Teenage Waistland

by Lynn Biederman

  29

  Lost Now, Loved Forever

  Sunday, August 9, 2009

  East (−19 lbs); Char (−9 lbs)

  Jen’s plot is on a quiet hillside overlooking a mist-filled valley. There are only a few gravestones nearby. Inscribed on one is JANE REDDING, 1915–2005, and then below that, LOST NOW, LOVED FOREVER. The stone next to it reads SAMUEL REDDING, 1919–2003, CHERISHED HUSBAND, FATHER, SON, GRANDFATHER.

  My dad isn’t buried near anyone we know. No trees or hillsides or valleys, just long rows of graves stacked tightly together as far as you can see. That’s about all I can remember of his final resting place—Mom never went to visit him and I was always too afraid to ask her to take me. I can barely even remember the funeral. Except how I traveled to the cemetery in the backseat of Crystal’s car with my head on Char’s lap the whole way. The hearse wouldn’t start in the funeral parlor parking lot, and my mom and Julius were inside waiting for someone to find jumper cables. I didn’t want to be by myself in the family limo parked behind my father’s coffin, so I got into Char’s parents’ car and stayed.

  Char and I are standing under her big black umbrella at the second burial we’ve ever been to. The sheets of rain that pounded Abby’s Land Rover throughout our four-hour drive have stopped, but there’s a cold, light drizzle and water is running off the metal points of the umbrella onto my shoes—I’m fixating on the droplets that are wobbling around like liquid mercury balls on top of the black patent leather. Char’s wearing sandals, and there are globs of cut grass sticking to her heels and unpolished toes. We’re both struggling to keep our balance as our heels sink into the soft muddy ground.

  People huddle closer around the graveside as Jen’s coffin is lowered into the ground. In this cold dense fog, it’s hard to make out Jen’s family and Marcie and her family in the swarm of raincoats. But it’s easy to hear them, even above the sixty or so people crying out from under their umbrellas, and the rabbi’s prayer that other mourners softly join. Jen’s mom is screaming, “My baby, oh my poor baby,” over and over again, and Marcie’s bent over heaving as if she’s throwing up. Abby and Liselle are clutching her, one on each side, and Marcie’s dad is holding her up from behind.

  “Marcie looks terrible. So horrible.” Char sniffles.

  “I know,” I say. I can’t stop sobbing. The balled-up used tissues I’m clutching are so soggy they’re falling apart, and I can’t find any more in my pockets.

  “Here,” Char offers, ripping the last one in her pack in half. Suddenly the collective crying grows even louder. Jen’s dad throws a shovelful of soil into the grave and hands the spade to Jen’s mom, who just stands holding it limply until Jen’s dad puts his arm around her like he’s teaching her to golf and guides the shovel into the dirt and then the dirt onto the coffin. Next, other relatives do the same, and then Marcie and her family. One by one, people silently step forward, slice into the mound of dirt next to the grave, and empty it. The sound of rocks and pebbles hitting wood fades as the grave gets filled. Char and I approach to take our turns with the shovel and Marcie, her face swollen and devastated, smiles weakly at us and mouths, Thank you. Then Char and I step carefully as we make our way back.

  “That was so frightening,” I whisper. “Not just seeing the coffin get put in the ground like that, but filling the grave ourselves.”

  “It’s a Jewish custom,” Char says in a hushed tone. “Liselle warned me that we might find it upsetting—that it’s supposed to be. The wisdom behind it, she said, is that when the mourners fill the grave themselves, it forces them to confront the reality of their loss head-on. It’s more painful at the moment, but it starts the acceptance, which starts the healing.”

  I shrug. I confronted my father’s body dangling at the end of rope, but the only healing I’ve experienced took place in my incisions.

  The burial is over and people are making their way down the hill to their cars when Char touches my arm. “What I did after your dad died was terrible, East,” she says. “I never meant to hurt you. Never. I hate myself. I was stu—”

  “Please, Char. Not here.”

  “Yes here!” she says, and stops walking. “We need to bury this! It was such a terrible tragedy, and I made it worse! I’m so sor—”

  “Please! When you called to ask if I wanted to come along to Jen’s funeral to comfort Marcie, I told you that I didn’t want to talk about any of this. And then I told you the same thing in the car on the way up here. Now I’m saying it again. It’s done. I understand and I forgive you. Okay? Can we just let it lie?” I turn to head down the hill, but Char grabs my arm.

  “It’s so not done, East! I know Marcie spoke to you, but how can you and I ever get past this if we don’t talk it out? I’m not trying to blame—”

  I snatch my arm out of Char’s grip. “Blame who? Julius? Fine. Here’s what you get to blame Julius for, Char. You can blame him for bad judgment. It was the worst period of his life, he was drunk or high practically all the time, and he should have known better. If he wasn’t drunk, I’m sure he would have used better judgment. So stop apologizing.” Something moving on the hill behind Char catches my eye—it’s Marcie crouching by Jen’s grave. She’s all alone—everyone else is grouped in clusters on the hill or heading for the parking lot. Char turns and watches her with me.

  “At least we still have each other,” Char murmurs, but I act like I don’t hear. I’m about to suggest we go up to be with Marcie when we spot Liselle making her way toward us.

  “Are you girls okay?” she asks. We nod and Liselle nods back as she continues up the hill toward Marcie. “Oh—we’re going to stop briefly at Jen’s family’s house for a shivah call, and then it’ll just be the four of us driving back—Marcie’s spending the week with her dad.” She smiles tightly and walks on.

  “I’m glad that Marcie has Liselle now,” I say softly. Char’s eyes suddenly brim with tears, making them bluer and shinier than ever. The odd thing is, I just don’t recognize them. “I’m going back down,” I throw in.

  “Shroud. P-please,” Char stammers. “Please just talk to me.” I don’t turn around. Suddenly, Char crashes into me from behind and grabs at my arm for support, but not before her knees have hit the ground. She starts crying.

  “C’mon, Char, get up. You’re not hurt,” I say. I yank on her arm to help pull her up but she refuses to budge.

  “You don’t forgive me! You have to!” she whimpers. I start to head back down the hill and leave her in the wet grass, but my anger resurfaces and I turn around again.

  “I needed Julius. And my mom too. And he needed us. Because of you, we didn’t have each other when we needed each other most. But yeah, Char. I even forgive you for that,” I say through gritted teeth. “But here’s the thing. When you were explaining why Jewish people fill the graves themselves, I was wondering why I was never able to accept my father’s loss. And just this moment, as I left you alone in the mud, I realized that all this misery and weight gain and all the stuff you call awfulizing wasn’t really about my father at all. It was about what you did to me.”

  Char’s arms are hanging limply at her side and she’s looking at me in complete bewilderment.

  “You know what I’m talking about, Char. It was you who let me go on believing that my mother kicked Julius out because she wasn’t up to dealing with his problems. Do you know how long I’ve lived in fear that if I did something wrong, if I had a problem, if I needed anything from her, if I wasn’t the best little girl ever, she’d send me away too? As you said, I do what I’m told, no questions asked. But that’s why! Do you know how much my mother’s suffered alone for three whole years needing me, while I was in the next room choking on my own anger—my hatred for her for abandoning Julius? My fear of my mother, and my hatred for her was all because of you. And because of that hatred, I wouldn’t even try to help her—talk to her about how she was feeling, convince her to get help, nothing. And here you were supposedly my best friend.”

  “East
! You have to know that we kept this secret from you to save you from more pain—not make it worse. They made me swear to not tell you.”

  I laugh loudly in Char’s face. “Suddenly Char Newman plays by the rules? You’ll say anything to anyone to get what you want—to Bobby and Julius, to Teenage Waistland, to me, to everyone—you don’t care what crazy lies you have to tell. But the one thing that might have helped me accept my father’s death and saved me from drowning in all this fear and anger was the truth about why my brother got sent away, and that’s the one thing you wouldn’t tell me. Now get up and wipe yourself off. You’re a mess and Abby and Liselle are waiting for us.” This time when I head down the hill, I don’t turn back.

  My eyes are closed and I’m huddled in the backseat of Abby’s Land Rover shivering from the dampness. The engine is running and the heater is on, but I don’t feel like I’ll ever get warm. Abby and Liselle are with Marcie and her dad a few cars down, and Char, for all I care, is still on her knees in the rain. But I hear a door open and feel the weight on the leather seat as Char climbs in next to me. She slams the door loudly. I shrivel further into my corner and tighten my eyes.

  “Okay,” she says. “I should’ve told you the truth regardless of any stupid promise. I saw you suffering and I knew you so needed to know. But, y’know, East? Our moms were best friends from high school—at least twice as long as we’ve been, and this thing completely destroyed their friendship. I was terrified that it would wreck ours too. For a while, I kept thinking you would ask me why they stopped talking, but mostly I just worried. I didn’t want to lose you—and I used their pact, to never talk of what happened to anyone, as my excuse not to tell you. So yes, that was selfish of me, I so understand that. But I wasn’t completely selfish and you weren’t the only victim.” I feel Char watching me scrunch my eyes to keep myself from looking at her, and I’m starting to feel idiotic acting like I’m back in kindergarten, so I just open them.

  “Okay, Char. I’m listening. Tell me who else got tangled in the spiderweb besides my brother and mother. And Bobby—you hurt him too, you know.”

  “Listen to yourself, East! I wouldn’t have believed you were even capable of being so hard if I didn’t actually see your lips move. And why are you bringing Bobby up? He’s got nothing to do with Julius. Or us!”

  I just stare at her coldly, and she stares back at me the same way for a couple of minutes until I drop my eyes. “All right, Char,” I say. “You’re right—I shouldn’t have brought Bobby into this. Tell me how you weren’t completely selfish and who else is on the injured-party list?”

  Char’s still staring at me. Her lower lip is trembling and her eyes are filling up again. “Me. I was hurt, East. I’m still hurting,” she says softly, her voice cracking.

  Again, I’m staring at a stranger—but for a different reason. I can’t remember a time—not one—that Char ever uttered a word of self-pity. I guess every relationship can hold only so much of it, and mine filled the quota. I can’t remember ever having to pick her up and brush her off when she fell—but a million times it was the other way around. I’m such an idiot.

  “Oh, Char. I know, Char. You were another victim of all this. You were. I’m so sorry about the—the …” I falter and cannot finish.

  “The appendectomy?” Char says. There’s a hint of a sad smile on her lips and I nod and burst into tears. But Char shakes her head. “It was awful; I was only twelve, and it was like getting a hundred tonsils removed, with no ice cream or anything to coat how raw and sad I felt. But when I say I was damaged too by this, that’s only part of it.”

  “Is there yet another secret you’re about to tell me?” I say, seesawing between sympathy and fear. Char shakes her head again.

  “East, how do you not see? You were never alone in that pit—I’ve always been right there with you, not only feeling your pain but choking down my anger and my grief too. I’ve had to be strong and happy because you were so sad and helpless—I owed that to you and I wanted to be that for you. But that meant that I had to hide the reality and not face how I felt about the—my abortion. I felt it eating me up inside, but being what you needed had to come first. I felt I didn’t have a right to heal because of what I did to your family. You know, being what you need whenever you need it has become such a way of life for me, I don’t even know who I am—or if I even exist—without you. I know this sounds crazy, but that’s how it is for me.”

  Char studies me for a moment, and then drops her head to study her hands, as if to say If you don’t understand this, I have no words left. But I do understand, and this doesn’t sound crazy to me at all. It’s familiar—something I’ve always recognized in me and in my relationship with Char, but without being able to attach words to it. I feel a strange kind of relief—not happiness, but exhilaration. If truth could feel like something, it would feel like this.

  “Char. I know what you mean. I so know. You’ve never let me cry alone. Or,” I say between sobs, “eat alone.”

  But Char shakes her head again. “I did, East. For a little bit, after your surgery. I was just so upset about screwing up my own chances for the surgery because of the lie I’ve been carrying that I didn’t have enough energy and I—I guess I just wanted a little something for myself, something that I didn’t have to work so hard for in order to feel good about myself again.” I’m just nodding. She’s talking about Bobby. And, Marcie. And Teenage Waistland.

  “Char—God—I’m so sorry about all that too. For screwing everything up for you. With Bobby and Teenage Waistland and everything. But you can still come back and try to work things out—I’ll come with you to talk to Betsy,” I say. “I know she’ll let you back in.”

  Char widens her eyes and shakes her head forcefully. “East, I could never face those people again. They hate me, especially Bobby. And they totally should. I lied to them, I disrupted the group just to avoid addressing—ugh—everything we’ve just talked about. Nope—I’m on to the next chapter in my life,” she says. “And that is—ta-da—Lap-Band surgery in Tijuana, Mexico. Three weeks from today. Olé!” She dries her face with the back of her hand. “Oh—I really mean the next chapter in our life.” She laughs. “Will you come with?”

  30

  Underlying Issues

  Friday, August 14, 2009

  Marcie (−16 lbs)

  Carlo and I have a running bet that—starting from the time we crossed over the Massachusetts state line into Connecticut a couple of hours ago—I’m going to spew one of my favorite “unladylike” invectives before he breaks down and lights up a cigarette.

  “What word is that again, Miss Marcie?” Carlo goads me.

  I pull out a pack of Camels from the glove compartment and wave it under his nose. He inhales deeply and I say, “What do you say we just screw the bet and light up one of these delicious death sticks?” But he grabs the pack in his right hand and lowers the window with his left, and out it goes. All without us swerving into oncoming traffic.

  “Damn!” I exclaim. Carlo furrows his brow. “I’m still allowed to say that! You’re the one quitting cold turkey, not me!”

  My vocabulary isn’t the only part of me I’m taking out of my butt (along with my head). Take Jill and me, for example. Poor Dad didn’t get a word in edgewise all week. I even suggested that we all go away somewhere together over Christmas break. And maybe even bring Liselle so I don’t have to bunk with the cheesy lovebirds. Liselle and I have been texting back and forth constantly, and I miss her. And Mom. And even Ronny, who was such a sweetheart to send Carlo up to Boston to get me although I could have easily taken the train. I’m even sort of looking forward to getting back to Alpine. But first stop is Teenage Waistland, even though Bitsy said I could skip this session if I wanted. If not for Char agreeing to meet East and me for dinner afterward, I’d blow this sucker off in a heartbeat.

  Teenage Waistland is finishing its “round-the-room” confessional where everyone cops to their eating sins—Bitsy calls this the eating beha
viors review—when I tiptoe in, but I could’ve pulled the pin on a hand grenade and gotten the same reaction. Hey, it’s Marcie! Mar-cie! How are you, girlfriend! Oh, so sorry about Jen, Marce! And Bitsy’s not even having an aneurysm over everyone shouting out—actually, she jumps out of her seat before I’m halfway to the circle and hugs me!

  “It’s good to see you, Marcie. I’m so happy you came. How are you holding up?” she says warmly.

  I smile and mumble, “Fine, thanks.” And then I feel heat on my cheeks—a blush? WTF?

  I quickly take my seat in the circle next to East, and then I stand right up again and ask her to kindly remove her purse from my butt—under my breath for the most part. A couple of chuckles erupt in the circle, but Bitsy just smiles placidly—as if she’s got bigger plans for me than a little “shush.”

  “Marcie,” Bitsy starts, “first, again, we are all so sorry—the group is devastated over Jennifer’s death and deeply sorry for the pain and loss you’re dealing with. Such a terrible tragedy. She was a smart, lovely, engaging young lady. I’m glad everyone here had the chance to get to know her better at Coco’s party.” I see Coco and Michelle exchange glances.

  “Yeah, well, I guess Jen got to know Jose Cuervo a little more than she did some of you guys. She was awful that night, I know, but she was going through, I don’t know … some stuff. Really, Jen was an exceptional person,” I say. My eyes tear up and East hands me a tissue.

  “Can you talk about Jennifer, Marcie? The kinds of ‘stuff’ she was going through?” Bitsy says. “If it’s too soon, I understand—”