Waisted

by Randy Susan Meyers

  “Miss Alice!” Keely, apparently having escaped the after-school program, grabbed Alice as she locked her office. “Are you leaving? Are you going home? Are you getting your little girl? Will you bring her in to play and—”

  “Whoa!” Alice stopped Keely before the breathless little girl collapsed. She took her hand and led her to the chair by the check-in desk in the hall.

  “Okay, here are my answers: Yes, I’m leaving for the night to go home. My little girl is with my mother.” Alice lifted Keely onto her lap. “She’s been here before, but not lately. Should I make sure to bring her in one afternoon when you’re here?”

  Keely released another torrent. “Yes. Bring her! She can be like my little sister. ’Cause she’s younger, right? Do people like you better skinny?”

  Alice didn’t know where to start. Keely reminded her of the puppy in The Poky Little Puppy, all plump and adorable. Did this eight-year-old girl already consider herself less than, and had Alice made it much worse?

  “I think people like me the same.” She hugged the girl. “Nobody likes me better or less.”

  Which was a lie.

  “Everybody thinks you look so good. All the teachers. You know. But why did you have to go away for so long? Didn’t your little girl miss you?” Keely gave her a sideways glance, changing from poky little puppy to nosy neighbor, arms akimbo and all. The little girl was the first person to outright demand answers about the absurdity of Alice’s running to the mansion.

  “She did miss me, honey. Yes, she did. And I missed her. So much. And you know what I learned?”

  Keely stared with wide-open eyes, her puff of a ponytail bouncing as she wiggled. “That being fat is just as good as being skinny?”

  Everything inside Alice shrank at the question. No, Keely. Being fat sucks. People treat you like shit. Because of Vogue? Husbands? Culture? Heck, Alice should write a thesis on the intersectionality of misogyny, fat shaming, faux health concerns. And cultural differences through the ages.

  But what should she tell this amazing little girl?

  “Keely, baby. You can be fat and be the best person in the world. You can be skinny and be the meanest rat around. You can be skinny and sweet as sugar. You can be fat and be rotten to the core. You don’t always get to choose skinny or fat—and most of us are somewhere in the middle. But you can always choose what kind of person you’ll be. Concentrate on that.”

  “Being good?”

  “Not just being good, but being smart and strong and finding your special talents.”

  She ran a finger down Keely’s silky cheek. “Okay, cookie. I have to pick up Libby.”

  “So, are you going to be fat again, Miss Alice? Everyone says you will. That it’s just gonna come right back on.”

  Alice pressed her lips against words she shouldn’t say. Answering Keely as though the child meant to hurt her wouldn’t do. “You know what, baby? That’s always the million-dollar question. ’Cause don’t we all love to eat? And aren’t we all being told to be skinny? So, am I gonna be fat again?” Alice shrugged her shoulders. “I hope not. But more, I hope it’s not the most important thing about me.”

  • • •

  With Libby tucked in, the dishes washed, the living room straightened, and the mail sorted, Alice couldn’t avoid talking to Clancy one more minute. She poured eight ounces (measured) of white wine (120 calories) into a crystal glass.

  The austere wineglass stuck out its tongue at her. When they registered for wedding gifts, she wanted heavier, more ornate stemware. She still remembered the dramatically etched Waterford Dungarvan, how she enjoyed running her fingers over the sharp delineations of the design, but Clancy would have none of it.

  She carried the glass to the living room, where he sat with a pile of paperwork. So very handsome, her husband.

  Sometimes when she saw him with Libby, she worried whether his love for his daughter was built purely on the protection of fatherhood or if it included too many whiffs of narcissism. Beautiful Libby resembled Clancy. Alice feared he loved their daughter as an extension of himself.

  What would he do when Libby hit the inevitable awkward stage; when she cried about her thighs, as Alice had to her mother? As much as Alice resented her mother’s brushing off Alice’s complaints about her every-single-thing-wrong, she now appreciated that two people in this world—Bebe and Zeke—always thought her perfect precisely as God had formed her.

  The idea of a plump Libby having to face a rigid Clancy hurt her heart.

  “Can I get you one?” Alice held up her glass and prayed that he’d say yes to an alcohol blur.

  Clancy looked up. His eyebrows were drawn together. “I never drink when I work. You know that.”

  “I was hoping we might talk for a bit.”

  “Can it hold? These contracts are going out in two days.” He reached for his mug, filled with his nightly decaffeinated green tea.

  “Can you put it aside for a moment?” Alice sat beside him and touched his shoulder. “I need to share something.”

  Share sounded better than tell. As though they were in partnership fighting Acrobat.

  Clancy lowered the sheaf of papers to his lap, keeping them in his hands, ready to lift them back up to his face the moment Alice finished. But, she noted, his face softened as he studied her, perhaps appreciating the effort made for him, for this discussion.

  Soft ivory cashmere fell off her right shoulder. A delicate gold chain with a religious medal from her mother-in-law hung from her neck. It was Priscilla, the patron saint of marriages.

  Alice had invoked Daphne’s artistry when making up her face that evening, using virginal tones, letting all drama weigh in on her eyes, pouring out love and, most important, trust.

  Please believe in me, Clancy.

  “Please believe in me, Clancy.” The words escaped, as though her prayers and wishes had taken on their own volition.

  Her husband appeared startled. He placed a hand on her cheek and caressed her. “Of course I believe in you, mi amor.”

  “I have to tell you about a . . . a project I worked on.” Dressing this up was difficult.

  “What kind of project?” He leaned back, professorial, ready to give advice. “Something going on at the Cobb?”

  Dive in.

  Rip off the bandage.

  “It’s about Waisted.”

  He laid the papers on the table, pushing them into a neat pile, sitting back with the blank expression she recognized as pre-anger.

  “What about it?” He rested his right ankle on his left leg.

  “Well, we—”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Me, Hania, Daphne, and her children.” She didn’t include Mike.

  “Her children?”

  “They’re in high school and college.” The last thing Alice wanted was to blurt out an incoherent version of their plan. “But that’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?” Clancy shifted. He reached for her wineglass, drinking half of it. “Clearly, you find it important. And something about which you are quite nervous.”

  When Clancy fell into his boarding school Anglophile speech patterns, he showed himself to be on the highest alert.

  “We made a video. About the horrors of what we went through. Revealing their methods: the humiliation, the lies, the hatred. How they laughed at us behind our backs. How their point was to see how much they could break us before we broke and how much—”

  “You made a movie?”

  “A video. A thirty-minute short. Just for YouTube.”

  “You made a video?” His voice rose. “And put it on YouTube?”

  “Nobody will—”

  He stood and poured a full glass of wine. “Now you’ve made things very difficult,” he said.

  “This isn’t about you. The movie is about me. My humiliation. I—”

  “You chose to go there of your own free will. You signed that contract.”

  Alice stood and went face-to-face with him. “Just who
are you standing up for? Marcus? Acrobat? How about that they made a fool of all those women and me?”

  “Jesus Christ, Alice. Why did you not come to me? How could you put out a film about important people in my field and not check with me? How do you think this will look?”

  She stared down at her shaking hands. “My name isn’t on the credits.” She took a deep breath followed by one more. “I made that decision. Because I was aware you might otherwise be damaged.”

  “Are you in it?”

  “Everyone is in it.”

  “You got permission from everyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mirabile dictu! You’ve learned something.” He pressed his fingers to his temples. “You’re in it. People will see you. They’ll recognize you as my wife.”

  “You are completely missing the point.”

  “I guess I am. When you chose to go away and lose weight, you knew everything would be filmed. And you didn’t ask for my input. Notice that I am not using the word permission. Take note. Aren’t you the one always talking about communicating? Well, darling, you didn’t communicate about going there. And you didn’t tell me about this so-called video.”

  “Well, you sure let me know how much you hated me fat. Free will? Decisions? Or was it because you shamed me until I had to do something drastic?”

  “Don’t blame your awful decisions on me.”

  “I didn’t tell you about the video because I wanted you to have deniability. At least, I thought that was my motive. But maybe it was more. Maybe I was scared that you’d never defend me.”

  Clancy appeared stricken. For a moment, Alice saw behind his blank eyes to sadness. Then the curtain came back down. “When did you ever put me before anything?” he asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve always loved you, Alice, no matter what you may think. I fell for you so hard. You stunned me with the gifts you possessed. You were magnificent—”

  “Were, were, were—”

  “Stop. Let this be about something other than how I disappointed you. For one moment.” Clancy appeared teary. “Yes. You dazzled me when we met. When the beginning scintillation wore off, I fell in love with you. You and your entire damn family. They were so incredibly warm, I thought. But your parents, your brother, they never accepted me. I knew what they thought. Uptight Clancy. Your mother acted as though you married a piece of wood. They embraced me only when I became Libby’s father.”

  “What are you saying? That my family didn’t treat you right, so you decided I was too fat? That you flirted with Harper because my mother wasn’t warm enough toward you?”

  “I’m saying that . . .” Clancy fell against the couch cushions. He held out his hands in confusion and gestured around the room. “Look at this place. You hate it. I know. You act as though I rammed it down your throat, but you never said a word while we shopped and planned. After it seeped out and out, until making a beautiful home for our family became perceived as an attack on you. Or so I thought.”

  Alice opened her mouth to argue and then shut it. Though her house gleamed, resembling a spread from Architectural Digest, Macon mocked it, and her parents tolerated it with a smile. The only room where Alice felt comfort was Libby’s room.

  “I don’t want to fight,” Clancy said. “Look. You’re putting me in a hell of a spot with the video. But just like everything with us, you’re fire and I’m ice. You’re always ready to react and burn your way right through a problem. I need to consider every move and know the end game. I like steel beams. You like cushions.”

  “You don’t really even like who I am, do you?” Alice asked.

  “I love you more than anything in the world. Do I like you? Do you like me? What do you think? If you hadn’t become pregnant, would we have gotten married? You knew where I came from. Nobody teased me with love when I was a kid. My parents didn’t make it clear morning, noon, and night that everything about me was a gift from the gods. I was expected to serve God. Not the other way around. Do I like you? Hell, Alice, I’d like to be you.”

  Alice’s chest hurt, seeing how far apart they remained, how locked she and Clancy were into their personal pain and fear.

  Alice realized that Clancy, too, was lost. And that each was waiting for the other to change. Both wanted to be loved unconditionally. But neither wanted the other just the way they were, and this just about broke Alice in two.

  CHAPTER 28

  * * *

  DAPHNE

  Daphne watched her reflection as Ivy held up a dark-navy dress, and then a lighter shade, cornflower blue, wondering if they would reach the same conclusions. Unlike her stupidity before her sister’s wedding, Daphne knew enough to have Ivy help dress her for the upcoming press conference.

  “Who thought that a week before Christmas the world would give a damn about a hoax involving seven fat women holed up in a mansion?” Daphne asked.

  “Who wouldn’t find that interesting?” Ivy said. “A more pertinent question: Who knew there would be seven women crazy enough to end up at a place like that in the first place?” Ivy substituted deep-purple fabric for the shades of blue cloth.

  “I like that better,” Daphne said. “Why do you sound so angry every time I talk about the video?”

  “Angry? Who’s styling you for the press?” Ivy’s answer could be related to either of Daphne’s statements. Ivy walked to a rack of clothes, flipping through dresses, blouses, and skirts. One caught her attention, she frowned, and then released the item.

  “You’re judging me, sure as the scale I now climb on nearly daily,” Daphne said.

  Ivy held up a black sheath, considered it, and jammed it back.

  “What’s wrong with that one?” Daphne asked.

  “Unsuitable neckline. You are not a princess neck person.”

  “What am I, then?”

  Ivy stood in front of her, hands firmly on hips, and cocked her head. “We’ve been best friends for how long? And yet I know more about your most flattering neckline than the depths of your despair.” She spoke with her trademark flippancy, but Daphne caught sadness underneath.

  “It’s not you, it’s me,” Daphne said.

  “What, are we breaking up?”

  “Never.” Daphne twirled the chair around to face Ivy. The pill she’d allowed herself earlier now brought forth dry-mouthed speed talking. “I tried to hide from myself, not just from you. Despair? Yes, I admit I’m in the midst of it. But why does that make you angry? If I seem obsessed, blame my constant battle to look like more than the sum—the pieces—of my body parts. That’s what I feel like. My neck? A bit less thick now, but still too short. My stomach? Don’t get me started. The only improvement that I am certain of is that I can wriggle into Spanx without cutting off all my circulation. My upper arms still wave bye and hi, but they’re—”

  “They’re nothing but fine,” Ivy said. “They can hold up your hands and lift weights. So what if they wobble a bit? Who gives a damn except you?”

  “I’m not allowed to care about my arms?” Resentment rose as she held back the words she wanted to say. “Or, again, be more than ‘fine’?”

  “You might find it refreshing to concentrate on something besides your arms. And your stomach. And your chin. And—”

  Daphne ripped away the swath of material draping her and pushed out of the chair. “What the hell? Am I not allowed to enjoy something I wanted for so long?” She held out her arms. “Just what you wanted. I’m not draped in black schmattas. See this? A sweater that doesn’t end below my knees. Pants without an elastic waist. I’m wearing jeans! That thrills me. So, what’s your problem?”

  “My problem? Your problem. You look terrific. But you were terrific before. Your obstacle was in your head.”

  “My head? May I remind you that you found Waisted and encouraged me to go?”

  “I encouraged you to find a way to make your pain go away. I thought this would help. I was wrong. You’re like a junkie who quit but who sees s
yringes filled with heroin dance around screeching ‘Shoot me up! Shoot me up!’ You keep staring at your arms, hoping just not having tracks will make it all better.”

  Ivy took her by the shoulders and turned her to the mirror. “This is you. Are you going to win a modeling contract with Vogue? No. But is that what you want? Look at yourself, for goodness’ sake.”

  Daphne stared and tried to piece together who was in front of her. “Every time I eat anything that isn’t a carrot or the equivalent, I get emotional hives. Yes. I hold my breath until I weigh myself. The number that appears rules my entire day. All day I wonder, Am I fat? Am I normal? If you drew an outline of me, would it show a normal-sized person?”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Thanks. Now I’ll have to redo my damn makeup.”

  Ivy plucked tissues from a red holder and dabbed. “Oh, honey. I didn’t want to make you cry. Once again, my timing sucked. Just thank God you don’t date me. Imagine the horror. I only wanted to break that shell of terror, not traumatize you.”

  She wiped one last tear. “Good as new. This stuff stays like iron, right? Waterproof, I assume. What brand?”

  Daphne shrugged, even knowing it made her appear more teenage than Audrey.

  “All I wanted to say was stop being ruled by the scale. Start living a larger life,” Ivy said.

  “How about a better axiom?”

  “Nitpicky, aren’t you?” Ivy grabbed a sweater from the rack and held it up below Daphne’s neck. “This one. Come on. We’re gonna make you a tough girl.”

  She flipped through the rack, stopping to pick out a pink camisole.

  “Pink for tough?” Daphne tried to imagine what look Ivy aimed at achieving.

  “Almost purple. Which you liked. Now, wait for it.” She peered at her. “Stand up.”

  Daphne stood and spun around.

  “I like the black cords. But you need the right boots. Eight, right?” Without waiting for confirmation—Ivy sized up a person’s dimensions in less than a minute—she took off her broken-in Frye motorcycle boots and handed them to Daphne.

  “But those are yours!”