by Liza Palmer
I’d just gotten a new car and was there with my best friend at the time. It was cold. I remember that. I was wearing a bright yellow shirt, a cardigan with flowers on it, and khaki pants. I don’t know why that night was different. I felt emboldened. The bridge made me do it? But, that night we got out of the car and began to walk. I remember talking excitedly about what I was going to do when I graduated. I remember feeling strong and alive. It was one of those nights. The kind where you feel like you can accomplish anything. I bent over the side of the bridge and just breathed in the night air.
That’s when I heard it. A yell from a passing car. A young man’s voice.
“Thar she blows!”
I remember my friend going through the usual Things People Say in a situation like that. Forget those guys and what do they know and some lighthearted joke to let me know it wasn’t a big deal as she tried desperately to get the moment back on track, to a time before I was likened to a white whale by a carful of strangers. All I could do was take a deep breath.
I looked down at myself. As if for the first time. And I finally saw what they saw.
To them, I was just another fat girl on a bridge.
But that was never how I saw myself. Sure, people had made fun of my weight before. It was Ben Dunn’s bread and butter. But, I never cared. Even then, I knew calling a girl fat was the go-to insult for every knuckle-dragging idiot who was just too dumb to think of something better. Being called fat never convinced me that I wasn’t still valuable. But that night on the bridge was different. The punch landed. And I hated them for it. I loathed how superior they got to be in that moment. They weren’t better than me, but because of The Fat, for that one fleeting moment they were. Being fat was a weakness. My only weakness. And I decided once and for all to sew that shit up. Tight.
My hands are in fists and I realize I haven’t taken a breath in however long I’ve been lost in my not-so-distant past.
The bright blue and red bandage wrapped around my finger stands out against the white and gray color scheme of our house. I wash, chop and dice, grab a bowl from the cupboard, throw in the salad and the chicken, add some balsamic vinegar and a dash of olive oil. A fork. A cloth napkin. I take them both to the dining room table that’s all decked out with its autumn tablescape: Gourds, pumpkins, and glass candlesticks trail down the center of the large wooden country table. I set everything down, find a place mat in the credenza, and set the salad on top of that. A trip to the wine cellar. A nice bottle of red. Pop. Pour myself a glass. Set that down on the corresponding coaster. Flip the napkin onto my lap.
I look at the bright red and blue bandage once more. I pull the napkin off my lap and walk down the hallway to the bathroom. I pull the bandage off and throw it in the bin next to the toilet. I rummage through the medicine cabinet and find the box of bandages that I bought at the store—regular, beige—and wrap one around my finger. I shake my head. Better. I close the medicine cabinet and walk back into the dining room. Flip the napkin onto my lap.
And I breathe. Home. This is who I am. There is no cruel time machine. I am not the Olivia that Ben Dunn made fun of anymore.
I’m not.
SWEDISH FISH
“The next step is one of those clip-on ties, you know?” I say, straightening Adam’s tie that Friday night as we get ready to welcome our four dinner guests: the chief of cardiology and Adam’s mentor, Dr. Jacob Peterman, and his new (fifth) wife, Nanette, Adam’s college roommate, Gregory Werner, and his wife, Leah.
“You wouldn’t last ten seconds with me in a clip-on tie,” Adam says.
“I could.”
“I can see it now: a huge gala event, everyone’s watching as we descend the sweeping staircase, you look stunning as usual…” Adam pauses, pretending to wave at a make-believe friend.
“This is a rather elaborate fantasy sequence,” I say.
“Oh, hello, Mr. President. Yes, I’d love to be photographed with you and the First Lady.” Adam poses for an imaginary photographer and slowly luxuriates in adjusting his clip-on tie. He waves to another fictional person as I shake my head. Then, tragedy strikes as the imaginary clip-on tie comes off in his hands. He looks around the room in horror, his hands shaking.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say.
In the ten years I’ve been married to Adam, I’ve reveled in my old life fading away as my new life with him took center stage. His world was filled with everything the old me fantasized about: fancy dinner parties, vacations to tropic locations that didn’t involve me making up excuses for why I needed to be fully clothed by the pool, hearing that sweet click as my airline seatbelt is buckled with no need to request a seatbelt extender.
“Ridiculous and right,” Adam says, popping out of his performance with ease.
The light from the chandelier reflects and shines. It casts a glow over him that shadows his muscular upper body, the thick blond tousled hair, and that unnervingly perfect face. A face I’ve never gotten used to. In the beginning, in all of the pictures I took of him—and they were legion—he had this weary “another picture?” look in every shot. I was positive the people turning up in our pictures were actors hired to portray us in the movie version of my life. It’s as if I had to keep convincing myself that this was real, that he was real. At the time, I hoped that Adam wanting to be with me meant I’d been accepted into this upper echelon. I now know it’s far more complicated than that. The doorbell rings and Adam goes to greet the guests.
Even when I fantasized about Ben Dunn all those years ago, it’s not like I really thought that we could have any kind of future together. My fantasies consisted of us gazing at each other from across a crowded room at some high school party—one of those teenage movie parties where the music is blaring and it’s crowded and the intriguing outsider takes a chance and decides to go, but ugh, these people are so lame and … now the most popular boy in school is walking toward me with this look of wonder in those pale blue eyes. Isn’t that how people in love talk about someone? As the bass dropped and the boy in a letterman jacket threw up into the ficus, Ben’s pale blue eyes licked every inch of my pubescent shit show of a body. Where has this girl been? Ben would think to himself. How have I lived such an empty existence, he’d muse, absently setting down his red Solo cup of flat, room-temperature beer next to a passed-out partygoer. But the fantasy would always stop there, because That Look so terrified me as to what would come next, what Ben was capable of—what we were capable of together—and my out-of-control feelings, that all I did was replay the beginning over and over. The lock of our eyes, the smile, the walk across the crowded party as everyone whispered and gawked—the feeling that I’d finally been seen. I’d wake from the daydream feeling jittery and giggly but unable to continue beyond those initial moments. Beyond where I felt safe. Beyond where I was in control.
When the weight started coming off, I vowed—with every pound shed—that I would leave Her behind with it: the Fat Me. But, the Fat Me had infected more than just my body, she’d created a sort of filter in my mind that everything had to pass through. There was the world outside and then there was the version of the world the Fat Me would let me experience. In losing all the weight, I was merely flicking the bee off my arm, but its stinger was still deeply embedded under my skin. Poisoning. Corrupting. Violating.
Realizing I couldn’t pluck the stinger from under my skin, I fashioned a rudimentary tourniquet and cut those parts of me off completely. It was just easier. By the time I met Adam, the weight was gone and so was the Fat Me: the forever alone, overly emotional, out-of-control embarrassment I’d been shackled to for far too long.
I became someone else. An Olivia Morten who was unimpeachable. An Olivia Morten that someone like Dr. Adam Farrell could love. Someone he would want to marry. And the Sweaty Marble who’d spent her youth invisible, unloved and untouched, who’d fought with and fantasized about Ben Dunn, disappeared. And the fantasies became a reality I could handle. A reality I could control. A reality I deserved.<
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And now, with one accidental run-in with Ben Dunn, I find myself unable to sleep, afraid that I’m one email notification that “so-and-so from high school has tagged a photo of you on Facebook” away from my entire new life crumbling down around me. I should feel amazing right now. I won. I WON. I used to dream of the moment Ben Dunn and I met up again and I looked amazing and he was, well, still him but you know, so sorrrrry for what he’d done and of course he’d be single and oh, look, SNIFF, I’m … sigh … I have to get home to my perfect husband and toodaloo, Ben. AND THAT SHIT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. I should be jumping for joy right now, high-fiving anyone and everyone, but instead I just feel exposed. Vulnerable. And there’s no one I can talk to about this because, being the brain surgeon I am, I have exorcised every single remnant of that high school version of me from my life.
Everyone in that coffeehouse just thought two people were chatting in line. No one knows who I was. No big deal. I am alone with the weight of what happened yesterday. And it is killing me.
I force myself out of my reverie and walk, head high, into the dining room to join our guests. Jacob is pouring a glass of wine. Nanette wraps her arms around him as if the world is terrifying. Shaking off the remnants of my run-in with Ben Dunn, I loop my arm through Adam’s. He pulls me in close and we watch as Nanette whispers something in Jacob’s ear that I doubt he can make out since her baby voice can only be heard by dogs. Speaking of …
“If Nanette waxes rhapsodic about that gargoyle of a dog like it’s her child, I can’t be held accountable for my actions,” I whisper. Adam leans in and kisses me.
“Sugar can only eat organic chicken, Liv, you know that,” he says.
“Sugar can only go to a doggie daycare with an inside option because of her complexion,” I say, mimicking Nanette’s breathy little-girl voice.
“Aww, it’s the American dream: penniless salesperson marries man who’s old enough to be her father and spends her days bossing around the staff his last wife hired. I’m getting misty eyed.” Adam wipes away an imaginary tear.
“Hopefully the twinkly lights from the chandelier will keep her distracted,” I say. Adam stifles a laugh as we finally walk over to join the rest of the party. Leah is seated and checking her phone as Gregory mixes himself a vodka tonic at the bar cart.
I have to focus. Ben Dunn. I have to focus. Sweaty Marble. FOCUS. A thouuuuusand pouuuuunds. I take a breath. A long one. I’m here now. Ben is probably frolicking around South Pasadena with his adorable children and I’m here expanding in my lovely home every second. I wonder if my guests can see it. Smell it on me. The fear. No. NO.
I am still the same Olivia Morten I was last week. I am not invisible. I am not that Sweaty Marble. I am not the Fat Me. Another breath.
“You’ve outdone yourself again, Olivia,” Jacob booms.
“It’s my pleasure,” I say.
“I keep telling Adam, you hold on to this one.” Jacob slams Adam on the back with a hearty pat. “Don’t make the same mistakes I have.”
There is a chill as we all try to act like Nanette isn’t the embodiment of Jacob’s multitude of mistakes. Frozen smiles. An ice cube is dropped into the bottom of a glass.
“Olivia is the best thing that ever happened to me. I’ve come to terms with the fact that you all tolerate me simply because of her.”
“And her coq au vin,” Jacob adds.
“And her coq au vin,” Adam repeats. I stand there. Smiling. “I’m not an idiot, Jacob. Or at least I’m not an idiot about this,” Adam says, cutting through the tension.
“Not an idiot about this,” Jacob repeats with a hearty laugh.
“Speaking of the coq au vin, I’d better check on it,” I say with a polite smile. Jacob gives me a regal sweeping wave and I take this to mean I am dismissed.
“Right behind you,” Leah says, joining me in the kitchen. “It smells amazing.”
Leah is a makeup artist with a set of one-year-old twins and nowhere near the body you’d think she’d have because of this. Before I met Leah, Adam and Gregory would talk about her as if she were this incredibly smart, hilarious paragon of empathy who OH MY GOD was truly remarkable. And then I met her and realized that first and foremost, Leah was hot, thus making every excitedly listed character trait she possessed quadruple in magnitude. When a man says you’re going to “really be surprised” by a new woman he’s dating, he means that for someone so hot they’re not a complete dipshit. And even then, it’s debatable.
What I came to realize once the weight came off and I was allowed off the Island of Misfit Toys, was that women who look like Leah are so cherished by society that every nuance of their personality is highlighted and celebrated. Leah’s intelligence, wit, and level of coolness in a woman who looked like I used to would make her a “fun work colleague” or “a hilarious sexless friend in whom I confide about my love life.” But put those same characteristics in a super hot girl and you now have men falling all over themselves to crown her Time’s Person of the Year.
In the beginning, I thought Leah knew that her attributes were being amplified because of her beauty, but now I know that’s not the case. She 100 percent thinks that given the opportunity she could lay out how outer space works simply because she saw half a TED Talk. But, she’s a great orderer in restaurants, is unreservedly generous, and a great gossip, which I find are truly lovely characteristics for anyone to have, great beauty or no. Leah and Gregory met through friends. I imagine the introduction was something like, “Hey, he’s rich and has a summer house in Montecito and she’s a hot makeup artist who was a yoga instructor and can still put her legs behind her head.” Aaaaand cue Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” But, she’s married to my husband’s best friend, so here we are.
Nanette comes into the kitchen with a glass of wine. Blond shiny hair, huge blue eyes, and a perfect figure that’s both athletic and slim, Nanette Peterman is who the rest of us can blame for why the peasant top will never go out of style. We don’t know Nanette that well, as her romance with Jacob was a bit of a whirlwind. I rely on this piece of information to ease my mind when I get nervous that Nanette Peterman is most likely the dumbest person I’ve ever met—and in Los Angeles that’s saying something. When we were first introduced I asked her what her interests were and she answered, “I like outside.” I politely pressed her thinking I’d misunderstood. No, not the outdoors. No, not being outside. I LIKE OUTSIDE. Then I asked what she did with her days. Vacant stare. Okay. What are you passionate about? At that question she shook her head like some kind of cartoon character. Finally, in desperation, I asked again what her interests were. And I swear to God it must have been half an hour before she repeated, “I like outside.” And “I like outside” was her knocking one out of the park. Like she went home that night and thought to herself, Yeah, you DO like outside, Nanette. Nice one. When she and Jacob got married earlier this year, it sent a shiver down my spine. Guess I would have to learn to like outside, too.
I don’t know if it’s intentional that all my friends have a certain level of beauty. I’m thinking it’s pretty intentional given my history. Having spent decades going unseen, I’m pretty sure I now populate my life with those who’ve never experienced such anonymity. I struggle to make this into something other than the shallow fantasy of a fat teenager, but if it walks like a duck …
“Caroline Lang,” Nanette announces with the same inflection that makes everything she says sound like a question.
“What?” I ask, thinking I’ve misheard her embryonic peeps.
“The movie star. Style icon. Caroline Lang,” Nanette says.
“She’s a client,” I say, taking a gulp of wine. “I’ll pass along your—”
“No. Caroline Lang.” I wait. Oh my god. “She’s in your living room right now.” I quickly set down my wineglass. “And she is just as elegant as I wished she’d be.”
Why is Caroline Lang in my house? Shit. Something’s wrong. I bark at Leah to watch the coq au vin and that I’ll be r
ight back. I push through the kitchen door and out into the living room where Adam, Jacob, and Gregory are crowding around the one and only Caroline Lang.
Caroline Lang is my top client. She is one of the biggest movie stars in the world and we’ve been together since the beginning. I took her from a fresh-faced twentysomething to box office juggernaut, and in return, she has made me one of the most sought-after publicists in Hollywood.
“I apologize for bursting in on you,” she says, smiling as Adam hands her a glass of champagne.
“Caroline, you know Adam.”
“Oh, sure.” They give each other a friendly hug.
“This is Dr. Jacob Peterman and this is Mr. Gregory Werner.” Caroline lets her gaze settle on each man as he is introduced. “This is Caroline Lang.” Caroline smiles as they stare.
“Will you be joining us for dinner?” Adam asks.
“Oh. Actually I was … I need to speak with Olivia,” Caroline says to me.
“We’ve got this, Liv. You can—” Adam eyes the den just down the hallway. “Take all the time you need.” I notice that Leah and Nanette are watching the proceedings from the cracked-open kitchen door. I have to collect myself. Whatever existential pandemonium I’ve been swept up in has to disappear. STAT. I am Olivia Morten. I shake my head. The little round Sweaty Marble I was in high school rolls through my brain. No, not THAT Olivia Morten. I smooth my dress down over my body. This body. THIS OLIVIA MORTEN.
“We can speak privately through here,” I say, guiding Caroline down the hallway toward the den. I push the Sweaty Marble Olivia Morten out of my head and hope she takes Ben Dunn with her. I open the door to the den and Caroline walks in first.