An Abundant Woman

by Elizabeth Neff Walker

  “Please don't worry about me, Mandy,” he said, a little abruptly. “I'm perfectly capable of finding enough food to sustain myself."

  “Of course you are. Sorry.” It was always hard to determine where Nigel's boundaries were. He could be astonishingly prickly if you overstepped them, but they seemed to shift with his mood. We'd been married for twenty-two years, and I still couldn't judge them with great accuracy.

  “I'm just going to get settled in and walk around town and the university today and tomorrow,” I plowed on. “Monday I'm supposed to report to the department head. I didn't get much reading done on the plane, so I'll need to catch up with that before I start, too."

  “They won't expect you to have read the whole manual before you start, especially since you only agreed to come a week ago."

  While this was probably true, I didn't want to be at a disadvantage or make them regret allowing me to substitute, but I decided not to mention this point. Nigel knew very well that he would have memorized the manual by now in the same situation (he's an incredibly fast reader, with a photographic memory), and he thought he was offering me a dollop of reassurance.

  “Yes, I'm sure they'll make every allowance,” I agreed. “Let me give you my number here in case you need to reach me."

  Though we chatted briefly after that, I had this feeling of increasing distance between us, as if Nigel were impossibly far away. It wasn't the phone connection, and it wasn't necessarily impatience or distraction that I detected. Hearing his voice simply didn't make the emotional connection I had hoped it would. He was thousands of miles away, and it was as though each of those miles had erected a barrier to real union between us. Shrugging off the uncomfortable feeling, I said, “I miss you, Nigel.” Did I mean that? Did I miss him? “I love you."

  “Love you, too, Mandy. ‘Bye."

  It was a mildly satisfying conclusion to a mildly unsatisfactory conversation. The distance that I recognized sitting on my sofa in Madison, Wisconsin, wasn't all that different from the distance that occurred between us every day, was it? I was just more aware of it here in America.

  Nigel and I hadn't behaved like a married couple for a long time. Meaning we didn't have sex. Which didn't seem to bother him, but it had always bothered me and the urgency of my concern was increasing. In England it was easy enough to keep up a facade of being a comfortably married academic couple, too busy to spend much time together but not so grown apart that a divorce was necessary.

  But I ached for our lack of closeness, both physical and emotional. I didn't want a housemate; I wanted a husband. Living with the father of my child wasn't enough, even if it had provided Cass with such a solid family setting. Worse, I suspected that Nigel's withdrawal from me had been caused by my weight, though I had been round all my life, round when he married me.

  For myself, my extra pounds were not a source of pain. I could look in the mirror and accept my generous body. I could dress it in splendid clothes, in vivid colors and flowing fabrics that became me. I could wear bold jewelry and outrageous scarves. I could understand that this was me, that I was meant to be this full-sized woman.

  But no amount of self-acceptance could totally counter the constant knowledge that so many people viewed being fat as ugly and weak-willed. Nigel's disapproval was the most unendurable of all because I needed him to love and approve of me. And he could no longer do it. That was far too great a burden for a marriage to sustain.

  I set the phone back on its stand and rose from the sofa, my heart heavy. At least there was breakfast to look forward to.

  Chapter Three

  Some American breakfasts are better than others. On the whole, I'll take English breakfasts, kippers and all, over cold cereal and Pop Tarts. But I have to admit to a real partiality to pancakes, those thick, light ones with both butter and real maple syrup on them. As luck would have it, Sherri apparently made pancakes either Saturday or Sunday morning, and today was the day.

  When I came down the stairs I could smell the griddle warming up. I was a little afraid I'd be the first one there but I needn't have worried. Angel and Cliff were already discussing whether they'd leave town for the rest of the weekend, and the Australians were bickering about who had left a coffee cup in their shared bathroom. Dr. Hunter was fully dressed in gray cords and a green turtleneck pullover, and acknowledged that we'd met when Angel introduced us. This seemed to puzzle her, but she moved right on to the remaining guest at the table.

  This was a woman in her eighties, I guessed, wearing a dress right out of the forties, which looked perfectly appropriate on her. Sophia Granger had wisps of gray hair which she tried, unsuccessfully, to capture with white bobby pins. The effect was truly bizarre, as though her head had been stapled between fluffs of gray cotton. “How do you do, ma'am?” I said with a smile.

  “Not at all well this morning,” she claimed, in the loud voice a deaf person sometimes uses. “It's my gallbladder, you know. They'd take it out if I weren't so old and my heart in such rickety shape. Can't promise me I'd survive the surgery."

  “That's distressing,” I said in a raised voice. Dr. Hunter pulled out the chair next to his for me. “Fortunately, you seem to have a number of medical people surrounding you here."

  “Oh, they're of no use! Don't know a thing about old folks.” With a nod toward Angel, she conceded, “Well, perhaps Dr. Crawford does, but she's not here very often. Just surgeons and such."

  “I guess that pretty well takes care of you two,” Angel said with a grin at Cliff and Dr. Hunter. “When you get right down to it, a family practitioner is a lot more useful to a lot more patients than you two cutters are."

  “But for the ones who need us,” Cliff insisted, “we're absolutely essential. Isn't there a statistic that when doctors go on strike the morbidity rate goes way down?"

  “I'm sure that statistic includes surgeons."

  “Surgeons never go on strike,” Cliff, the high-powered general surgeon, claimed.

  The woman of the Australian couple, Crissy Newman, interrupted their exchange to ask, “What kind of berries is Sherri offering in the pancakes today?"

  “It was on the menu, Crissy,” her male compatriot, Mark Bird, taunted her. “Didn't you see it? Blackberries. Frozen from last year, no doubt. They'll be wanting to get rid of them before the summer crop."

  “You can have them without,” Angel explained to me. “Sherri's pancakes are great plain, too."

  “The blackberries sound delicious,” I said.

  “That's because you don't have dentures that will stain,” Ms. Granger protested, baring her yellowed set at me. “You're from England, aren't you?"

  “Yes. I only arrived last evening."

  “I don't understand why all these foreigners come here. What's the matter with their own countries?” She frowned at me and pointed a finger at the Australians. “They're foreigners, too."

  “I can't think of any reason why foreigners shouldn't come here,” Dr. Hunter said. “After all, we've been visiting other countries for as long as I can remember."

  “They don't come to visit,” Ms. Granger said. “They come to sponge off the government."

  Dr. Hunter laughed with real amusement. “I think you have it a little backward, Sophia. The government in England is considerably more liberal with their benefits to their citizens than we are."

  “Nonsense. I've read about it in the papers. They come and get on our welfare roles and drain money from our health care system."

  Cliff had had enough of this kind of talk, apparently, because he snapped, “Not at the breakfast table, Sophia. If you want to start an argument, you'll have to wait until we're finished."

  “She always starts arguments,” Mark Bird muttered. “And she's always saying something rude about foreigners, as though we'd personally robbed her of her pension."

  “No,” Cliff said, “we're not going to discuss personalities, either."

  The young couple were casually polite to me, as Australians are. Naturally I'd kn
own about a zillion Australians in my lifetime, living half of it in London. They were some of the most adventurous souls I'd ever encountered, with a real penchant for traveling on their wits. These two didn't seem to quite fit that mold, but it was hard from such a spare acquaintance to pinpoint why I thought so.

  Angel inquired of Dr. Hunter whether he would be spending the weekend with his children and he nodded. “I'm taking them to the Oconomowoc house. After May they get pretty busy with their summer activities, so this might be the last chance for a while to spend a whole weekend with them."

  “How old are your children?” I asked.

  “Luke is seventeen and Sandra is fifteen. They're both sports crazy."

  “What a surprise,” Angel remarked with pretend innocence. “I rarely see you when you aren't on a bike, or driving off with skis on your car."

  Because a plate of blackberry pancakes was set in front of me at that moment, I lost track of the conversation momentarily. The apple several hours ago had not been enough to take the edge off my appetite. I noticed, too, that a plate with American sausages and bacon was being passed down the table, and though I preferred English to American sausages, these were more than acceptable to me at the moment.

  Something we don't have very often at Netherhall Gardens is real maple syrup. Nigel isn't very fond of things like pancakes and waffles and French toast that call for maple syrup, so I usually eat them out, at places where they wouldn't know real syrup from the artificially-flavored variety. It was delightful to let a dab of butter melt into the pancake and then pour the real thing over it. As I'd expected, the taste was heavenly.

  I helped myself to a slice of bacon and a sausage when the warm plate arrived. And there was a variety of chilled chunks of fruit in a big blue bowl which Dr. Hunter, with a suspicious gleam in his eyes, passed to me as well. Since I had every reason to be hungry, I gave him my superior English sniff and he laughed.

  Angel regarded us curiously, but said nothing except, “Cliff and I won't be around Mayfield House much this weekend, Amanda, but Sherri may be, if you need any information."

  “I plan to explore downtown and the University, familiarize myself with the layout of the hospital. I believe it's possible to walk to the University from here."

  “Well, it is,” Dr. Hunter said, “but riding a bike is more convenient. An old bike of Sandra's is in the garage, if you'd like to use it."

  “Thank you. That's very kind.” I was not going to tell him that I'd never ridden a bike in my life, because people simply refused to believe that. My mother credits my having become a doctor to the fact that I'd spent two weeks in hospital when I was very young, having been run down by a cyclist. When asked to what she attributes my choice of specialty, since it wasn't orthopedics, she usually says with a bland smile, “Her contrariness, of course.” Not that I am the least bit contrary, but she will have her joke.

  “I'll show you where it is right after breakfast,” Dr. Hunter volunteered.

  “Please don't inconvenience yourself on my account. You must be in something of a hurry to pick up your children. I'm sure I can find the bike if I decide to use it."

  He regarded me somewhat curiously, but nodded. “It's the purple one hanging on the back wall. If you like, I'll lift it down for you before I leave."

  Obviously I deserved this, for commenting on his depression. He was being as persistent a do-gooder as I had been. “I'm sure I can manage."

  “I doubt it. You're far too short."

  Perhaps he would have liked to add—"and stout"—but he didn't. The Australian, Mark, said, “I'll be around, studying. Just give me a hoot if you want help."

  “You're going to stay in on a day like this?” demanded Crissy, indignant. “It's perfect weather, for God's sake. And you know you promised to go with me to the Farmers’ Market.”

  Angel and Cliff exchanged a look that said, “Let's get the hell out of here now!” Which they did. And shortly I rose, too, replete with the delicious breakfast and ready to tackle my new environment.

  + * * *

  Madison is a charming town with a luxuriant Farmers’ Market on Saturday morning from spring through summer. Sherri drove me there, and while she shopped, I wandered around the capitol area, joining her for a ride back to Mayfield House. Then I was eager to get a look at where I'd be working, and if it hadn't gotten quite warm that day, I would probably have been perfectly comfortable walking to and from the University hospital. I frequently walk to work in London.

  As it was, I found myself perspiring when I arrived, and even after a cool drink I was wishing that I didn't have the walk back to contemplate. The hospital consists of a number of tall towers connected at the corners, and each tower contains several floors. Without their grid system patients and visitors could have wandered through it for years without finding their way back out.

  This modern edifice made me feel almost nostalgic for my dank, lumbering London hospitals where only the insiders had any idea where they were going. Though I wandered all over the attractive hospital building, including the obstetrics and gynecology areas, I didn't introduce myself to anyone. The heat and the time change had me slightly disoriented and before long I decided to start the walk back to Mayfield House.

  People of all ages whizzed by me on bikes, looking as comfortable as if they'd been born on them. I had to admit to the tiniest smidgen of jealousy. Perhaps I should have tried learning to ride a bike as a grown-up, but I couldn't even imagine negotiating the traffic in London. A few young people were on roller blades, and I felt sure I could master those, but as no one my age was on them, I assumed it would be undignified to travel to the University that way.

  Walking was obviously my best bet. Another day I would wear something cooler; I already had on my most comfortable walking shoes. For May it was a great deal hotter than I'd expected, more like the middle of summer. Sherri explained, when I arrived back at the house, that they didn't always have heat like that in May, but I'd have to expect the occasional day. She also suggested that she pour me a glass of iced tea. I was dubious, but agreed.

  “I always keep a pitcher of tea in the refrigerator on hot days,” she said, beckoning me to follow her into the kitchen. “But it's not a mix; I brew it from tea leaves, or tea bags if I'm in a hurry. For iced tea I use something a bit spicier than for hot tea."

  “Do you take a full load at school as well as running this place?” I asked, impressed with her attention to detail.

  “Not quite, but usually I make up for that with a course or two in the summer.” She had brought out a tall glass from the freezer, and now filled it with ice. From a wonderful old-fashioned pitcher of cobalt blue, she poured an amber tea into the glass. “Here, this should help. Can I get you something to eat with it, Dr. Potter?"

  “No, thanks,” I said, though I would have adored one of the puddings I'd seen in the refrigerator when she opened the door. They were doubtless for dinner, which on Saturdays and Sundays, according to the brochure in my room, took place at six, six-thirty week days. “I'll save my appetite for dinner."

  “That's almost two hours.” She waved toward a cookie jar on the spotless tile counter. “There are always cookies in there, for between meals. And I keep a container of veggies in water in the fridge. Please help yourself any time."

  “In that case...” I helped myself to a biscuit from the stoneware jar. It looked like what Americans called a ginger snap but was soft in the center, and rich with molasses. “Delicious. Perhaps I'll take two."

  Sherri smiled appreciatively. “Please do. Most of the boarders ignore them, and they're best fresh."

  Such a pleasant young woman, I thought, as I ascended to my room carrying the iced tea and the extra cookie. For a variety of reasons, not just the availability of food, I had come to think I might stay at Mayfield House instead of looking for an apartment of my own. I would have more than enough to do, adjusting to a new country and university.

  * * * *

  That evening I sa
t in the television room for a while with the Australian couple. One of them had rented an Australian videotape, and the other criticized it in a continual low-voiced commentary. Like most of the Australian movies I'd seen, this one was a bit bizarre, but interesting.

  When the movie ended and the Australians were having a full-voiced discussion of its merits and demerits, I quickly escaped to my room. Resisting the temptation to call Nigel again, I picked up the manual I'd been sent and began to study it in earnest. Beside every item with which I had decidedly conflicting views, I placed a large red X. Beside those I didn't understand, I placed a black question mark. When the manual looked like a strange game of tic-tac-toe, I put it aside.

  Though the miniature bathroom posed some problems for a short, round woman, I pride myself on my flexibility and I was learning to adapt to its limitations. Yoga was one of the more useful passions of Cass's life that I had adopted some years ago. Under no circumstances would I have embraced her vegetarian diet.

  Thinking about Cass sometimes tripped my guilt switch. Not that she wasn't a wonderful person, and doing extremely well academically, but I often felt I hadn't quite done enough for her. Because of my medical career, I hadn't always been there when she needed me—as mother, advisor, or friend.

  I regarded myself in the small, round mirror, trying to search out in those green eyes and that rosy face whether Cass was the reason I'd stayed with Nigel. If I hadn't been able to give her as much time as I wished, at least I'd given her a stable home. And unlike so many families that might have dissolved, ours had not been a contentious one. Nigel and I got along perfectly well.

  Cass had responded to the paucity of parental supervision throughout her life by becoming independent, which was all to the good. What was perhaps not so terrific was her tendency to withdraw into herself. As outgoing as I am, and as self-controlled as her father is, Cass appears alongside us as neither wholly self-confident nor particularly sociable. In her own circle she was simply acknowledged as shy and brainy.