An Abundant Woman

by Elizabeth Neff Walker

  I picked one up that read, “The Burdens of Being Overweight: Mistreatment and Misconceptions.” The New York Times had put out a three part series on “Fat in America” which had a callout quite clearly declaring: “Research finds weight depends more on genes than willpower.”

  “Maybe I should show this one to Lavinia,” I said. “Doesn't everyone in America believe what they read in the New York Times?"

  “Not when it's about obesity,” Sarah said. “Doctors don't believe their own studies, for that matter. They just keep telling people to diet, as if diets served any long-term purpose other than gaining weight."

  Sighing, I slipped the article back into her file folder. “Weight prejudice isn't easily overcome. This could be a tricky six months for me."

  “I hope it won't be."

  I rose to take my leave. “Thanks for being so honest with me, Sarah. I'll find a way to maneuver around Dr. Hager. If you'll clue me in on department politics, maybe I can use them to my advantage."

  She smiled and extended her hand. “It's a deal."

  Chapter Seven

  Staring out the window of my office, I forced myself to acknowledge the conflicts in my own personality about weight. Though I firmly believe being fat is not a character flaw, I'm aware of how people like Lavinia view it. They do see those extra pounds as a physical manifestation of moral laxity. They firmly believe that what causes excess weight is eating more than your body needs, and/or exercising less. To them, losing weight is a matter of will power, and if you're fat, you obviously don't have any.

  Doctors should know better, but they're as susceptible to the “obvious” as everyone else. That diets don't work has been proven to them so consistently and over such a long time that it's embarrassing they haven't grasped the truth—that being overweight is a function of a person's genetic, physical and chemical makeup. But it's easier to blame a fat person for her own problem.

  The fact of the matter is, as all those newspaper articles of Sarah's explained, the body has a highly sophisticated, complex system for regulating its fat stores. The brain mechanisms that determine appetite or efficiency in storing fuel are not the same in everyone, so everyone doesn't have the same tendency to gain or maintain weight.

  When I'm confronted with someone like Lavinia, I don't find it so simple to hold onto my confidence in my own appearance. Every day of your life you can look in the mirror and say: I'm an attractive woman. I dress becomingly. I'm well groomed. But if the Lavinias of the world say, No, you're not, it's not so easy to ignore them.

  I've developed a high tolerance for such attitudes, and a remarkably strong sense of self-acceptance. But it fails in my most personal life. When my nearest and dearest don't understand, when they reject that part of me, I weep inside. Nigel no longer comments on my weight, but he has a tendency to indicate that I've “had enough.” He doesn't approve of my having sweet things in the house. He can't help frowning when I order something he considers fattening at a restaurant.

  And Cass. Cass has become a vegetarian. That might be a personal choice or have something to do with animal rights, but I suspect, deep down, it's an attempt to keep her figure from becoming like mine. And that hurts me in profound ways. Even my child rejects so forcefully that part of me that is overweight that she'll do anything to avoid having it happen to her.

  Like Sarah's bulimic sister, I thought, and realized how grateful I should be that Cass had chosen to be a vegetarian.

  Though it was only three, I rose from my desk and gathered up the department manual to take with me. I'd had enough of the University for one week. As I rode the purple bike back to Mayfield House, I realized that I was considering going to Oconomowoc with Jack.

  It was not unusual for me, when I wasn't on call in London, to come home at the end of a rough week and throw some clothes in a case and take off for Cambridge or Bath or anyplace else that appealed to me. Sometimes Nigel came with me, mostly he didn't. That independence was one of the more useful elements of a pseudo-marriage such as ours.

  On the other hand, my getting away wasn't always a need for time alone. If my relationship with Nigel had been different, if he'd been loving and warm and giving when he was with me, of course I would have preferred to have him along. Not just to receive the benefits of such bounty, but to offer them as well. Sometimes I felt as though I had years of such giving stored up in me, just waiting for an opportunity to flow out onto someone.

  My patients were the legitimate recipients of the overflow of this desire to give. And Cass, of course. But she had reached the age where she felt smothered by too much attention. And the illegitimate recipients were people like Jack and Cliff, who tripped my need to “make things right"—to offer advice and see negative situations converted into positive ones.

  Because Nigel wouldn't accept my offerings. He wouldn't accept my body, or my expressions of love. He had made it clear that he wished us to remain married, and to remain friends, but he was not interested in me romantically any longer. So sometimes getting away from London meant getting away from Nigel and a situation where I felt unwanted.

  Things in Madison were different, but they were proving stressful in their own way. Without a car it would be difficult for me to leave town, and I disliked the feeling of being trapped here. Renting a car was a possibility, but not one I relished. I hadn't much idea where to go, either, having been in Wisconsin less than a week. Obviously the logical thing to do, if I felt I had to get away and could silence my conscience about imposing on him, was to go with Jack. If he was still willing to take me.

  But going off with Jack was hardly like going off on my own, or with one of my women friends. He was an unattached male, a rather vulnerable male at this point in his life. And though I was attracted to him, there was no reason to suppose that the feeling was mutual. Given my current frame of mind, there was every reason to suppose that he wasn't. Obviously we could carry off a friendly weekend together.

  Before I quite realized what I was doing, I found myself packing my suitcase.

  * * * *

  Jack appeared at my door with my note tucked between his fingers just as I was about to go down for dinner. He looked so tired that I immediately said, “Oh, dear. You need to just sit in your room and vegetate. Don't give me a thought."

  “I can't possibly look that bad.” He frowned and rubbed his face. “I'm still going to the lake, and you're welcome to come. Dinner will revive me, and if I'm too tired to drive, you can do it."

  “I haven't driven in America yet this trip."

  He shrugged. “It will come right back to you, like it does on the continent."

  “Hardly the same as here,” I grumbled, “but of course I'd be happy to help."

  He crumpled the note in his hand and stuck it in his pocket. “Very accommodating of you. Let's have dinner and get on the road."

  He did appear to revive somewhat over Sherri's lamb curry, which was surprisingly good, and obviously made with the real spices—garam masala, coriander, cumin, turmeric, ginger, chili. Usually Americans make it with curry powder and it tastes like a particularly nasty yellow pudding. Serving it with brown rice was a good idea, too, and the two kinds of chutney—mango and cranberry—were delightful. I made a mental note to ask her for the recipe for the cranberry chutney.

  After the meal Jack hustled me right along. He wore a pair of jeans he'd changed into and shook his head ruefully at my skirt and jumper. “It's very casual there,” he said. Refusing to let him carry my one suitcase (he had only a backpack with him), I gracefully descended the staircase with it thumping against my leg and the department manual clutched awkwardly in my other arm.

  He stowed everything in the trunk of his car and unlocked the passenger side for me. But he still looked so tired that I offered to drive and he accepted, only staying awake long enough to direct me onto the freeway and telling me the exit I should look for. Friday evening traffic had already thinned a bit by the time we were out of the urban area, and the driving
was relatively easy—certainly compared with getting out of London at that time of day.

  The scenery was pleasant but not distracting. I had expected my thoughts to drift to my departmental problems, but I was very conscious of Jack sitting there, his head slumped against the door. In the fading light his face looked both vigorous and relaxed, as though he'd fallen asleep after running a particularly challenging race. Knowing that he was a troubled man may have had something to do with my reaction to him then. Certainly I tried hard to tell myself that what I felt was a friendly concern, a sisterly interest in seeing him through his difficulties.

  But the truth of the matter was that a bolt of sexual desire struck me so hard I thought for a moment that I'd had an accident. However, the cars in front of me were in the same positions, the ones behind me moving with notable regularity. Nothing had changed at all. Except for the intensely aroused state of my own body, the tingling in my breasts, the longing between my legs. Most inappropriate, I thought, putting my standard regimen into practice.

  Like a man trying to delay his orgasm during intercourse, I had developed a routine for dealing with unwanted sexual arousal. Mentally I forced myself to attend a particularly dull lecture on the human body which a senior lecturer had given when I was in medical school.

  It was an anatomy lesson on sexual response, but given in such a dry, overbearing manner that there was nothing the least bit titillating about it. We'd had to memorize hormones and chemical reactions, and minute body parts that were peripherally involved. Ordinarily the mental exercise was a very effective way of tamping down any physical desire. I had used it successfully on many, many occasions.

  Starting with Nigel, I had refined the procedure over a desperate, lonely period of months, and then years. My desire for him had been useless against his indifference to me sexually. At first it had been almost unbearable, the pain of his rejection. But with time my physical desire for Nigel had diminished and eventually died.

  Odd spurts of desire had been elicited from my perfectly healthy body by other men over the last years, but nothing that wasn't susceptible to my firm control. And though the present excitement was not yielding well to my command, I felt sure I would eventually be able to get this unruly desire in hand.

  “Where are we?” Jack asked, shaking himself and sitting up straight in his seat.

  Actually, I had no idea, my thoughts having been too distracting, but he knew the highway well. His forehead wrinkled and he said, “Amanda, you've missed the exit."

  “Have I? Sorry. I'll get off at the next one."

  He continued to regard me curiously, but finally shrugged and relaxed back against the seat. “We've only come about five miles too far. Were you worried about something?"

  “Not at all,” I assured him, pulling into the right hand lane to exit. “Just thinking, I guess. Everything's a bit new to me here."

  Though he seemed to accept this explanation, I could imagine him deciding that maybe he'd better not fall asleep when I was driving again. He probably thought I'd revert to my English driving habits. But he adopted a perfectly patient attitude, and it wasn't long before we were passing through the downtown area of Oconomowoc, such as it was.

  Passing along Main Street and then Lake Road, he pointed out some astonishingly large and beautiful mansions (considering the size of the town) on both sides of us. Those on the east faced onto Fowler Lake and those on the west to Lac La Belle. The architectural style was predominantly Queen Anne, but there was an example of the Swiss cottage style and a French Provincial manor among the others. I began to wonder if his family “retreat” was going to be one of these gems.

  He dismissed this idea pretty much as soon as it popped into my mind by saying, “I'm further on, on the west, a shed compared with these beauties.”

  But he was exaggerating. When we drove up the lane to his retreat, we crossed a clearing and then encountered a screen of trees that almost entirely hid a very old stone house with a wrap-around veranda that absolutely exuded charm. “Some shed,” I commented.

  But the sight of the property had a decidedly invigorating effect on him. “It's beautiful, isn't it? I grew up here.” He climbed out of the car and sucked in a large volume of fresh air. “Sometimes I think I could live here year round, if only there were a metropolitan hospital nearer than Madison."

  A breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees that stood guard around the ivy-draped building. Though I knew the water wasn't far away, I couldn't actually see it, even when I climbed out of the car. When I opened the trunk, Jack came to lift out my suitcase and manual and his backpack, which he carried over to the house. On the veranda was a set of ancient wicker furniture—chairs, a coffee table, a chaise, and several footstools. Jack dropped my manual and his backpack on the table, unlocked the door and set my case inside the house.

  “Come with me to the lake before it gets totally dark,” he said.

  He walked rapidly down a short dirt path at the back of the house that led to the boathouse and dock. “We have a canoe and a kayak and some other equipment in there,” he said, pointing at the dusty window. “The kids and I went out in a canoe last weekend, but the water's still too cold for swimming.” Without ceremony he seated himself on the end of the dock, removed his sneakers and socks and dangled his feet in the water.

  There was a rural stillness to the scene. The water looked black and deep. You could see the pale images of other docks dotted along the shore, but nothing moved. I was tempted to sit down beside Jack, but the hum of attraction remained in me and I stood quietly by an old wooden post. It seemed almost sacrilegious to speak, so I surveyed the vista in silence, firmly keeping my gaze from alighting on Jack, who sat as though in a trance.

  Probably this spot was for him like the cabin in the Lake District was for me. When we arrived, I would walk down to the water and stare at the ruffled surface while the stresses of London and work and family dissolved within me. Sometimes I could achieve in minutes what a trip to the continent never did produce—a feeling of peace and renewal.

  After about ten minutes, Jack abruptly stood up and said, “Sorry. I just need a few minutes when I get here to let it seep into me."

  “It's lovely, and incredibly peaceful."

  He nodded. “Come on, I'll show you your room. The kids keep their stuff in theirs, and I do in mine, but either of the guest rooms should be in good condition."

  “Anything will be fine,” I said, following his lengthy stride as he started up the path.

  All five bedrooms were on the second floor, but one of the two guest rooms faced out toward the water and I chose it. He smiled. “I felt sure you would. Though in daylight you'll see that the other one feels something like a treehouse. I'm across the hall,” he added.

  “That will make me feel very safe,” I teased.

  He regarded me curiously, and I wondered if something of my feelings had leaked through my carefully guarded expression. Finally he said, “It's very safe here, Amanda. In areas like this, America isn't the crime-ridden place you see in our television programs."

  “I'm not the least bit worried.” I pushed my suitcase in front of me into the room. “You won't mind if I explore the house a bit, will you?"

  “Everything is at your disposal. It's early. Maybe we could have a drink and play a board game. The kids have a remarkable collection downstairs."

  “Unless you'd rather read or turn in early..."

  “No, I'm not ready for bed yet."

  After he left me, I put away my clothes in the empty bureau and stuffed the department manual on a shelf. The room was sparsely furnished, but with attractive pioneer-type pieces and simple matching curtains and a bedspread of a Native American design. The floor was a soft polished pine, marked by generations of visiting guests dropping suitcases and sporting equipment. When I didn't hear him come back out of his room, I wandered into the hall and peeked in his kids’ rooms, since their doors were open.

  They were slightly larger rooms than min
e, and reasonably neat for teenagers. Apparently the boy was into baseball, as there were posters on two of the walls. The girl's room had a number of trophies in it, lining the shelves. Though I couldn't tell for certain, they appeared to be sporting trophies, and I could see framed pictures of a girl in a variety of different sporting poses—diving at the lake, on skis, fishing, swimming. Sometimes another teenager was in the photos, sometimes Jack.

  The stairs were polished pine, too, and uttered continuous protests as I made my way downstairs. The living room was central, with the kitchen, an enclosed dining porch, a bathroom and a storage room coming off three sides. On the fourth side was a room taken over by entertainment equipment—TV, VCR, stacks of games, a rack of videotapes, a wall full of books, a sound system and a library of CDs. There were tables for playing games and some comfortable chairs for reading or listening or viewing. It was a crowded, cozy room, quite different from the living room.

  When I looked back into the large main room, Jack was standing there, his gaze abstracted, his lips pursed thoughtfully. Something about his stance reminded me of the poem I'd read, as if he were thinking about all the wrenching losses he'd suffered professionally. Probably it was nothing of the sort, of course. He was as likely wondering why he'd agreed to bring me along and deciding how to best keep me from interfering with his plans.

  Eventually, Jack drifted into the game room. His voice sounded both amused and friendly when he asked, “Would you like me to put some music on?"

  “Please. Unless you'd rather not."

  We debated the merits of classical or jazz as background for a game of backgammon, and settled on classical. He put on a CD that was resting atop the console. “See if you recognize it,” he said as he slipped it in.

  Oh, great, a pop quiz, I thought. But the strains of Dvorak's New World Symphony filled the long, narrow room and I nodded. “This has always been one of my favorites. Mother played it constantly for a while, maybe in one of her manic stages, when I was eight or nine. I'd come home from school and the house would be filled with it. She never played it when she was depressed."