Waisted

by Randy Susan Meyers

  Clancy, staying up all night, rocking Libby, and then driving them from New Hampshire and back at two in the morning, when only the rhythm of wheels on the road soothed their infant daughter’s colic.

  Clancy proposing at midnight in the Top of the Hub restaurant, when February 13 turned to February 14, holding out a diamond ring sparkling just like the sky surrounding them.

  Lying in bed with infant Libby, her fingers twined in Clancy, each soft breath of their baby a miracle.

  She dug deeper, craving the exquisiteness of their love back in her heart:

  The two of them in bed, side by side, imagining the color of the two of them spun in the baby curled inside Alice.

  Their early wild lovemaking, drunk on each other.

  The commitment Clancy and his parents had in believing that family mosaics could save the world.

  Alice didn’t want to stop loving Clancy. Her desperation not to make a mistake—not to be a mistake—for her family not to shatter at Libby’s feet, overwhelmed her.

  Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wished it were possible to tug the email back from the ether in which she sent it two days ago. Perhaps she should pray People would cut her words down to one or two bland sentences. Damn praying. She must call the reporter.

  Exhaustion overwhelmed her. Tears ran down her face as if her taps had been opened.

  She didn’t want to be alone.

  She didn’t want to be a single mother.

  She didn’t want to be with this Clancy.

  CHAPTER 30

  * * *

  DAPHNE

  Daphne snuck up on the scale as if approaching it slowly would trick the machine.

  “Weigh yourself every day.” Alice offered the advice as though it were a secret formula designed to fool the gods of flesh, acting like she was the only person in the entire world who ever thought of using a scale.

  Daphne kept it up for a bit. Listened to Alice—and Ivy—who also swore by this supposed foolproof method.

  “Choose what you consider a danger weight! If you hit that number, cut back!”

  Daphne quickly slipped off the daily weigh-in wagon. She’d trusted too many cures and sure things over the years designed for the same goal: Don’t eat. Don’t enjoy.

  Like the smuggest of men, the scale mocked her. Scales seemed so damn masculine, particularly the machines in doctors’ offices, standing above her with their air of superiority, their broad shoulders meant to keep her in place, the metal scornful as she stepped on, smirking when the numbers settled.

  None, of course, worse than the giant monster in the mansion.

  Daphne had avoided weighing in during the weeks of December’s holiday overeating, beginning with the indulgence of Chanukah brisket cooked for hours, sealed in apricot leather, smothered with her secret gravy, falling into succulent strings of soft, moist meat, and ending with Christmas dinner at Marissa and Lili’s, complete with roast beef, buttermilk biscuits, and pecan pie.

  The mirror revealed her round, puffy face. Her hair massed in wild curls. Botticelli, Sam often said. If only. She wondered how many ounces her hair weighed. Perhaps she should shear it off before stepping on the scale.

  She tapped the cold white metal. Double zeros appeared. The ideal weight.

  Truly lovely women pared themselves to nothing.

  Daphne stepped on, holding her breath, but then worried the held breath might register, so she exhaled. She closed her eyes and made a wish: she promised God she would do nothing but good deeds for the rest of January. All she asked in exchange was a weight gain totaling no more than two pounds. Two pounds would bring ecstasy. Five, and she’d spiral down into hell.

  She didn’t record her weight. Unlike Alice, who wrote each day’s number in a journal, straight as soldiers, no doubt, she had no desire to document these numbers. Anyway, Daphne didn’t need reminders: each time she stepped on the scale, the verdict tattooed itself permanently in her brain.

  The number appeared.

  Eight pounds? She’d gained eight pounds?

  Just where had the fuckers landed?

  That morning, she’d woken content, pressed to Sam, back-to-back, sharing their sleepy warmth. The sun showed through the windows and danced on their bright-yellow winter comforter. The alarm went off. He smiled and kissed her shoulder.

  She’d ground coffee beans, the rich scent building anticipation for the daily pleasure brought on by that first cup. Audrey wandered in, poured a glass of cranberry juice, mumbled “Morning,” and blew her a kiss. The newspapers had been placed on the doorstep just right. Happiness reigned.

  Until she stepped onto a metal contraption.

  Moments ago, pixie dust surrounded her. Now Daphne loathed herself.

  A long-dormant desire for a new diet book hit. Before work, Daphne planned to stop at Newtonville Books.

  • • •

  Her first client arrived twenty minutes early. Knowing the likelihood that the nervous young girls Bianca sent might bolt, the receptionist had brought her into the private waiting room usually reserved for celebrities.

  Pro bono clients tended to go into a toxic stage of shock when confronted with their faces in the harsh lighting. These girls knew what they looked like; they needed no “before.” They avoided their reflections whenever possible. Whether acne, scarring, hyperpigmentation, or facial hemangiomas troubled them, shame accompanied the skin disorders. People regularly came up to these girls with ill-considered ideas and remedies to cure the problems. Baking soda! Get a tan! Spread toothpaste on your zits! Everyone considered herself or himself an expert.

  TIP: People who are overweight don’t want unsolicited advice. Guess what. We know we’re fat. We live in homes with mirrors.

  —TV personality Al Roker

  TRUTH: What he said.

  An uncle once came up to Daphne at a funeral to talk about how fat her aunt had become—her aunt lying in the casket. He’d shaken his head. “What a shame. Natalie was such a beautiful girl. You better watch yourself. You don’t want to end up like her.”

  Thanks for the new goal, Uncle Chickie: dieting for a thin, desirable corpse.

  “Scary doing this, huh?”

  The girl nodded. She clutched a worn backpack.

  “Do you mind?” Daphne asked, gesturing toward the bag. “Can I put it safely over there?” She indicated a low table to the side.

  Constance loosened her hands so that Daphne could take it. “Wow, what is this?” One side of the fabric showed a painted collage of landmarks: the NYC skyline, the Eiffel Tower, the Painted Desert, the Sphinx and more, one melting into another, making a swirl of the world’s jewels.

  “I painted it.” Constance’s words were barely audible.

  “It’s phenomenal. How did you choose which places to paint?”

  She shrugged, but a small smile appeared. “Those are places I want to visit.”

  “And you shall. A talented girl like you.” Daphne placed a hand on Constance’s shoulder, to encourage, comfort; to help her adjust to being touched.

  Waist-length, tangled ropes of dyed black hair almost covered the girl’s face. “The first thing I’m going to do,” Daphne explained, “is put on this cape. You ready?”

  The girl shrugged her assent.

  Daphne shook out the silky silver material, lifted the girl’s hair, and snapped the back closure.

  “Now I’m going to pull your hair back with a headband. Do you mind?”

  Constance’s shaking hands gripped the cape fabric tight enough to crease it, even though Daphne had explicitly chosen the material for wrinkling resistance. She stiffened as though awaiting a painful surgical procedure to be performed without any anesthesia.

  Daphne concentrated on which color headband would be the least problematic against the girl’s massive skin eruptions, racing through a montage of imagined snapshots, until choosing the translucent plastic. She slipped it on and fluffed out the girl’s hair, so safety cloaked her.

  “See th
ese products?” Daphne pointed to the tray on her rolling table, covered with items from CVS. Using hard-to-get or expensive cosmetics guaranteed failure. Whether in a shelter or a motel, with the teen’s mother searching for safe housing while also working double shifts as a hotel maid, as Bianca had told her, replacing lost or stolen cosmetics was close to impossible. Expecting Constance to buy a brand that Sephora or a department store carried would be like asking her to replenish a skin care line from the moon.

  “I’m going to give you a set of all the ones I choose for you. With written instructions, because, really, who in this world remembers everything they hear the first time? Not me. If you lose anything, come by, and I’ll give you replacements.”

  Constance gave the barest and quickest of smiles. “Thanks.”

  “These are your helpers, to use while Bianca heals your skin. Soon you’ll hardly need these.” She tipped Constance’s chin, touching her face, feeling the girl flinch. “We’re going to make you so pretty. Playing up all your very best features. Your skin will fade into the background. We’ll see those gorgeous big brown eyes. And the shape of your face! Did you know you’re a perfect heart?”

  “A heart?” Constance met her eyes for the first time.

  “Yup. Imagine what you might have had if not for winning the facial shape lottery: a square. A circle. A trapezoid!”

  Constance actually laughed; Daphne’s spirits lifted. “Okay. I’m teasing with that one. There’s a pear. Oval. Diamond. Rectangle. Inverted triangle—be glad you don’t have that one!”

  “What do you have? You’re so pretty.”

  “Oh, no, hon. I’m what’s known in the trade as ‘makeup pretty.’ Not much naked-faced, but able to paint myself pretty. My face is round, bordering on oblong. No prize from the genetic factory. While you, though you lost the skin trophy, have what we call perfect bone structure. Count yourself lucky. Skin, you can fix. Bones are forever.”

  Daphne never minced words about the skin conditions of her clients, but she gave back in triplicate by hammering away at their best attributes. Teenage girls without homes focused only on their faults, so Daphne changed the story line.

  “Ugly and beautiful are only a few millimeters apart.” Daphne ran her finger gently along the outline of Constance’s face. “A heart pleases most. Science has proven that people react the most positively when faced with the very dimensions that you have. The sharp jawline. The perfectly aligned, large eyes. Fringed, I might say, with outstanding lashes. One coat of mascara will always be enough for you, young lady. Any more, and that lily will be way overgilded.”

  Constance sat higher and straighter. “How long do you think it will be before the medicine your sister is giving me works?”

  Daphne stepped back and evaluated the girl. Constance’s case appeared to have never been treated in any way other than harsh washing, as though she’d hoped to scrub away the problem. A homeless kid without health insurance didn’t have a chance against cystic acne.

  Some would question why Bianca and Daphne worked on this, securing a home for families surely being the more important problem. Folks didn’t understand that the sisters could give gobs of money for safe permanent housing—which, in fact, they did—but no agency would spend a dime on improving skin for these kids. Something that drastically improved their lives.

  And few women understood as well as the Bernays sisters the value placed on beauty.

  “You have to ask her, but I believe you’ll have a new face in about five to six months.”

  The girl appeared stricken, though Daphne was confident that Bianca had already shared this time line with Constance. block1ing out the unwelcome happened all the time. “That’s forever!”

  “I know it feels that way, but the time goes fast, because your skin improves a bit more every single day. Every morning, your complexion will become smoother. But today, right this minute, you are special: you’re strong and beautiful and oh-so-talented. Plus, while you’re waiting for your skin to become what you want to see, I’m going to give you everything you need to paint yourself pretty if you feel like it. Just like me. Then you can concentrate on more important things.”

  CHAPTER 31

  * * *

  ALICE

  By lunchtime, writing and revising emails to her People connection had driven Alice mad. When in doubt, Call Sharon Jane had been her maxim since high school. So, she called.

  Following the three-minute conversation, she hung up the phone and escaped her office.

  Twenty minutes later, Alice parked across from the red doors of the Menino YMCA in Hyde Park. Despite the Cobb being replete with elliptical machines and exercise classes, Alice never used the facilities. Sweating where she worked was impossible. Staff interrupted to remind her of supplies needed. Patrons settled on the treadmill next to her so they could fill her ear with complaints about locker room messes. Workouts became more teeth grinding than endorphin-inducing. Not that Alice previously spent much time working out anywhere, but since returning from the mansion, she often joined Sharon Jane at the Y, where they swam, rode stationary bikes, and, their favorite, sweated in Zumba, the class where she was headed today.

  Sharon Jane waited for Alice upstairs. Her friend was a carved-down version of Susannah, her thick legs encased in yellow leggings, and her surprisingly thinner top half covered in a worn purple Prince tee shirt. S.J. chatted with an older white woman, the owner of the local coffee shop, outside the Y’s exercise rooms. The waiting area was filled with the diverse population that made Hyde Park a virtual United Nations. The class attracted a mixed crowd—in age, race, and culture. Of the regulars who fancied themselves co-instructors, there was a teenager with Down syndrome, a seventyish woman with the body of an Olympian, and a pair of sisters who glared at anyone who talked during class.

  The actual teacher, a doctor with a passion for leading Zumba, brought so much joy to her work, Alice considered asking her where she practiced medicine.

  The class was a montage of body types attracted to the mix of music—from Afro house to Brazilian samba, with klezmer providing an occasional aural change.

  Susan Jane patted her companion’s age-spotted arm and then walked up to Alice. “Her son is in the hospital. She called his problem wasting disease. I think she means AIDS. Poor thing.”

  Alice nodded in sympathy as she tugged Susan Jane toward a more private area. Sharing S.J. with others, no matter the tragedy, wasn’t why Alice had played hooky from work. Sadness always managed to find her friend. Since high school, Alice competed for attention from S.J. with Latin School’s neediest, pleading their cases to Sharon Jane, the Oprah of the classroom.

  “How are you?” Alice asked.

  “Do you actually care at this moment?” S.J. tugged the bottom of her tee shirt to cover her hips. “Weren’t you the one begging for my attention an hour ago?”

  “Allow me two minutes to pretend I’m not the most self-centered person on earth. How’s your husband, mother, kids, and work life?”

  Sharon Jane held up her left hand and wiggled one finger at a time. “Working himself to death, monitoring everyone in the retirement village, still the laziest tweens on earth, and filled with coughs, cramps, and drug problems. You?”

  “I think I ruined my marriage with an email.” Alice shared everything from her anger at Clancy’s reactions to their anti-Waisted video, to answers she’d previously given People, the thought of which now roiled in her gut like a greasy burger.

  “Guess you forgot the wait-ten-minutes-before-pressing-Send rule.”

  “You do that with every email? Even you’re not that damn wise.”

  “I do it with delicate work emails,” Sharon Jane said. “Or when I’m angry. Most of all, I do it when I might be—I don’t know—maybe ruining my marriage.”

  “Christ. You think this might be that bad?” Alice had just spent the entire drive over trying to convince herself of the opposite.

  “What do you think?” Sharon Jane tilted her hea
d in lawyerly fashion.

  The words Alice wrote to the reporter appeared as though on a teleprompter. “However, I was disappointed by one massive gap in his research. Sex slavery . . . I felt as though I stared down a maw of missing information when I looked at the early footage.”

  “Sometimes we do something because we’re too scared to go after it directly,” Sharon Jane said. “Other times we’re just damn stupid. Or entranced by ourselves. Which way were you going? Come on. Class is starting.”

  They joined the race for the back of the room. Alice considered the question as she moved to the fast music. As the woman in front of her struggled to move her behind in a twerking motion, Alice thought of honesty. Zeke prized that trait, raised his girl and boy to live a truthful life. But her father also talked about compassion, often repeating the words of the nineteenth-century writer, feminist, and abolitionist Alice Cary. How her parents loved finding namesake role models.

  “ ‘There’s nothing so kingly as kindness, and nothing so royal as truth,’ ” he’d recite. Then he’d switch to Zeke philosophy. “But sometimes truthfulness and kindness fight. Truth must hew to the golden rule: doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. So, use truth as education, illustration, and edification. But don’t use precision or facts as punishment or to bully someone.”

  Alice spent years considering that wisdom. Now, with the question dangling in her own life, she wondered, Was she educating or punishing?

  “Step right. Step left. Reach for the sky and pull the ropes!” The teacher raised her arms higher than Alice thought human physiology would allow.

  Sharon Jane appeared ecstatic as she pumped her arms. S.J.’s husband spent ten hours a day, minimum, away from their house, leaving his wife to manage three daughters between the ages of nine and twelve, all while working and ferrying her mother to chemotherapy appointments, and yet S.J. usually appeared happy. Certainly cheerier than Alice.