But right now, my face was frozen into what I hoped was a comforting smile. The left side of my mouth was twitching, and my eyes felt weird and hot. It was hard to remember how to breathe, and when I figured it out, the hospital air tasted stale and flat.
Outside the room, there was bustle and clatter, voices and squeaking shoes. In here, though . . . silence except for the wheeze of Emerson’s breathing and the beeping of the monitors. Yes, yes, the monitors. Look at that. HR 133, O2 87%, BP 183/99.
I’m not a doctor, but I knew those numbers weren’t good. Even if they were, the evidence was in the patient.
I wasn’t even sure it was Emerson. That was her face—sort of. Hard to recognize amid the tubes and wires and the second chin so big it rested on her chest . . . and God, the mountains, the acres of flesh. When . . . how had she become so huge? I didn’t understand how it could have happened in such a short time. But it wasn’t short, was it? We’d gone away for the weekend maybe seven years ago, and we saw each other again at Georgia’s wedding almost six years ago, and yes, she’d always been the biggest one of us, but this . . . I never expected this.
Thank God that’s not me, I thought, and guilt made my fake smile stretch even more. Do something, idiot! my brain commanded, so I ran a hand through my hair, snaring my pinkie. I glanced at Georgia, who was blinking rapidly. No fake smile for her, just her brows knit together as she tried to take in what we were seeing.
Why hadn’t we known Emerson was this far gone? Why hadn’t I reached out more? My heart was galloping in my chest, and tears burned in my eyes.
Emerson appeared to be sleeping, her eyes closed. Apparently, she was exhausted from greeting us, and from . . . existing.
“Promise,” wheezed Emerson.
I jumped. Okay, she was awake, then. Her eyes were swollen into slits, but I could see her look at me first, then Georgia. In her hand she clutched an envelope, but clearly she was too weak to lift her arm to hand it to us. Or her arm was too heavy. Or both.
“Promise you’ll . . . do it,” she whispered.
“Uh . . . yeah,” I answered, still too stunned to know what I was really agreeing to. “You bet. Of course we will. We’ll do it with you. When you get better. Emerson, you know you’ll get better. You will. You’re in the hospital, they’re taking great care of you, you’re not going to . . . you know! Right? Right, Georgia?”
Cutting a glance at Georgia, I saw she was still frozen. A quick elbow to her side solved that.
I heard her force a swallow. Then she said in a near whisper, “Yes. Exactly. I was just thinking the same thing. You . . . you’ll be fine.” She paused, and I heard her take a deep breath. “I’m quite, quite sure.”
For a former lawyer, Georgia’s lying ability sucked.
I took a step closer to the bed and patted where I thought Emerson’s foot would be under the covers, hoping it didn’t hurt. The blanket and sheet had pulled to the side, as if they weren’t big enough to cover her, revealing her knee, the elephantine thigh, the hugely muscled calf—muscled from carrying her body. Her skin was red and stretched so tight it looked like it might burst with the slightest touch, like an overfilled balloon.
Jesus.
My heart twisted. Every time we’d seen each other—every single time since we met—the three of us had talked about how this was a new chance to do what we’d all sworn we’d do before.
Lose weight.
Because all three of us had been fat/heavy/overweight/metabolically challenged/curvy/big all our lives.
And here we were. Still not skinny. But my God, the stakes were life and death now.
I was fat—let’s just call it what it is—forever relegated to Lane Bryant and the plus-sized corners of department stores. Georgia, while currently on the smaller side of things, had yo-yoed so often that the two of us fantasized about the village we could’ve populated based on our cumulatively lost body mass alone.
But Georgia and I had never been like this.
The three of us had met at fat camp—pardon me, at Camp Copperbrook, an Intensive Residential Nutrition and Exercise Program for Girls. All of us had been eighteen, all heading for college, hoping this summer would be the one when we could Lose That Weight for Good and Really Start Living. Emerson and Georgia had been camp regulars; I only got to go that one time after begging, whining and guilt-tripping my parents.
In six weeks, I lost fourteen pounds and gained two friends. Georgia and I stayed close—we were both from New York, had gone to colleges an hour apart and visited each other at least a couple times a semester. When she went to Yale Law, I’d go to Connecticut to see her, and she’d come down to spend the odd weekend with me at my parents’ house.
But Emerson was from Delaware. She was super close to her mom and didn’t like to travel. I think Georgia and I had seen her five times in the sixteen years since camp.
But I had tried with Emerson. Just last year, I’d tried to organize a girls’ weekend for the three of us. Emerson was the one who canceled at the last minute.
Maybe it was because of this. Her size.
Aside from Facebook occasionally alerting me to the fact that Emerson had posted a picture of flowers or kittens to her page, it was fair to say that the adult version—this version—of Emerson Duval was a stranger to me. It was shocking to see what had happened in five years. She’d always had the most weight to lose, but still . . .
Please, God, I prayed. Please, Frankie. Don’t let this be the end.
Then again, Frankie had left me, too.
Emerson seemed to have fallen asleep.
From the hallway, we could hear someone giving a tour. “This is one of our bariatric rooms, specially designed to fit the super-morbidly-obese patient. Our walls are reinforced with steel plates to support the grab bars for patients up to a thousand pounds”—a thousand pounds—“and our toilets allow extra room for aides to assist the patients. The doorway is bigger, as you can see, and—”
Georgia flew over to the door. “Do you mind?” she hissed. “There’s a human being in here.” She closed the door, and dashed a hand across her eyes.
“Thank you,” wheezed Emerson, her eyes still closed.
My mouth started to quiver. She didn’t sound good. Not at all. That squeak in her lungs, her labored breathing . . .
Emerson lifted her hand again, her arm flopping back to the bed. Right, right. The envelope.
“You’re going to be fine,” Georgia said, her voice steadying me. “You’re where you need to be right now. But sure, if it makes you feel better, we’ll take it.” She stepped closer to the bed, took the envelope out of Emerson’s hand, glanced at it, swallowed, and held it up for me to see.
To be opened after my funeral had been written across the front.
A sob popped out of me. “You’re not . . . dying, Emerson,” I managed to say. “You’re just . . . you just need help.”
“You’re going to get better,” Georgia said, her voice firmer now that she seemed to have gotten over her initial shock. “You have to, Emerson. You’re wonderful and funny and kind, and we love you.”
Tears were streaming down my face. I reached for Emerson’s hand, which was cold and clammy, and gave it a squeeze. “We do,” I managed. “You hang in there, Emerson. You can get better.”
Emerson smiled a little, eyes still closed.
Just then, the door burst open again. “Bath time!” announced a nurse, one who was carrying a good sixty-five extra pounds herself. (Estimating weight is one of the superpowers of the fat.) “Ladies, if you don’t mind.” She gave Emerson the once-over and sighed. “Why do they expect me to do this alone?” She stuck her head out in the hall. “I’m gonna need an assist in here!”
“Lovely,” Georgia muttered. She went over to Emerson’s head and patted her shoulder. “Don’t give up, okay? We love you.”
Emerson opened h
er eyes. “I love you both,” she whispered.
Georgia’s face scrunched.
I wiped my eyes and kissed Emerson on the forehead. Her cheeks were bright red—high blood pressure. “Bye,” I whispered, my throat clenched tight. “See you soon.” Please, God. Please, Frankie. “Love you,” I added, in case my deities weren’t going to come through.
The nurse bared her teeth at us in what was clearly not a sincere smile.
As we were walking to the elevators, a doctor called out. “Excuse me? Are you Ms. Duval’s friends?”
We stopped. “Yes,” Georgia said.
“I’m glad I caught you. I’m Dr. Hughes.” He was a tall, lean man with a kind face, not much older than we were. “Emerson gave me permission to update you. I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” I said.
“I’m sure you can tell your friend isn’t doing well.”
“We can see that,” Georgia said.
Tears welled in my eyes once more. I wiped them away, noticing that my hands were shaking.
“You may want to stay close,” he said. “She’s had a blood clot travel from her legs to her lung, which is why she’s having trouble breathing. She’s hypertensive, has fluid around her heart, lymphedema . . . that’s what causes the swelling. Her organs are shutting down.”
Oh, sweet Jesus.
“Is she dying?” Georgia asked.
He looked at her, his expression sad. “My best professional guess is yes.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I asked, hearing the terror in my voice.
“I think at this point, Emerson has exhausted her options,” he said.
“Well, what options do you have?” I asked. “Obviously, she’s very sick. You’re the doctor. Help her.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” he said. “But . . . well, when a person has been this overweight for this long, the damage has been done, and we can’t always reverse it.”
Georgia and I looked at each other. My throat was so tight I couldn’t speak.
She turned back to the doctor. “How long do you think she has?”
“A day or two. I’m sorry. She wanted you to be prepared.” He gave us a sad, almost apologetic look, then turned to leave. We watched him until he got to the end of the hall and disappeared around a corner.
Georgia was silent in the elevator, silent as we walked to the car.
Me, I was bawling.
* * *
• • •
We’ve all seen the shows—thank you, TLC—and let’s be honest. We watch them to make ourselves feel better. Sure, I was fat, but not six-hundred-pounds fat! I wasn’t having KFC fed to me through my bedroom window, was I? I didn’t need the firefighters to chainsaw around the front door so I could fit through, didn’t need a team of eight to drag me out of the house on a sheet. And I always ate healthy food while watching that show. No ice cream during that one, no sir. Ice cream was for The Walking Dead (another show that made me feel good about my appearance).
But seeing it—seeing Emerson—in person was different. There was no feeling good now.
“You okay to drive?” Georgia asked as we sat in my car.
I blew my nose for the tenth time and nodded. Took a few deep breaths. Started the car and left the parking lot.
“Okay,” Georgia said, tapping her phone as I merged onto the highway. “I just booked us a room at the Marriott and e-mailed work to let them know I’ll be here a few days. You want to call your mom?”
I did, and asked my mother to cover my clients for the next couple of days. After all, I’d learned to cook at her side. “Of course I’ll do it,” Mom said, always glad to be needed. “How’s your friend? Getting better?” There was the familiar edge of worry in her voice.
“I hope so,” I lied. Mom didn’t handle bad news well. “Anyway, the list of meals is on my computer. Dante can help. He owes me.” Until my little brother had gotten married six months ago, I’d fed him at least three times a week for free. “And be super careful with the Fosters, okay? The father has a shellfish allergy.”
I was a personal chef, the kind who delivered meals to people too busy to cook, or people who didn’t like cooking. Living in the wealthy little Westchester County burg of Cambry-on-Hudson was a godsend; so many people here worked in Manhattan and appreciated having a delicious meal waiting for them. A lot of stay-at-home moms used me, too, for those nights when they needed a little break.
I wondered how Emerson had managed to get her food. From someone like me? God! The image of her mountainous body . . . I couldn’t get it out of my head.
Georgia kept tapping her phone. “How does she—never mind.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Looking up some of the stuff the doctor said. God. Listen to this. The cardiovascular and pulmonary systems aren’t equipped to support all that weight. Edema . . . that’s swelling, no wonder her skin is so tight. Her skin is literally an open wound, leaking out all that fluid.”
I bit my lip, trying not to cry since I was driving.
Georgia continued reading from her phone. “Acute shortness of breath . . . yep, she’s got that. Diabetes. Kidney failure. Cardiopulmonary failure.” She shoved her phone back into her bag and looked out the window. “We need to lose weight.”
“Okay, for one, Georgia, I don’t think you need to lose anything. You look almost thin.”
“I think I might have an ulcer.”
Lucky, I almost said before her words really sank in. “Shit! Are you kidding? I thought you were just eating better! You’d better see a doctor.” My voice shook. “I mean, sure, you and I have our food issues, but we’re not like Emerson. Why didn’t she—” My voice broke. “I wish I’d known.”
“Don’t cry. You’re driving. You want me to?”
“I’m good.”
We were quiet for a minute, then Georgia said, “I’ve never wanted chocolate cake more in my entire life,” and then we were sputtering with horrified laughter.
It was our story, after all, the story of so many fat people. Eat those emotions.
“What’s in the envelope?” I asked.
“We’re not looking at it right now,” Georgia said. “I hope we never do. Ever.”
“Me too.”
“If she pulls through, we can just give it back to her. Not ‘if.’ When. When she gets better.”
“She has plenty of money, right? From her parents? She can afford the best treatment there is.” I swallowed. “And we’ll be there for her. We’ll do better.” I was awash in guilt, the curse of the Catholics. “We know what she’s going through.”
“No, we don’t, Marley. We’re just . . . normal fat.”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look like you could shop at J.Crew.” I hoped I didn’t sound jealous.
“Please. Their extra-large is really a small.”
“Banana Republic, then.”
“Maybe.” Georgia turned to look out her window as we pulled up to the hotel she’d found for us. “Emerson will get better,” she said, almost to herself.
* * *
• • •
Emerson did not get better.
She took a turn for the worse the next day, slipped out of consciousness. Georgia and I wept at her side, begging her to hang in there.
At 3:07 p.m., Emerson Duval died, leaving us with our envelope. One slim envelope, to be opened after her funeral.
CHAPTER 3
Georgia
Here’s something you don’t think about every day: It’s hard to bury someone as big as Emerson.
We had to get a special casket. A truck was needed to get her from the hospital to the funeral home, and from the funeral home to the cemetery, because a regular hearse couldn’t accommodate her. We had to arrange for
a crane to lower her into the grave, next to her beloved mother. We also had to book eight firefighters who would get the casket from the truck to the graveside. I wondered if some of them were the same ones who’d had to drag Emerson out of the house on a blanket to get her into the specially outfitted ambulance when she went to the hospital last week.
How did she get like this? Why hadn’t she asked us for help? In the two days that followed Emerson’s death, every time we learned some new, tragically sad fact about Emerson’s life, it was all I could do not to sob. Marley’s eyes leaked constantly. My stomach ached like a hot poker was sticking into it. On the upside, I wasn’t hungry.
The day of her funeral started with the wake Marley and I had organized. When we arrived at the funeral home, Emerson’s hatchet-faced caretaker, her cousin Ruth, was already there. The first thing she said to us, in lieu of any kind of greeting, was, “I see the boyfriend didn’t show.” She then shook her head disapprovingly. “That Mica, he was the one who kept bringing her food.” Ruth glanced back at the enormous casket, the one the funeral director had diplomatically called the Goliath. Ruth seemed to be getting a lot of malicious satisfaction out of Emerson’s death. “Not that she had to eat it, mind you. Look at me. I’ve never weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Never had trouble with moderation. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t like sweets. My cousin, she was weak. It was disgusting, watching how much she’d put away. Mica just sat on her bed, watching her. It was perverted.”
“But you kept cashing her checks, I’m guessing,” I said. Ruth hadn’t been Emerson’s caretaker out of the goodness of her heart.
“Someone had to look after her,” she said, oblivious to the tone of my comment. “You know how hard it is to bathe a giant like that? How you have to lift up her stomach to dry underneath? That’s not easy, you know. All she did was eat and eat and eat. She had no self-control. None.”
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