Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  I’m not sure Grandma is right on that one.

  Still, I decide to go to the service.

  For all the wrong reasons.

  I tell myself, and Gareth, that I have to go for Grandma. He arranges for his plane to take us to Phoenix. I’m surprised at the automatic nature of his behavior. I’m going home. And he’s going with me. If the idea of meeting my father bothers him, it doesn’t show.

  Early Thursday morning, Gareth has them fly us to the Mesa Gateway airport, which is a few miles south of Grandma’s house. Off the plane, the air is warm and familiar. Technically, the air is what we would consider freezing in Phoenix—around fifty degrees. But I’ve spent the last month in snowy New York, and shedding my thick Gareth Miller overcoat makes me feel like a snake leaving behind an old skin.

  Chad Tate wasn’t Catholic, so they can’t have his funeral at the church. I doubt he had much faith in anything. Possibly money. Or football.

  They set things up at Morton’s Mortuary, sort of the Walmart of funeral homes. It’s on one end of Main Street nestled between a hair salon and the music store. The front is covered in an artificial kind of vine that might have been sculpted by gardeners who were fired from Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion. I tell the limo driver to drop us off in the back. Back there, I see one guy unloading a hearse and another offloading a truck full of tubas. Gareth squints and adjusts his jacket. He’s not used to the rear entrance.

  Morton’s has packages ranging from the “Take Those Ashes and Get Out of Here” variety to the pomp and circumstance of Princess Diana’s procession to Althorp. Chad Tate’s funeral is more like the first option. It takes place in one of the small rooms, and Gareth and I are two of a dozen or so people scattered among padded beige chairs. Everything in the whole place is the color of partially digested butterscotch candies. I steer us to a seat in the back.

  I recognize most of the people in the room. There’s Grandma up by Mom in the front row. Mom’s sobbing into an expensive handkerchief while Grandma pats her back. Dad’s on Mom’s other side, facing front and staring straight ahead.

  The only thing I can think is this:

  What the hell happened to all Dad’s hair?

  It used to be black and thick and mowed by clippers in a perfect line right above his collar. But now? Well, now I can see his scalp through a round patch on the back of his head, and the gray hairs, growing like stiff weeds, are choking out the black ones.

  Shit. Dad is old.

  Cue terrible organ music, and a man comes to stand at a podium. He’s tall and gaunt and grim and looks like, well, an undertaker. I wonder if the appearance is a job requirement. Or if being the steward of death would transform anyone into the austere figure at the front of the room.

  “We are gathered in this place of mourning in loving memory of...”

  The man has to check the sheet lying on the podium before going on.

  “Chad Wesley Tate, who merged with the infinite on...”

  I elbow Gareth. “Chad Tate merged with oncoming traffic.”

  He bites his lower lip and fights off a laugh.

  I get an irritated look from my dad.

  Gareth has never seemed more out of place to me. He’s there in a cheap seat. He can’t even pronounce Mesa correctly. He says the town’s name with a posh affect. Mess-uh. That’s where he is with his perfectly tailored bespoke suit, his gelled-up hair, his trendy day-old stubble. He’s a Twitter meme waiting to happen. An online “Caption This” contest in the making.

  “Life is too short. It can end at any time.”

  It’s then that I see Tommy.

  I hadn’t noticed him before, but there he is in the second row with his parents. It figures they’d show up here. They’d never miss an opportunity to be seen doing their duty, and Mrs. Weston works in sports PR and knew Chad.

  Tommy’s glaring. Not at me. At Gareth.

  He’s trimmed his hair short and is wearing the gray suit I made for him.

  Back when we were still friends.

  “You’re gonna get us both in trouble,” Gareth whispers into my ear.

  “While heartache is as much a part of life as happiness, while for every laugh we shed a tear, today we can take comfort in our memories of...”

  Mr. Undertaker has to check his paperwork again. How hard is it to remember Chad Tate’s name?

  “...Chad. We can recall those moments we treasured. Remember his love, his compassion and his strength...”

  Dad puts his arm around Mom and pats her shoulder.

  And that’s it. Anger explodes inside me and overtakes my brain.

  They can somehow pull it together to be there for each other. But never for me. I stumble out of the tiny room in what could best be described as a blind rage.

  I hear the door snap shut with a quiet click and find Gareth is standing next to me.

  “Ah, poor Chad Tate,” he says.

  I shrug. “I have to use the bathroom.”

  Inside the bathroom, there are plaques and framed quotes that say things like, “Your life is a blessing. Your memory is a treasure,” and, “Those we love live forever in our hearts.” I sit in the stall for a little while thinking that maybe if I stay on the toilet, my obligation to be at this funeral will pass.

  The bathroom door slams. I’m sure, without peeking out of my stall, that it’s Grandma.

  I come out and start to say something, but she puts her hand in the air. “Comin’ late. Leavin’ early. You might think you’re sendin’ a message to your momma just now. But I raised you. What you’re doin’ is reflectin’ on me, girl. And I brought you up better than this.”

  My shame fills up the tiny bathroom. “I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m sorry. But he deserved—”

  Grandma gets mad. Madder than I’ve seen her in years. She braces herself on the bathroom counter, rolling her arthritic ankle.

  Man. I’m really a shit sometimes.

  “Good Lord,” she says. “People don’t get what they deserve. In life or death. You of all people ought to know that. And there ain’t nobody, in as far as I know, that’s gone and made you judge and jury of the human race. A life’s been lost. You didn’t like the man. Well, I didn’t much care for him neither. We still gotta be decent, Cookie. That ain’t optional.”

  I nod and mumble, “Sorry,” again.

  When we return to the hall, Tommy’s left the service too. I’m stunned by the sight of him talking to Gareth. “I know who you are,” Tommy says. “I’ve heard all about you.”

  Gareth stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Wish I could say the same, friend. I’m sorry to report that I don’t have the slightest damn idea who you are.”

  “I’m her best friend,” Tommy says.

  Stepping closer to Tommy, Gareth hunches his shoulders forward. “Her? Are you referring to Cookie now?”

  “You’re no good for her,” Tommy says.

  “Well, now, you’ve got a bit of a pocket advantage here, son. See, ’cause Cookie’s never said word one about you.”

  This is true. I’ve been trying to forget Tommy and run away from what happened.

  I’m not sure what really gets to Tommy. The fact that I don’t talk about him, or Gareth’s casual dismissal. He puts his hands on the lapels of Gareth’s black jacket and shoves hard. Gareth tumbles back into the chair, whacking his head on the wall behind him, leaving a depression in the textured cream stucco.

  There’s a brawl.

  I can barely make sense of what’s happening and can’t bring myself to intervene.

  Tommy and Gareth travel down the hallway toward Morton’s lobby, taking swings, knocking each other into the walls. Glass breaks, and there’s a scraping noise as the pictures hanging on the stucco swing from side to side.

  Growing up on a working ranch has left Gareth better prepared for situations such as these. He get
s Tommy pinned to the ground. I’m trying to pull him off and am saying, “Gareth! Gareth. Come on,” when there’s another figure in the foyer.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  It’s my dad.

  Here’s the thing about doctors. They like to complain about how there’s no money in medicine anymore. How the good old days of guaranteed six-figure incomes and Friday golf games are gone. But being a doctor is one of the few remaining professions that still confers instant authority. Like army generals, they get to write orders that have to be followed. And believe me, they know it. In almost any situation, a doctor can and will assume the leadership position.

  That’s what happens here. My dad uses the booming voice he’s developed barking out instructions to nurses and orderlies. “Stop this behavior at once.”

  Gareth releases Tommy. There are sheepish looks and red faces.

  Dad ignores Tommy. And me.

  He’s dressed in a brand-new Men’s Warehouse dark gray suit with too-long pants pooling around his ankles. He rounds on Gareth. “Care to explain what’s going on, sir?”

  I step in front of Gareth. “Why don’t you ask me, Dad?” I say.

  Dad turns to face me. He’s looking at me like he never has before. In a strangled voice, he says, “Cookie. Hello. You are...you look...lovely. Just like your mother.”

  FAT: Days 294–312 of NutriNation

  I don’t make my goal.

  I’m at my usual Saturday NutriNation meeting, staring at the three numbers written on my tracking form. Two. Two. Five. I weigh 225 pounds.

  My goal was to be in the one hundreds by the time I left for Australia.

  Our leader, Amanda, smiles and shakes her head. “That was never a very realistic goal, Cookie. You’ve done it exactly right, around two pounds a week. People who drop weight faster don’t usually keep it off. Don’t let this get you down. We have something special planned today.”

  Dave, Kimberly and Rickelle come in carrying flowers and balloons, and there’s an unfamiliar face in the meeting room. Turns out, she’s from NutriNation corporate and we’re celebrating.

  I’m down one hundred pounds.

  One hundred and five to be exact.

  Rickelle gets up and stands next to Amanda. “Everyone knows I love to run.”

  There’s laughter from the group.

  “And I love running metaphors. So here it goes. Losing weight isn’t a sprint or even a 5K, it’s a marathon and for most of us it’ll never end. It’s a journey that requires us to change, sometimes to change our most ingrained behavior. That’s why I’m so proud of Cookie. I’ve seen her go from barely being able to walk a mile to running five miles a day. Sure, we’re celebrating her hundred-pound loss. But really, we’re celebrating what she’s gained. Healthiness. Perspective. Confidence. We love you, Cookie.”

  I hug Rickelle as my eyes tear up and everyone claps.

  I get a big, blue ribbon pinned to my chest and my group makes me feel like going to Sydney at 225 isn’t such a big deal.

  Amanda gives a lecture called “The Vacation Equation.” “A lot of people gain weight during vacations. But it’s basically an equation. Determine what kind of results you want and create the plan that will equal the results.”

  I take notes and it all sounds good.

  And this is how I end up in the international terminal of Sky Harbor Airport with a suitcase that weighs eighty-five pounds.

  The thing is stuffed full of all the food I usually eat but am terrified I won’t find in Sydney. I’ve got three boxes of Clif Bars and my diet must-have—NutriMin Water Zero. I should have realized there would be a problem when I arrived at the check-in kiosk out of breath from having tugged the thing from the airport curb to the counter.

  “You’re overweight,” the lady behind the counter says. At least that’s what I think she says, anyway.

  “What?” I must say this in a manner that’s a bit too aggressive because the woman takes a step back and her eyes bug out.

  “Your bag,” she explains. “Seventy-five pounds is the limit.”

  “Oh...what...what do...do I do?” I’m still trying fill my lungs with air.

  “Pay the $50 excessive baggage fee or take some stuff out. Lose ten pounds.”

  Easier said than done.

  Well, I’m broke. And even if I weren’t, I’m not sure I’d pay the fee anyway. Fifty bucks could keep me in sewing fabric for a month.

  I unzip the suitcase as it sits on the stainless-steel scale.

  And this is how I end up standing at the airline counter with my mouth open, watching bottles and bottles of NutriMin bounce and roll all over the terminal floor.

  “Well, that does it,” says airline lady. “Seventy pounds. I can check this now.”

  I rezip the bag as she wraps a tag around the handle. She waves at the floor littered with the gemstone-colored water bottles. “You’ll have to pick those up.”

  “Yeah.”

  And this is how I end up crawling on my hands and knees, rounding up jugs of Berry Berry Blast, The Grape Escape and Orange You Glad We’re Sugar-Free, and stuffing them into my tote bag.

  The whole thing has the crazed tenor of a feral cat rooting through the trash of a five-star restaurant. And I’m thinking about this. And asking myself why. Over and over. Why do these things always happen to me?

  I fail to notice that I’m creeping too close to a pair of legs clad in tight-fitting olive chinos. A deep male voice says, “I guess you really like your NutriMin Water?”

  I tilt my head up.

  Fat girl meet health nut.

  Everything about this guy screams that he spends half his time running in a loop around his posh NYC condo building and the other half in the organic supermarket picking through stalks of non-GMO rhubarb.

  “Oh...sorry... I’m sorry,” I stutter. He kneels down, picks up the last water bottle and then extends a hand to help me to my feet.

  “You know, we sell this stuff everywhere,” he says, inspecting the Perfect Peach. “You don’t have to carry this much around with you.” He’s smiling, giving me an endearing smirk.

  I’m close to his face now. I think he might be wearing makeup. His dark hair is graying at the temples. He’s probably in his fifties but could pass for thirty. At a distance.

  The idea of male makeup gets all my attention and I don’t catch the “we” in his first sentence. I’m brushing the airport grime off and turning every shade of red and continuing with my stammering. “Oh...um...I read on the internet...that they don’t have NutriMin Water in Australia...and that’s where I’m going...and I can’t stay on my diet without this stuff... I mean maybe I could... I haven’t tried...and they said at the meeting...” I trail into an incoherent mumble and reach out for my water.

  “Can’t stay on your diet? Without NutriMin Water?” he repeats. I look around and notice that we’re right in front of the airline’s first-class counter and that a smiley version of the lady who helped me is tagging a stack of Louis Vuitton luggage. The guy’s a rich and important health nut.

  This unnerves me even more. “Yeah. I’m doing this weight loss thing and I have a NutriMin Water with every meal. At least it’s something that tastes good, you know?”

  “How much weight have you lost?” He’s still got my Perfect Peach.

  “What? Oh. Um. A hundred pounds—105 actually.”

  “Wow!”

  My flush deepens. “I still have a long way to go, but...”

  He grins at me. “But a hundred pounds is incredible.”

  “Yeah. I guess, yeah.” I’m wondering if I should yank the bottle from his hands.

  “I’d like to hear more about your story,” he says.

  “Uh, well...” I mumble. Announcements are being read over the loudspeaker. I need to get to my gate. The NutriMin’s pink liquid cat
ches the sunlight streaming in through the airport windows. “It’s on my blog. Roundish. I talk about NutriMin all the time. I’ve even made outfits to match my water.”

  “Roundish?”

  “You know, I’m taking the term back,” I say. “Roundish women rule the world.”

  “Ah, sure. That’s great.” He extends his hand for me to shake. “I’m John Potanin.”

  He says his name like he’s used to introducing himself to people who already know who he is. If I had any brains at all, I would be trying to figure out how to surreptitiously Google this guy. Instead, I’m whipping my head around like a dog distracted by a squirrel.

  John Potanin shakes the container of rose liquid. “They won’t let you through security with this stuff. But don’t worry. We just signed a distribution deal in Oz. By the time you get there, it should be hitting store shelves in Woolies and Coles.”

  “Oh. Uh. Cool. Thanks.”

  He hands me the bottle. “I hope we see each other again.”

  It’s a sort of weird, semiflirtatious remark. But he’s Mr. Physical Fitness and I’m Miss Fat Girl on a Plane. I blink a few times, take my water and go.

  While I sit in the waiting area, I look him up. I find out that John Michael Potanin is a businessman who started NutriMin Water from the spare room of his apartment in Queens and is now on the verge of selling it to a soft drink company for $3 billion.

  Of course, he winds up being right. I have to leave all my NutriMin Water at the security counter, and they do have an endcap full of the stuff at the Woolworths around the corner from Piper’s house.

  On the plane, I have a couple of non-scale victories. The guy sitting next to me doesn’t roll his eyes when he sees me or make that “I always get stuck next to a fat person” face. I’m able to use the regular seat belt without the extender.