by Jana Casale
CHAPTER 44
Period
“When a woman has PMS, that’s when she’s most honest. It isn’t a bad thing like everyone says. Women get mean ’cause they should be mean.” Leda had said this a few times, although the exact occasions she couldn’t remember. She believed it to be true, but in the days leading up to her period she’d usually feel so depressed that anything as concrete as this didn’t seem viable. What was honest? What was mean? She didn’t know and didn’t care. What she cared about was the end of the world that was ticking in her mind, the obnoxious existence of her husband, and every little misgiving throughout the day. Normally during this time she’d swear at people in traffic and unapologetically eat ice cream. She’d say things like “If men had cramps, they’d sell Vicodin over the counter,” or “Let’s go out for ice cream.” This was not a time to go bathing suit shopping. She knew this with every fiber of her being.
“You never go swimming,” Annabelle said as she sat at the dining room table eating a Kit Kat bar.
“What do you mean? I love to swim.”
“No you don’t. When we go to the beach you just sit on a beach chair and read. You don’t like wearing a bathing suit ’cause you think you look bad.”
Leda hadn’t given any thought to it, but just as her daughter said it she realized it was true. She’d not gone swimming for years. They’d taken Annabelle to the beach continuously as a toddler, but Leda gained a little weight one winter, and after being unable to pull up her floral one-piece from the year before, she decided to put on a sundress and keep out of the water. She ordered a bathing suit off of Amazon at one point a couple of summers later but was woefully disappointed by it. After that she never went swimming again. When exactly she had expressed to her daughter her feelings about her love handles and the soft mess that was the back of her thighs she couldn’t be sure, but hearing her little girl say it out loud made her feel loathsomely transparent.
“I wear bathing suits,” she feebly protested.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, and we’re going to the beach this weekend, and I’m going to swim.”
That night Leda had John stay home with Annabelle so that she could go shopping for a bathing suit. In her mind she associated it with righting a wrong that she’d done; ending a perpetuation of misery in her family line, one she refused to pass along to her daughter. She remembered her mom never wearing shorts because she believed she had ugly knees. Another time, her mom had cried when she hadn’t been able to fit into a gown for a benefit she was attending. Leda was little at the time, but she could vividly remember sitting beside her mom on the bed and trying to comfort her. What she said or even felt was less memorable than what she saw: her mom huddled in an evening gown that wouldn’t zip up, crying and wiping her eyes. Leda had worked to protect her daughter from these kinds of images of herself, and yet without meaning to, she’d given her daughter: herself huddled in a sundress reading under an umbrella in the burning heat.
When Leda got to the mall, a man was furiously parallel parking in one of the few parallel parking spots in the lot. Surely this late on a Tuesday there were plenty of non–parallel parking spots. But nevertheless he moved the car back with ease and speed in one swooping motion. How can a man get so much validation from parallel parking? Who are you all? she thought as she saw him get out and check to be sure the car was between the lines.
There wasn’t a good place to shop for a bathing suit for women who were neither nineteen nor ninety. Everything either was made of a set of strings tied together or had a small tent sewed around it. And so this in-between Leda subsisted in of avoiding sexiness and sexlessness led her to the swimsuit section of Lord & Taylor. She went over to a rack of one-pieces and started wading through the mess. What size could I even possibly be? She pulled off whatever largest size she could that wouldn’t make her feel bad about herself. At one time in her life she’d been a size 6. What a wonderful number that was. It was light and airy. It tapped beach balls and drank sexy-sounding cocktails while jogging. Never has a woman felt sorry to casually banter about the fact that she is a size 6—unless of course she’s a model, and then it’s shameful and wrong, or she’s incredibly thin and all her thin friends who are 0’s or 00’s might judge her about a slice of pizza she publicly enjoyed that one time—actually, there were many scenarios in which a woman could be upset about being a size 6. Leda’s size 6 period was short-lived in the scheme of her life, and she sadly and reluctantly buoyed in a size 8/10 period for many years after that. Being a size 8/10 is only contextually enjoyable. After having been a 6, 8 was mortifying, but once she slipped into the size 10 category (and, let’s not kid ourselves, the occasional 12), the size 8 seemed about the equivalent of Kate Moss on a heroin binge. Leda remembered herself literally dancing in a dressing room as she was able to squeeze into a size 8 pair of jeans that were incredibly unflattering but were manageably zipped up. I’m like Jesus, she thought as she took them off and folded them up to be left aside, as there was no way to physically walk around in them. Nowadays Leda was rarely if ever able to fit into an 8 (although god knows that’s the size she would have said she was if she were in the imaginary lineup of women’s judgments where one has to publicly declare one’s weight, clothing size, and blow job abilities: “145, size 8, and head goddess”). Now she was usually a solid 12/14 with the occasional 16 in the mix. None of these numbers were sexy or celebratory in any way. She hid them from herself, and the world, as she walked around in her daily life living and doing so many extraordinary things. She was alive and beautiful and thriving and hating herself every minute of it.
“Looking for something special?” a sales associate with an excited face said.
“Oh, no, just looking.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m good for now, thanks.”
“Okay, well, my name is Karen; let me know if you need anything.”
Leave me alone, Karen. I’ll kill you, so help me god, she thought. Unfortunately, only minutes later Leda realized that she did in fact need help and Karen was the only person around.
“Could I try these on?”
“Of course! Right this way. What’s your name?”
“Leda.”
“Lisa?”
“Leda.”
“Lisa?”
“Yes.”
Karen unlocked a fitting room and began arranging all of the swimsuits in a tight fanned-out pattern on a hanging rack.
“There you go, Lisa. And if you need a different size or style or anything just let me know.”
“Thanks so much!” I hope you die now.
Leda locked the fitting room door and started to sort through the array of torture before her. She took off her pants and then top, all the while bracing herself for how naked she’d have to be in fluorescent lighting in mere seconds. Cellulite isn’t fatal, she told herself while managing with all her physical might not to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror as she transitioned from clothed to sausaged in waterproof spandex.
The first one she tried on was simple and black and had a special system built in for squeezing intestines together to give the appearance that your body was mostly made up of spine and eternal youth.
“Oh my god,” she said out loud as she looked at her reflection. She couldn’t help but laugh. Her thighs looked wide and ripply, her stomach, despite its squished intestines, still showed visibly through the suit, her belly button proudly outlined like some kind of federal lobbyist for the U.S. obesity epidemic.
She started to pull off the suit when she heard Karen wildly knocking on the door. “Lisa? How’s it going in there, Lisa?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay, will do.” For the love of god, Karen, leave me the hell alone.
The next suit was dotted and patterned. Broken televis
ion set, she thought, and took it off.
Then was one with frills on the front. Obese bird.
One that was ruched and eggplant. Obese folded eggplant.
“Lisa, how are the sizes working for you?”
“Fine.” I’ll kill you, Karen. I kill you right now, so help me god.
Leda tried on three more, each one worse than the last. Slowly and violently her self-worth began to dissipate with each suit. Who she was when she’d walked in, fully clothed and preciously alive, was no longer. Now she was sacks of fat under flowers and pleats. She was absolutely nothing else, not someone’s mother or a person who’d once written a poem that had made her friend cry, or the breathing living moving soul as human as the day was long. How is it that John wants to have sex with me ever? she thought. She started to pull off a hot pink plunging-neckline suit but halfway through couldn’t find the strength to continue, so she sat down on the little wall bench that was covered in discarded, inside-out suits. Slouched and half naked, she looked at her reflection. Her thighs were overhanging the bench, and her stomach was stuck out. Somewhere she’d once heard a woman describe the determinant of being fat as your stomach sticking out farther than your breasts. She had no memory of this woman or in what context she’d said it, but even so she felt strongly that her stomach, even when it was at its absolute worst, should not stick out farther than her breasts. Looking at herself in the mirror now, she tried to determine if her stomach fell beyond her nipple line, but she knew even if it didn’t it didn’t matter. She was disgusting, fat, worthless. How dare you even live. And without meaning to, she began to cry—not just cry, but sob, long, low, soulful tears. She pinched her arm fat and focused in on stretch marks that peeked out the edge of the bathing suit. You gross cunt.
“Lisa? Lisa? Is everything okay in there, Lisa?”
“I’m fine!” She didn’t really shout the response, but even so her tone was audibly inappropriate.
“Oh, okay, just let me know if you need me,” Karen said.
“Okay, thanks!”
Motivated by her pure hatred for Karen and little else, Leda willed herself to stop crying, stand up, and try on yet another bathing suit. This one had straps over the back and in some complicated crisscross pattern. She stepped in and got one arm through and pushed her other arm through what she thought was the opening, only to realize it wasn’t the opening at all but one of the straps. She tried to pull her arm free but couldn’t get it, so she tried to unhook the other arm to start again, only to pull the other arm through one of the crisscross straps as well. Son of a bitch. She tried to get both arms free at once, but they were both pressed so tightly against her body that she couldn’t. She pulled and squirmed and slowly started to panic. Now her reflection looked like a woman tied into a bathing suit, her skin bright red from the straps digging in and her face sorrowful and exhausted. Well, I guess this is just my life now, living like this in this suit. After a few more failed attempts Leda knew what had to be done. There was no other option.
“Karen,” she called out. “Karen! I need help.”
“Lisa?”
“Yes, it’s Lisa. I’m stuck in a bathing suit. Can you unlock the door and help me?”
“Of course, Lisa. Hang on!”
Moments later Karen had freed Leda from her strap nightmare. Leda got dressed as quickly as was possible. She didn’t want to leave the store empty-handed, though, to explain to her daughter why she yet again was unable to conquer her saddlebags and love handles, so she grabbed that first black swimsuit, paid for it, and nearly ran to her car.
On the way home she turned the radio up loud. She promised herself all kinds of things about eating salad and going for walks in the evening. Maybe I’ll try yoga, she thought, a vague ambition she turned to in times of fat-related crisis. She envisioned a more linear self walking through the rest of her life. Her daughter by her side as she lifted weights and juiced. The image as it was bothered her, though. She didn’t want her daughter by her side like that. She didn’t want that at all. She felt like crying, and she felt like screaming. Her whole life and the fat pinching and hating her stomach. Dieting at twelve years old. Skipping cake at her own birthday party and not wearing bathing suits, summer after summer sitting on a beach in the blistering heat. Until this moment she thought that hating her body was vanity, and that it wasn’t important, and was a silly girl thing, something she blamed herself over and felt ashamed of, but now she felt that to hate her body, to hate her body, was not a small thing at all. Her body was what kept her breathing, and living and beating on through each day. It was hers more so than all else in the world. To hate it wasn’t vanity. And it wasn’t a silly girl thing. It was sick, and it was devastating. Will it never end? she thought. Will I be an old lady, my feet pushed under a couch to hold me down so I can do sit-ups? And she knew that the answer was yes. And so she started to feel that she might vomit. She pulled the car over to the side of the road and leaned out; the cool night air hit her hard, but it wasn’t refreshing. She retched, but she didn’t throw up. Minutes later she’d have to get herself together. Minutes later she knew she’d be driving home.
When she got to her block she didn’t want to pull up to the house. She didn’t want to see her Annabelle. She didn’t want to face her smallness and faith and the still-wild potential of her youth, so she drove around for nearly an hour. Around and around her block, until she was sure that when she went inside her daughter would be asleep.
When she did finally go home, she didn’t tell John about the bathing suits or crying in the fitting room or the car ride home. She knew he wouldn’t understand. He’d pretend to and say she was beautiful, and in a way that meant something, but in many ways it did not. She took a shower and brushed her teeth and on her way to her bedroom she checked in on Annabelle, who was so covered by her comforter that Leda could hardly make out her shape in the darkness, but even so she stood there and stared at her for a lot longer than usual.
The next day Leda got her period. They didn’t make it to the beach that weekend, nor the next, and her swimsuit was left folded, creased, forgotten and never forgotten, like the feeling of watching your mother crying in an evening gown or the ever-present cycle of the moon. Like life and fatness and trying to find the free will to survive it all.
CHAPTER 45
School Play
Annabelle was in her first school play. It was an original production about a forest full of animals who must work together to survive the winter. Annabelle’s role was small, as were all the roles, to ensure that every child received at least one line. Leda had stayed up late the night before finishing her costume, which was meant to be, as the directions explained: “An abstract idea of a woodland creature. We want our animals to all look different but be indistinguishable as to what animal they actually are.”
“Can I be a raccoon?” Annabelle said after her mom read the directions aloud.
“No, sweetie, but you can be an abstract of a raccoon.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have no idea.”
In the end it meant a bushy gray tail of fake fur, a headband of brown cat ears, and face makeup that looked enough like a raccoon but not too much like a raccoon.
John came home from work early so that they could all drive to the school together and be sure to get a good seat up front.
“We’ll be too early. No one will be there yet,” Annabelle said, but Leda didn’t care. She was excited for this in a way that was irrational in any other context apart from believing that her child was the greatest human who ever existed and that everything she did was revelatory and eternally impressive.
“I want to be sure we have good enough seats so I can get a video of your line,” Leda said.
They got their seats up front, and Annabelle headed off with her teacher and the other two kids whose parents were clearly just as overzealous.
John a
nd she waited and chatted a bit about work and about what to do over the weekend. Leda felt nervous with anticipation, though she had no worry of whether her daughter would be stellar as an abstract woodland creature. She thought back to the few times she’d been in school plays herself. It was always a lot of fun, and there was a certain thrill in performance that was rarely rivaled in life. She felt in a sense the same way now as she had those times and wondered if Annabelle was feeling the same way too. The thought of it coupled with the nervousness sent a chill up her back, and she shook in her seat a bit and smiled.
I’m happy, she thought.
The crowd started to fill up the “auditorium” (school gym with a stage at the end of it and rows of folding chairs), and Leda thought she ought to run to the bathroom quickly before the show started.
“I’ll be right back,” she said to John. “Don’t let anyone take my seat.”
On her way back from the bathroom a man in a suit, presumably a father also on his way to the auditorium, walked alongside her. She smiled politely when he glanced over at her, and although they were going to the same place, and had acknowledged each other’s presence, it was important to keep a socially acceptable distance, so Leda kept pace so as to not be too close or too in time to his step. When they got to the “auditorium,” the door was closed and a teacher’s aide was standing to guard it.
“Sorry, would you guys mind going around back? Some of the students enter the show from here, and we want to keep the doors closed until their cues.”
Leda and the man looked over at each other briefly before agreeing and heading off in the direction that they were meant to go.
“I didn’t know this show was so fancy,” the man said, and Leda laughed politely and nodded.
“Around back” turned out to mean that they’d actually have to exit the building and reenter at a door at the rear of the gym. They pushed open the door to the vestibule, but when they got to the exit door it was locked.