by Becky Siame
No one says anything. I turn to Sands. “Sands, you mentioned a break-up and I treated it very lightly. I’d like to hear more about it.” I smile at Riyaan. “And I’d like to hear more about you two, if you have time.”
Sands doesn’t respond. Riyaan glances at her then back to me. “Sure, I have time. We’re doing well. Cat and I are getting to know one another and she’s getting counselling and living in a group home.”
“That’s wonderful,” I nod.
Riyaan shrugs. “It’s a start. But you gotta start somewhere.”
“I take pills now,” Cat volunteers, still looking at the spoon. “Lots of pretty pills. Supposed to make me think more clearly, but I think they just make me crabby.”
“Like you need a pill for that,” Sands mutters.
“Maybe I will have something to drink,” I say, getting up.
“No, I’ll get it,” Riyaan says, hopping up before I can stand. “Fat-free cap, right?”
“Yes, thanks,” I say. And then I am left alone in the booth with a crazy person and an angry person. I wonder if I should say anything more. What else can I say? I don’t want to come off as pleading.
When Riyaan comes back with my cappuccino, Sands finally speaks. “We read the article in the Gab Gazette.”
I can’t tell whether it is an accusation or a statement of fact. I look at my lap. “Yeah, so has half of New Zealand. The magazine cancelled my article and book contract because of it.”
“Magazine?” Sands echoes.
“Book contract?” says Riyaan.
“Uh, yeah.” There is so much they don’t know. Whose fault is that? “Fab You gave me a job writing a monthly article along the same lines as my newspaper column. They also gave me a contract to turn it into a book. But once the Gab twisted me into a fake, the magazine backed out. Tiresa gave the Gab an old photo of me, so I assume she’s the one who told them I planned on getting plastic surgery.”
Sands looks me in the eye. “So it’s true? You really are getting surgery? After what happened with the lap band procedure, you’re going to try to kill yourself again?”
“Why is everyone so dead set against plastic surgery?” I ask. “I’m not trying to kill myself. I’m just getting a bit of work done to complement my weight loss, to fix the things that working out is not going to fix.”
“Not if you work long and hard enough,” Sands disagrees.
“Girls, please don’t start arguing,” Riyaan referees. “Plastic surgery is a personal choice and everyone has their opinion about it. If you want surgery, Bella,” Riyaan clasps my hand, “then I’ll support you. I don’t think you need a bit of work done, but if that’s what you want and it makes you happy, then I’m happy.” He gives Sands a glare. “There, see? That was easy. Now kiss and make up.”
“They’re not gay,” Cat informs him.
Sands waves aside the thought. “Never mind. If you don’t mind me prying, how are you going to pay for plastic surgery? Did you win the lottery, too?”
I sip my cappuccino. “I took out a loan against my book advance. Now that there is no book advance, I’ll just have to pay it off a little at a time with the money I get from my newspaper column. I hope to get more writing gigs but right now, I don’t know how. You should read the hateful comments on my blog. I guess I’ll need to invent a pen name and start a new blog on the same topic, or start a new topic.”
“Maybe you can help me on my new blog,” Sands suggests.
I stare at her, mouth gaping. “You started a blog?”
Sands rolls her eyes. “Thanks for your vote of confidence.”
“No, no,” I lay a hand on her arm, “I mean, I’m surprised because you never liked writing before. What’s the blog about?”
“Exercise and dieting,” she says. “It’s more than a blog. I’ve had this idea to start a web site to help people keep track of their exercising and caloric intake with an online diary. Not like a diet plan, but something more realistic, like articles about eating right and ideas for meals and exercises people can do. More of a support plan rather than a regime they have to follow. It will also feature a forum where people can connect and find support. I’ve also been thinking about writing a book.”
“That’s awesome,” I say. “It sounds like something I’d use. Where do I sign up?”
Sands shrugs. “Actually, I need your help getting it off the ground. Can you write web content and make it sound exciting?”
“You bet I can,” I laugh.
“And then Riyaan said I had to link it to social media, which I have no clue how to do.”
“I can do that, too,” I say. “And you should really put an advertisement on singles sites, because there are probably a lot of people on diets on those.”
Sands ventures a smile. “Maybe we can go into business together. I come up with the ideas and you write them down.”
“I’d love to,” I laugh and put my arm around her.
Riyaan’s grin almost doesn’t fit his face. “And they all lived happily ever after,” he claps his hands.
“Are you?” Cat asks.
“’Are you’ what?” I ask.
Cat puts down the spoon and pick up the sugar dispenser. “Are you happy?”
“I think so,” I reply. “I mean, tomorrow is Tiresa’s wedding and I met most of my goals that I wanted to meet by this time, though I’ve lost most of them, but yes, I think I’m finally happy. Happier, at least. But with my surgery tomorrow, I can’t go to the wedding. I no longer have a boyfriend, so showing up on the arm of a handsome gentleman is out of the question, anyway.”
“You and Jae broke up?” Sands asks. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” I nod. “We haven’t talked in a couple weeks. He’s against the surgery and is upset about something I wrote. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”
“Do you still have your list of goals?” Riyaan asks.
I reach for my purse. “They’re here somewhere.” I pull out the crumpled yellow paper and smooth it out on the table. “Wow,” I observe, “those are some pretty selfish goals.”
“Wanting to lose weight, be successful and financially stable is not selfish,” Sands argues. “Neither is finding a good man.”
“I wish I could find a good man,” Riyaan says wistfully.
We laugh at him. “What I mean is that there’s more to life than the outward things. These are all outward goals. In these past several months, I’ve discovered there is more to life than finding a man and a career and achieving the perfect body, because I had most of that and I still wasn’t happy. I may not ever be glamorous or have the perfect body even after tomorrow, but I know who I am now and what I can achieve. I finally respect myself. I can look in the mirror and not be ashamed. And it’s the quality of my relationships with friends and family, which really make life worthwhile.
“She finally gets it,” murmurs Cat.
Bella’s NEW 9 MONTH GOALS
1. To love my body as it is
2. To salvage my career into something greater
3. To be financially stable
4. To be happy as a single woman
5. To be a better mom, friend and daughter
•
“Hello, sweetheart,” Dad says when he answers my call. “Have you heard the news?”
“Dad!” I exclaim. “How are you? What news? How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Calm down, one question at a time,” he laughs. “You sound like we haven’t spoken in ages.”
“We haven’t, and it’s all my fault,” I confess. “I’m sorry. How have your treatments been? Are you sick? Do I need to come over and help you with anything? I’ll need to call Sands for a lift. My car died.”
“Bella, I’m fine. You can borrow my car if you need to. Now give me a chance to get a word in edgewise. Tiresa is having second thoughts and there may not be a wedding.”
I pause and sigh. “That’s a relief,”
“It is?” he
questions, the surprise evident in his voice. “Are you saying that out of jealousy or anger, considering the circumstances?”
“No,” I hurry to reassure him. “I think Tiresa is making a mistake. She can do better than Mika. He’ll just cheat on her and break her heart, like he did to me. I wasn’t going to the wedding anyway because of my surgery.”
“Mama Rose is confident the wedding will go on as planned.”
I laugh. “That’s the Samoan Way. She’ll have her traditional celebration no matter what.”
I hear him chuckle. “Yes, she’s to call me Saturday morning to let me know whether I need to show up to escort Tiresa down the aisle.”
“Wearing a lava lava, no doubt.”
His chuckle turns to full blown laughter. “I think this is one event in which Mama Rose will appreciate me not wearing Samoan attire. Listen, I have to run. Good luck with your surgery and call me if you need anything.”
“Dad, I should be saying the same to you. You’re the one going through chemo, after all.”
“You take care of me just fine,” he declares. “I love you, IssyB.”
“Oh, Dad,” I say, my voice trembling, after hearing his favorite childhood name for me. “I love you, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“When life gives you lemons, add vodka and throw a party.”
FROM BELLA’S BLOG
http://www.thelightersideoflarge.com/ch28
I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Sands grumbles. We’re sitting in the reception area at the daystay surgery centre. With my car towed to the repair shop the day before, Sands grudgingly agreed to drive me to my surgery.
“That’s what best friends are for,” I nudge her. “I really appreciate the favour.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I’m going to find something to snack on. I thought I saw a convenience store down the block.”
“Okay,” I say. “If I’m not here when you get back, I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Good luck,” Sands pats my head and walks out the front door as my phone rings. The caller ID says Mama Rose.
“Hello,” I answer it.
“I’m so glad I reached you in time,” Mama Rose says breathlessly. “The wedding is still on.”
“Thanks for letting me know, but you know I’m still having surgery.”
“Can’t you reschedule it for another day? This is your sister’s wedding. The whole family will be there.”
“Along with my ex as the groom. No, Mama Rose, I’m not rescheduling my surgery.”
She sighs. “Well, no one can say I didn’t do my part to get you to change your mind. So be it. I hope your surgery goes well and you don’t almost die again. Should I stop by tomorrow to check on you?”
“I don’t think I’m going to almost die this time around, but thanks for your concern,” I laugh. “I’ll be fine. Sands is going to stop by tomorrow.”
“All right, all right. I must run. Fi can’t find her shoes and one of the bridesmaids got sick and might not come. I hope nothing else goes wrong. I was up most of the night cooking the - oops! Gotta go now. When it rains, it pours.” She hangs up with a goodbye.
I put my phone back in my purse and cross and uncross my legs and fidget, trying to find a comfortable position in a chair which seems designed as a medieval torture device. No, I decide, it is designed to encourage people to not get lipo, because you need all the extra padding in order to sit here for more than two minutes.
I give up tying to find a comfortable position and pick up a magazine to distract me while waiting for the nurse to call my name, but I can’t concentrate on the words and pictures. I put it down and search through the pile of other periodicals for something better. Instead I find a copy of the Gab. The copy. Blushing with shame, I turn to the page I’m on and carefully, quietly tear it out and stuff it into my purse so no one else can read it.
Your editorial and articles and blog have made him a laughing stock among all his friends and associates. I am surprised he stayed with you for as long as he did. Amanda’s words ring in my ears. I cringe at the thought of Jae reading the exposé. I wonder whether it or the sight of Mika kissing me is the main deterrent to him returning my calls. Maybe he just flat-out hates me now and has washed his hands of me. I don’t blame him.
But I can’t help wanting him to know that I did nothing to spite him. No, I can’t even say that. I did spitefully use the waterbed tsunami anecdote. I sigh. Though it’s over between us, I can’t help but want it to be over with the air cleared, to let him know that I’m not some terrible person after all. It will make it easier for me to move on, knowing that maybe he doesn’t think so ill of me.
I pick up my cell phone and dial him. No surprise, it goes straight to voice mail. “Hi Jae, it’s me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m just calling to
. . . to say goodbye. I understand why you don’t want to talk to me. But I just wanted to let you know that I am not getting back together with Mika. He forced a kiss on me, which is what I assume you saw. And if you saw it, that means you were at my house, and if you were at my house, I assume you wanted to talk then, if not now. Anyway, I’m sorry for embarrassing you with my writing and for causing your company so much trouble. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, then thank you. I just wanted to let you know that you mean a lot to me and you’ve helped me to become a better person.” I pause, reluctant to hang up but not having anything else to say. “I’m just sitting here at the Sunrise Day Surgery Centre waiting for my turn, so, um, well, I’ll let you go. Bye.”
I sigh and look around. I can’t believe I am here. Despite the opposition of the love of my life, despite the incident a few months ago, which almost killed me, despite the misgivings of friends and family, here I sit along with several other women who look model-perfect.
A twinge of guilt nags at me, but I stubbornly push it aside. I want this. I need this. I can’t afford it, but I’m doing it anyway.
I look down at my hips, fitting snugly between the arm rests of the chair. I have spent most of my life not fitting into chairs, taking up even two at a time. I have looked forward to sitting in a booth without the table cutting into my midsection and to grocery shopping without knocking cans off the shelf by a big butt with a mind of its own. I have bornthe muttered insults and disdainful glances of strangers who hate me because of my size in silent misery. I lost the weight, but now I need something more. So here I am, waiting.
“What work are you getting done?” a voice interrupts my reverie. I look up at a bust bursting out of a tight hot-pink tube dress. Only after that do I see the skinny blonde behind the boobs. She looks like she stepped from the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
She shrugs. “They’re fake. My boyfriend gave me his credit card and said to get whatever work done that I want. He’s used to being with really beautiful girls. His ex-wives are all actresses and models. So I figure I need to get rid of my imperfections so that he’ll stay with me.””Pardon me for saying so,” I say “but I think you’re beautiful and perfect as is. Maybe he needs glasses.”
She laughs at my jest. “Well you know how rich, older men are. I don’t think there’s any harm in getting plastic surgery in order to keep a man, do you? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Uh,” I hesitate, “that’s a long story.”
“Are you here for him?”
“Definitely no,” I shake my head.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
Why am I here? I repeat the question to myself. There are lots of whys which led me here. “It all started nine months ago when I found out my ex-husband and my sister were getting married. My friends encouraged me to show up at the wedding with a hot date, but no one wants to date a fat chick. And then my Dad almost died and I realised that I needed to lose weight so I could live a long time and see my children grow up. So I lost weight, found a boyfriend, and started a new career. But I’m still not happy with my body, so I’m getting some
nips and tucks.”
“Is your boyfriend happy about it?” she asks.
“Actually, no,” I admit. “He’s against plastic surgery. We broke up over it and some other issues.”
“Wow,” she stares at me wide-eyed, “so he doesn’t want you to change anything?” The concept is evidently a new one to her. “I’m afraid my boyfriend will break up with me if I don’t get a nose job. He also said my hips are too big, so I’m getting those reduced. And my ears stick out too far, so those are getting pinned back. He calls me Dumbo.” She brushes back her long, silky blonde hair to reveal her ears.
I stare at this beautiful woman, wondering how in the world her boyfriend can find fault with her. Her nose is Roman and elegant; her hips are not too big; and her ears, well, they do stick out a bit, but with cascades of gorgeous hair covering them, they are hard to see. As a matter of fact, I think the way they stick out is endearing. They make her look less like a perfect doll and more real, more human.
As I examine her, I realise that the more work she gets done, the more she’s going to look like everyone else. With enough surgery, she will completely change herself into a new person. And for what, a man who may dump her? A man who doesn’t accept her as she is? Someone with her looks probably never had a Friday night without a date. Why is she stooping to make herself into someone she’s not?
I look around the room. Each woman is unique in height, weight, and hair colour. Noses, facial structures, ears, lips, jawbones are all different. Some legs are long; others are short. Some arms are stick thin; others show flab. And yet they are beautiful in their own ways. Why do any of them want to change?