The F Word

by Liza Palmer

  “She’s lovely,” Mom says to Ben.

  “Yeah, she’s all right,” Ben says, laughing. “No, she’s embarrassingly together.”

  “We’d better head on out,” Mrs. Stanhope says. She and Joyce Chen say their goodbyes and continue on to the parking lot. No talk of the previous happenings. Once again—these are true professionals at the long game.

  “I’ll meet you at La Monarca?” Mom asks.

  “Oh, sure,” I say, catching on a bit too late.

  “Good seeing you again, Ben. Please say hello to your mother,” Mom says.

  “I will,” Ben says. Mom gives me a smile and walks on like nothing has happened. “I didn’t know you came here?”

  “I do Swimtastics with my mom and her friends every Sunday morning,” I say.

  “Swimtastics?” Ben asks.

  “I think they think it’s a blend of swimming and gymnastics, but…”

  “Kind of falls apart.”

  “Maybe it’s a German word that has no English translation.”

  Ben laughs. “I’d better get in there before the girls go off the high dive again,” he says.

  “Again?”

  “I know I should have been mad, but there’s no way I would have had the guts to do that at their age. I think I just was proud more than anything.”

  “Even Tilly?”

  “She started it.”

  “I’ll walk with you a little,” I say. He smiles and we start back toward the entrance to the pool. We fall into silence.

  I feel emptied out. Lighter, but emptied out. I don’t know what’s real anymore. And because of that, I don’t quite know how to be here with Ben. Is this even real? Or is this just another scene from whatever movie I thought I’ve been in for the last however many years? I look over at him.

  No. This is real. I knew Ben Dunn when I was still the Fat Me. More importantly, Ben Dunn knew the Fat Me. Knows the Fat Me. She can’t vandalize these memories, because the harsh reality of Ben’s and my shared history is threaded into their DNA. There are no surprises here. There is no new layer that I’ve missed.

  Ben slows as he gets to the entrance. I want to touch him. I scan his body. The sweatshirt that’s listing open, the broad shoulders, the stubbly jawline, the untied sneakers.

  “You’re going to break your neck,” I say, motioning to his shoes.

  “You sound like me,” he says, smiling. People are streaming in and out of the pool.

  “Next thing you know, we’ll actually be found dead in a ditch somewhere,” I say.

  “Our mothers wouldn’t know what to do first: mourn our loss or yell ‘I told you so,’” he says.

  Before I know what’s happening, I lunge into him for a hug. His arms tighten around me and I tuck my face deep into the crook of his neck. The smell of soap and fabric softener fills me up. He puts his hand on the back of my head.

  “Hey … hey … I got you,” he says. I can feel his deep voice in my chest. I bury my face deeper. “I got you.” I breathe. And just let myself be held by him. I don’t hurry the moment and neither does he. We finally break apart, and look at each other for a moment. He leans in. So slightly. Mere centimeters. But, it’s enough. He catches himself. Comes back into our surroundings. A smile. And he leans back what now feels like miles.

  “Swimtastics just really makes me emotional,” I say finally. And he throws his head back and laughs. I watch him and smile. “You’d better get going.” He nods.

  “Speaking of going—”

  “That’s … wow, you’re better than that.”

  “Am I? Sometimes I’m not so sure.” We fall into another expanding silence. “So, back to getting going. I know this … I have to go because Gretchen is cheerleading in it, but…,” Ben starts and stops. I wait. Confused.

  “In the pool?” I ask.

  “No,” Ben says. Laughs. “Homecoming week.”

  “Oh.”

  “You haven’t gotten the emails from Shannon Shimasaki?”

  “Shannon Shimasaki hates me.” Of course, I’ve gotten the emails from Shannon Shimasaki.

  “Never stopped her from sending an email,” he says. I nod.

  “I don’t think I need to remind you that high school wasn’t that great for me.”

  His face is wary. He knows exactly where I’m going with this. This doesn’t stop me. “Not all of us were the king of the school.”

  “Yeah, the king who flunked out of the college he got a full ride to because he partied too much, who now finds himself renting a house and driving the same car his mother gave him after his second marriage fell apart. That’s right, kids. Second marriage. So, for those in the nosebleed seats, I have one child from my first marriage and two from the second. I’m not sure which I’m going to enjoy more. The looks of pure glee on people’s faces as I tell them the story of my now-middling life or hearing about what a complete dick I was to people and wondering if anything has changed. What I hope? Is that someone will point to me during the game and tell some bullying little shit if he doesn’t watch it he may just turn out like Ben Dunn.”

  “Are you seriously asking me to go to homecoming with you?”

  “As friends.”

  “As friends?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” I say. I’m too raw. Too broken down.

  “What? What were you going to say?”

  “On top of the fact that, no matter how shitty my marriage is, I am still married—”

  “Your marriage is shitty?”

  “Yeah, but that … that’s not the point.”

  “Can’t it be a little of the point?”

  “Why didn’t you ever ask me before?” Of course, I’m crying now. Because why wouldn’t I round out this blissfully humiliating morning by sobbing in front of Ben Dunn. He steps closer. “Why are you only asking me now that you need proof you’ve been redeemed?”

  “What? That’s not why I’m asking you,” he says.

  “God, I would have done anything to have gone to homecoming with you. It’s all I wanted.”

  “I thought you hated me.”

  “No.” A sob escapes. Ben pulls me into him for a hug. “I loved you.” I hear Ben struggling with what to say; emotion and pain keep swallowing up his words. Trapdoors are blown open. Incredible Hulks kick balls over fences. Sweaty Marbles roll around with abandon.

  The Fat Me has spoken.

  It was love, not hate, that transformed me into the villain I became. My origin story. It was the need to protect my heart that compelled me first, to put on the armor of the weight and second, to become the New Olivia Morten, Numb Robot. It was why I settled for genuine like. Love hurt. Genuine like can last ten years without a scratch, but real love scars you forever.

  I break from Ben. He nods. He starts to say something. Decides against it. One last smile and he disappears into the pool entrance. And I just stand there. A group of ladies rolling pieces of luggage filled with their swimming accouterment file past me. I smooth my sweater down. Feel something. Me. I’m real.

  I’m real.

  I walk toward the parking lot, beep my car unlocked, and climb inside. I drive to La Monarca in a haze. I can’t think about any one thing that’s happened in the last couple of hours, let alone the last week. So, I just focus on the drive. Put my indicator on. Turn right. Notice that the house being renovated has built a super high fence, making a mental note to count down to when the Pasadena powers that be will demand that the owners remedy the situation. I give it a month. I turn up the music. Stop at the stop sign. See that one house is for sale. The one with the lavender growing out front. Turn on to Mission, find parking down the street a bit, and walk into La Monarca as blank and fine as I can manage. I doubt that this is a victory. But, it feels better than whatever was brewing this morning. I don’t know what to do next. Now that I know whatever it is that I know.

  Mom waves from over in the corner and I walk toward
her.

  “They haven’t called my name yet,” Mom says.

  “What did you order?” I ask.

  “Café de ollas, a croissant for me, and a cup of fresh fruit for you.” I nod. Mom watches. “What did Ben have to say for himself?” she asks.

  “He asked if I wanted to go to the game with him on Thursday.”

  “The homecoming game?”

  “Just as friends,” I say, unable to look at her. “Adam and I have a thing, so I couldn’t go, but—”

  “Olivia, look at me.” I obey. “This can’t be about you becoming just like Adam and staying in a marriage that isn’t working and seeing Ben on the side. I will not watch you become that. You deserve better. Ben deserves better. And so do his girls.” I look down at the table. “Olivia. Look at me.” I am slow to meet her eyes.

  “I’m not going to the game with Ben. I said no.”

  Mom just looks at me.

  “Fine. I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Do better than just being sorry.” Her voice is clipped and serious. She hasn’t been this mad at me in years.

  “Polly? Your order is ready,” the girl behind the counter calls out.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, jumping at the chance to get away, if only for a minute, from my mother’s vast disappointment in me. I walk back over to the table with our order and Mom opens up her café de olla. She breathes it in like she always does.

  “I don’t know where to start,” I say.

  “Let’s start with whether or not you want to stay married to Adam, regardless of Ben Dunn being in or out of your life.” Mom pulls apart her croissant and takes a bite.

  That’s the big question, isn’t it? I want to stay married to who I thought Adam was. I want to stay in the blissful ignorance of the marriage I thought I had. I want to go back to sleep. I want this marriage to be with the New Olivia and Adam being in love and not with the Fat Me and Adam being in genuine like.

  “Not as it is now, no.” I pull off the top of my coffee. Breathe it in.

  “And what does that mean?” Mom asks.

  “No more other women. And I think … I don’t think I’ve ever been myself with him.”

  “And what is being yourself?”

  I think I have the answer and then I just … don’t. I sit there. Mouth hanging open. The wafting smell of café de olla. La Monarca bustling around us. I close my mouth. Open it again and … nothing.

  “Um…”

  “Right. So maybe we start there.”

  ALEX, I’LL TAKE GLUTTONOUS AND SELFISH FOR $400

  When I get home from La Monarca, Adam’s in the kitchen making his lunch. I stride in boldly, but once I’m there have no idea what to do. Do I want to take off all my clothes and make him look at me? Do I scream and rail against all the other women? Or just walk in and let out a huge fart while eating the bag of M&M’s I got at the gas station on the way home? Maybe some fetching combination of all three?

  “Hey,” he says, turning around, holding a turkey sandwich on wheat.

  “Hey,” I say. He takes a bite of the sandwich. “Can you make me one?”

  “Oh, sure,” he says, a slight hesitation in his voice. I haven’t eaten bread in years. He gets the mustard back out of the fridge, cuts a slice of fresh tomato, and adds a handful of lettuce.

  I get that my marriage isn’t doing well. Maybe if I tried to be my real self—whatever that is—we might have a chance. I’ve got to find out if my withholding is just as much at fault as his cheating. And if one is directly connected to the other. Adam’s been married to the social media version of me for ten years, and maybe he deserves to see the real Olivia. Hell, maybe we both do.

  All I know is, ever since I walked into this kitchen I’m feeling everything. And the electricity of it is terrifying. It’s like I just got let off the leash. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I think I like it. That is, until my entire life falls apart. Which … I’m sure is just a matter of time. But, maybe not? Maybe I can stay married to Adam and be who I really am. I mean, why not, right? Just today, I was naked in front of an entire changing room full of octogenarians. My own husband might be next. Adam puts away all the fixings and hands the sandwich to me.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking a giant bite.

  “I know you don’t like mayo.”

  “I don’t,” I say, feeling like my plan is already working.

  “You have—” Adam hands me a paper towel and gestures to my entire face. “Mustard.” He’s laughing as he says it.

  “I love bread,” I say, taking another bite.

  “As do I,” he says. We stand in the kitchen and eat our turkey sandwiches. Adam starts in on a story about some weird door-to-door salesman who came by. “I honestly couldn’t figure out what he was selling. He had a catalog, but it wasn’t like I could buy anything in the catalog. I thought he was selling magazines at first, but he told me that the magazines were online now. Who knows, maybe he was just casing the place and will be back later to rob us.”

  “Did you end up buying anything?” I finish up the last of my sandwich and walk over to the sink to wash off all the mustard smears that have gotten all over me.

  “By the end, I just felt bad for the guy,” Adam says, handing me the soap.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking it. I dry off my hands. “Do you want to see a movie?”

  “What … today?”

  “Yeah, apparently I need to see more movies.”

  “Didn’t you want to go through Luz’s pictures? For the Christmas card?” Adam asks. I stare at him. He waits. A furrowed brow. Why is this seemingly simple question taking so long to answer? he must wonder.

  Come on, Olivia. You can’t solve the giant philosophical questions about who it is you’ve become if you don’t know what you want to do on a Sunday afternoon.

  I’ve checked my email and Caroline is fine. She was photographed at a brunch with friends and she was eating a good meal that’ll make people think she’s normal and handling the divorce like any other regular person would.

  This is my day off. The house is clean. The laundry is done enough. The bills are paid. What do I want to do? Why is this so hard? Maybe because my entire life has become about what I should be doing rather than what I want to be doing.

  A snippy voice inside my head argues that I should spend this Sunday efficiently putting an end to my marriage and begin the process of rebuilding now that I know there’s a problem. I’ve talked about it in front of people and if I don’t handle it, they’ll think I’m weak. Adam is a serial cheater and he’s shown no respect for our marriage. Put my big-girl panties on and handle this like I would any of my clients.

  Another voice. Deep down. My gut. My instinct. I know it’s her. The Fat Me. I think I’m scared that the Fat Me is going to roll through my life and be this gluttonous blob of nihilism. Me want food! Me no want to work out! Me take whatever you throw away. And I’ll immediately gain a thousand pounds and rather than being unmasked, I’ll explode through my clothes like some kind of repressed Hulk. I’m afraid I won’t be able to control her. And once she feels the sweet crisp air of freedom … freedom. I turn away from Adam.

  She was free. I was free. I was free once.

  She didn’t care what anyone thought and that didn’t make her gluttonous or selfish, it made me happy and free.

  “I want to see a movie,” I say. Adam nods. I look at him. “And then maybe take a walk later. There’s this house that’s being renovated on La Loma that I want to take a closer look at. And I love dusk. The cozy lights going on inside the homes and the night jasmine, you know? And I want grapes. I really love grapes. You up for that?” I look up and he’s just watching me. He’s clearly waiting for this all to be some twisted mind game. “I know we have a lot to talk about, but I don’t want to right now. Is that okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Adam says. I make my way out of the kitchen in search of my phone and movie times. I look down at what I’m wearing and, rather than changing into som
ething less comfortable, decide that this post-Swimtastics ensemble is just fine for a day off with my husband. Adam comes out into the living room announcing some movie times and we load up into the car.

  At the theater, we buy popcorn and sodas. It’s a huge superhero movie and I love every second of it. As dusk falls, we walk around the neighborhood and I greedily breathe in the night-blooming jasmine.

  Later, I sit on the side of the mattress and watch Adam getting ready for bed. Brushing his teeth. The muscles in his arm tensing and flexing with every movement. He really is stunning. And by some cruel twist of fate, he’s getting better with age. A smile curls across my face as I remember this morning at the pool.

  “What’s … why are you smiling?” Adam asks, standing in front of me in just pajama bottoms. I turn away from him and pull my pajamas from the dresser. A deep breath. Ease. Freedom. No more contorting. No more Groot. I begin to get undressed. Shirt. Pants. I can feel Adam watching me. I turn around. Bra. I want to put on my pajama top before I take off my underpants. My movements hitch and stutter as I make myself take off my underpants. I throw my clothes into the hamper. And I stand there. Adam watches me. One second. Two seconds. I bring my arms up and then let them fall. No. Three seconds. Four—Adam smiles. I grab my pajama bottoms and catch my toe on the waistband, tripping myself. Gathering myself, I thread my arms into the pajama top and fasten the bottom button.

  “Slower,” Adam says. I know I should whip off my pajama top and launch into Adam right this very minute in some sort of spontaneous sexy mania, but instead I can only think about him growling “slower” to Nicola as she seductively strips off her clothes. I look down at the floor, button up my top the rest of the way, and crawl into bed.

  “Good night,” I say, turning away from him.

  * * *

  Ellen noticed something different about me immediately. I told her it was a new massage therapist. I didn’t think it’d be appropriate to tell her that I had some sort of epiphanic, religious experience whilst sobbing naked in a public pool shower.

  But, of course, as with everything else right now, it’s not just one thing. Asking myself what I really want has been the most eye-opening development of all. Not running everything I do and say and wear and think through my old web of cruel filters and critical layers has made me feel happier and more free than I have in decades. I think Fat Me is learning how to live in the present day like some kind of foundling who has to be domesticated. THIS IS A SPOOOOOON. Spooooooon, she mutters before hurling it at the wall. Oh, Fat Me. You’ll get it.