, capable of so much love. It’s just a shame that this fixation on her weight seems to have run away with itself.’ He shakes his head sadly. ‘Maybe in time she’ll learn something from you. Just be more gentle.’

  A shadow appears at the bottom of my doorframe, and the floorboard creaks.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Mum sniffles from outside the door.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Dad says and sidles out of the room, squeezing my mum’s arm as he passes her.

  She appears to be carrying a peace offering: a pink fondant fancy on a little floral-patterned plate. She comes in and sits next to me on the bed, putting the cake on my side table. We sit in silence for a while, sadness and fury whipping silently between us, neither of us daring to breathe too loudly in case it’s taken to mean we cracked first.

  ‘I’m sorry for upsetting you,’ Mum says, finally. A tear drops silently down her cheek.

  It breaks my heart to see her cry. ‘I want to say it’s OK, because I can tell you’re upset too, but it’s not OK. I can’t keep dealing with this from you . . .’ I trail off.

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have to. I just . . .’ She looks upwards, seemingly trying to conjure the right words. ‘I just worry about you, Emily. About your health. About your happiness.’

  ‘Well, we all die someday. But for real, there’s more to health than weight, and I don’t think being thin has ever protected someone from death,’ I say, attempting a laugh.

  ‘That’s not something to joke about, Emily! All I’m saying is I’ve never been able to be happy with my body the way it is, that’s all.’

  ‘But I’m not you, Mum,’ I say. I try to sound soothing rather than confrontational. ‘I’m me. We’re different people. We were always going to have different experiences of the world, even if our bodies were the same. And I’m perfectly happy. In fact . . . it’s getting kind of hard to tell what is my weight holding me back, and what is just me holding myself back . . . you know? Because I’ve internalized the things you say to me. I listen to what you tell me.’

  ‘What things?’ she asks, looking confused.

  I realize that she doesn’t fully understand the impact that her words have on me. They don’t just roll off me like water off a duck’s back. They burrow deep inside my mind.

  ‘Well . . . for one thing, telling me I’ll never get a boyfriend unless I lose weight. That just means that I’m super grateful if someone shows me attention, whether they’re right for me or not. Whether they treat me nicely or not,’ I say. And finally, the tears that I managed to bite back when I was fighting with Mum earlier begin to roll down my face.

  ‘Oh, treasure,’ she says. She looks genuinely crestfallen. ‘Who’s been making you feel bad?’

  ‘It’s OK. I don’t really want to talk about it right now,’ I say, and although I’m still crying, my mum’s concern has warmed my cold heart enough to muster a smile too. ‘But thanks for asking.’

  ‘Emily . . .’ She sighs, resting her head on my shoulder – an act more affectionate than any I’ve felt from her since I was really little. ‘I just don’t want you looking back on this part of your life and wishing you’d done more, had more fun,’ she says. ‘Not let your body hold you back.’

  ‘I have enough fun, Mum. Don’t worry about that,’ I say.

  But she’s not listening; she’s still buried in her own fears. Her face clouds over.

  ‘It’s not my body that’s holding me back. I think it’s more of a problem that people tell me my body should hold me back.’

  ‘I could never shake the feeling that your dad was a total fluke,’ she says.

  ‘What does that mean?’ OK, so we’re clearly not talking about my life any more.

  ‘I mean . . . he’s just so lovely and kind, and he was always so handsome, and he’d do anything for me, and for you and your sister. And I have never really been able to believe my luck. I always felt like I was hiding in plain sight, that he hadn’t properly realized I was . . .’ She trails off. She closes her eyes, apparently trying to muster the right word. Or perhaps bring herself to say it. ‘Bigger, you know? Or it was just a matter of time before he was going to tell me I needed
to lose weight.’

  ‘So . . . even though you had evidence that someone lovely and kind and, bleurgh, “handsome” wanted to marry you, you still thought it was some kind of weird oversight on his part? That he’d wake up one day and realize what a terrible mistake he had made in marrying you, all because you’re fat?’ I ask, incredulously.

  My mum flinches. ‘Don’t use words like that, Emily,’ she says.

  I forget that it’s still such an inflammatory word to so many people. Maybe in that way I’m lucky.

  Mum shrugs. ‘When you put it like that, I suppose it does sound stupid, but it’s always made sense to me.’

  I realize it makes sense to me too, in a horrible sort of way. My poor mum. Struggling under the weight not of herself but a culture that trained her to second-guess every kindness, to eye every advance with suspicion.

  I sigh. ‘I don’t want to fight with you, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, me neither, treasure. You’re such a good girl. Such a clever girl,’ she says, stroking my hair. ‘Maybe it’s time I gave up on the mad diets. I don’t think I can really keep it up much longer anyway. If they really worked, they’d have worked by now.’

  ‘That . . . sounds like a good plan,’ I say. I don’t bother mentioning that I saw her eating the leftover turkey skin on Christmas Day.

  Mum pats my leg, gets up and leaves the room, turning around at the doorway to give me a conciliatory smile, before closing the door quietly behind her. I pick up my fondant fancy and nibble on it as I click around the internet, zoning out, letting my eyes glaze over. Facebook. Twitter. Tumblr. I’m listening to my Hairpins record that Joe gave me, a tangible thing that proves he cared about me. I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to feel right again. The way I did before I met Joe.

  There’s another knock at my bedroom door. Who is it now? The three wise men?

  ‘What now?’ I groan.

  ‘It’s me,’ Katie says as she slinks in and closes the door behind her.

  ‘I’ve made up with Mum, so you don’t need to tell me to be nice to her.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to, I promise.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I just wanted to chat. I realized I never replied to the email you sent me when you were in a bad mood that time. I kept thinking about how to reply, and then eventually I thought it would be too late, and it would be weird, and maybe you didn’t really want my advice anyway – maybe you just wanted to let off steam.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what it was,’ I say, thinking back to the email where I inarticulately articulated all my fears about my body holding me back and ruining my romantic life. ‘It’s fine. I don’t really need any help. Things are different now.’

  ‘Sure?’

  I pause. I swallow. I’m not sure. But I’m also not sure what Katie can say that’ll make a difference.

  ‘I can’t even remember what I wrote . . .’ I say, trying to sound like it can’t have been that important anyway.

  ‘I’ve got it here,’ Katie says. She comes to sit next to me on the bed as she scrolls back through her inbox.

  I don’t have time to stop her before she begins the cringe-inducing task of reading it aloud.

  Hi, K,

  Sorry I didn’t pick up. I’m just in this weird place at the moment with Joe. There’s this nagging feeling that my body is getting in the way of things. Like it doesn’t matter how cool I am about it, it’s just . . . a problem. It’s like the THING that I’m pinning everything on, and it’ll just be there hovering about causing trouble forever, no matter what I feel about it!!!

  Anyway, don’t know why I’m complaining to you – will ring you back soon.

  Love you!!

  Emily

  ‘See?’ I say breezily, although I’m red with cringe at laying my vulnerabilities out like that. And also because it strikes me that I’ve done such a good job at burying them over the past few months – burying all my feelings just so I could have some kind of relationship with Joe. ‘Just a little rant.’

  ‘Yeah . . . It’s fine to talk about it though. Even if I don’t, like, totally understand everything, I’m still your sister, and I still want you to be happy. And I still want to pass on my adult lady wisdom to you because it makes me feel important,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘OK – let’s do it, if only to make you feel important.’

  ‘Well, first, I know you don’t like talking about your problems and stuff, so it’s cool of you to acknowledge you were feeling something. And second, it feels like there are two answers to your central issue—’

  ‘Which is what?’ I cut her off, admittedly rudely, because I need to know she understands.

  ‘Well . . . it sounds like you were basically asking if dating is going to be harder because you’re bigger?’

  ‘Yeah, basically. Also, you’re allowed to say fat.’

  ‘OK – I’ll try. What I would have said, had I not rudely neglected to reply to your email in a timely fashion, is that our culture is generally misogynistic. So, all women get judged on their bodies according to, like, general dude standards. And general dude standards enforce thinness. So, yeah, more judgement is levelled at fat women, and this is the same in dating and romance as it is in the world as a whole.’

  ‘Ugh! I knew it!’ I say, overcome with a wave of pessimism, rage and embarrassment all at once.

  ‘BUT!’ Katie says, raising a hand in an attempt to halt my tirade. ‘Adolescence is the worst time. Boys can be awful at this age and totally motivated by peer pressure and weird, average standards that they haven’t even bothered to think about, let alone question. They just want to do whatever their friends are doing; mock whatever their friends are mocking. Obviously some guys never grow out of this – and I would know, I’ve met a few of them – but I promise you, it will never be worse than it is now.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, even though this is pretty much what my aunt already told me, and I have no reason to doubt either of them.

  ‘Really. I’m not saying it’s guaranteed to be easy – that’s partly to do with the people you have around you. Surrounding yourself with kind and interesting people and trying to meet people, guys and girls, who are decent and intelligent enough to at least be able to look critically at things like general dude standards, that’s the best way of feeling more at ease about dating.’

  ‘So, it’s not like no one ever wants to date fat girls?’

  ‘No. No way. I have cool adult lady friends of all sizes, and even though men can be terrible, and often are, my friends who are plus size, fat, whatever, seem to be dating constantly. I swear!’

  ‘Based on information I have gathered throughout my lifetime regarding your behaviour and speech habits, you appear to be telling the truth . . .’

  ‘I am! And what’s more, none of my friends are you. You’re already this cool at seventeen! Just think what you’ll be like when you’ve lived properly, doing your own things in the world outside school and Mum and Dad’s house. I am not worried about you at all. It might be hard, and you might have to wade through more crap than I have, but you’re so cool and fun and no-nonsense, and you are going to have a great time when you fly the nest.’ She clasps me by the shoulders and shakes me like a rag doll with a force that underscores how sincerely she means it.

  ‘I just feel like . . .’ I sigh and tilt my head towards the ceiling. ‘Like maybe I just don’t deserve someone good? Someone that really wants me? That the best I can hope for is just . . . someone.’

  ‘No,’ Katie says in an absolutely positively decisive tone. ‘I am going to tell you this now, without any hesitation, and even though we have different bodies and different problems, I know this is true: never settle.’ She shakes me a bit more. ‘Do not allow into your world someone who thinks you’re second best, who thinks your body is a temporary “problem” that you’re going to solve, who puts you down in any way.’

  She’s looking at me intensely now. ‘Em, I know it might be hard to believe now, especially if
you want to date guys, who are almost uniformly jerks at your age and possibly beyond. But there really are people out there who will make you feel magical and beloved and special and important. I’m just sorry you don’t know that already. Compromise on where to go for dinner. Compromise on what movie to see. Compromise on how to balance your work–life relationship. But don’t ever compromise on the level of love, attention and enthusiasm you know you deserve. You’ll feel it when you have it. You’ll feel like you’re being loved wholeheartedly for who you are. And you’ll always know when someone is incapable of giving that to you because they cannot deal with your body. Do. Not. Compromise. If someone is making you feel any less than magical, you’re probably compromising.’

  And I hear her. Really hear her. I had always thought Joe was the one compromising. A cute, cool guy who wanted to date me, a fat girl, must be the one compromising, right? . . . But what if it’s actually me? What if I were confident enough to know that I could date someone who’s proud of me, proud of all the great things about me? Who wants to show me off to his friends. Who wants everyone to know we’re together because it’s so exciting and important to him. It’s like a bad optical illusion: once you see how it works, you can’t go back to seeing it in the fun, dizzying, disorienting way that you could before.

  Now that I can see that everything Joe did was designed to keep me at arm’s length, to keep me a secret, I can’t go back to writing it off as a misunderstanding. Second-guessing him, making excuses for him.

  I clear my throat awkwardly after a too-long silence. ‘Thank you for this,’ I say. ‘I have a lot to think about.’

  ‘Any time, Em. I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?’ Katie says, slinking off the bed. ‘I hope I’ve helped.’