The Opposite of Me

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “Why not you?” Bonnie asked.

  “I love you,” Renee blurted, feeling a flush of shame.

  “That’s what you say, but you never call in the morning.”

  “Hey, I leave a good tip on the nightstand,” Renee said, hearing Bonnie’s laugh as she hung up. Renee surveyed her outfit with new eyes. She had to look spectacular today. Winning the beauty editor job would mean a nice boost in salary but, better yet, the perks! She’d go on junkets to spas, be flooded with packages of all the latest cosmetics and skin care lines, and nab invitations galore—which meant she’d get to eat out at cocktail parties whenever she wanted. She’d save loads of money.

  She turned and ran back to the apartment, huffing as she climbed the four flights of stairs. She burst into her bedroom and stood in front of her closet, scanning the contents. She needed something chic and, above all, slimming, she thought, already regretting the spoonful of sugar in her coffee. If only she could be more like Naomi, who seemed to live on protein bars and air—or even Cate, who was a naturally lean size 4. Cate treated food the way some guys treated women—she took exactly what she needed and never gave it a lingering thought afterward. She was the type of woman who could eat a single potato chip (type? There was no type; Cate was the lone woman in that bizarre demographic). It would be intolerable, except that Cate wasn’t the slightest bit smug about it.

  Twenty minutes later, her closet was more of a shambles than usual, and Renee was no closer to finding the perfect outfit. All of her cheap lunches consisting of a slice or two of pizza from Ray’s, the half-priced happy hour drinks, and the illicit handfuls of chocolate meant her size 12 clothes were getting tight. Now she was sweating and late for work.

  She reluctantly shrugged back into her original outfit, despising the roll of flesh that protruded over her waistband. Anyone working for Gloss needed to look good, but the beauty editor was held to an elite standard. Back in Kansas—heck, in most of the world—Renee would be considered a healthy size. Here in the epicenter of New York’s magazine world? She was the fat girl.

  Starting today, though, that was going to change. She was going to give careful consideration to every crumb that passed through her lips. She’d be more selective than an Ivy League admissions officer. And in two months—voilà!—she’d be fifteen pounds slimmer.

  It would take weeks for the Gloss editors to settle on Bonnie’s replacement. By the time they were ready, they’d look up and see Renee, slim and chic, standing in front of them. They’d recognize her years of hard work at the magazine, and she’d land the job. She had to. But first she had to get to the office and ask for it.

  2

  IT WAS CATE’S favorite time of the week. A late September breeze swept across her face, her sneakers pounded a satisfying rhythm against the Central Park path, and her body felt clean and light, as if she were on the cusp of flying. Her breath came in quick gasps; her lungs burned. Fifty more yards. She turned on a final burst of speed, giving it everything she had, until she almost collapsed over an imaginary finish line. She walked in slow circles, hands on her hips, gulping oxygen. Every ounce of tension in her body, all of the knots and little kinks that built up during the long week, had evaporated in the sweet release of the past three miles.

  She moved to the left to let a smiling, white-haired couple walking a golden retriever on a bright red leash pass by, then she exhaled and tilted her face toward the sun. Rich green leaves capped the nearby hackberry and saucer magnolia trees, and the paths had been scrubbed clean by an early-morning rain. A bald guy on a unicycle rode by, calling out a cheery “Hello!” and Cate grinned. Times like these were the reason she’d fallen in love with New York.

  Her Saturday morning routine never varied: After her run, she’d stop by the Korean deli for cut-up fruit and a container of mixed salads—food for the weekend—then pick up a Vitaminwater and fried-egg-and-cheese on a bagel to nibble on the way home. She’d lounge around in her sticky clothes, reading the paper and sipping coffee, feeling gloriously grubby.

  An hour later, she’d just brewed a two-cup pot of Colombian roast and snapped open the Times when her cell phone rang. She glanced down and swallowed a sigh before answering. It was 9:01 a.m.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Catherine, are you okay? You sound down.”

  Cate forced more enthusiasm into her voice. “Just distracted. How are you?”

  “Oh, fine. What are you up to?”

  At 9:01 a.m.? Kicking both of my lovers out of bed, Cate wanted to reply. Her passive-aggressiveness wasn’t due to the question; it was because she’d prohibited her mother from calling before 9:00 on weekends, saying it would wake her roommates. The fact that her mother was clearly watching the clock, waiting for the magic moment to dial, conjured equal parts pity and frustration in Cate.

  “Just relaxing,” Cate said. “How about you?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d do a little grocery shopping today. Maybe go to the bookstore.”

  “Sounds nice,” Cate said, injecting even more enthusiasm into her voice.

  “I guess.”

  Now guilt washed over Cate. Her mother had devoted herself to raising Cate and her older brother, Christopher, to afternoons spent sitting at the kitchen table and going over multiplication tables while a stew bubbled away on the stove, to hand-sewing Halloween costumes and packing hampers full of peanut butter sandwiches and lemonade for summer afternoons at the beach. Now Christopher was living in Hong Kong with his wife of two years, her parents had split up, and her mother was alone in the brick colonial in Philadelphia that had once overflowed with soccer balls and ballet slippers and backpacks and happy chatter.

  After a pause, her mother said, “I was thinking, should I could come up next weekend for a visit? We could have some girl time.”

  Cate swallowed hard. The last time her mother had come up, they’d wandered through MoMA and gotten manicures and feasted on chicken Caesar salads and a carafe of Chardonnay. Her mother had refused Cate’s offers to take her bedroom and insisted on spending the night on the love seat, claiming it was perfectly comfortable, though at brunch the next morning she kept rubbing the side of her neck. It had been lovely, but it had also been a month ago. No, less than a month. Three weeks ago.

  Cate stood up, knocking the newspaper off her lap and onto the floor. Agitation crept into her body as she began to pace. “I’m not sure yet what my plans are,” she lied. “I might need to go out of town for a story.”

  She could feel her mother’s disappointment, thick and heavy as a gray fog creeping over the phone line. She’d always reveled in the way her mom had waited to greet her after school, or was available to drive her to an activity at a moment’s notice, knowing that not every mother was like this, that she was lucky. What Cate hadn’t foreseen was that, in living for her family, her mother had failed to create a life of her own. Now that everyone was gone, it was as if her mother was trying to cling to Cate to keep herself from falling into the gaping hole created by their absences.

  “Maybe in another couple weeks?” Cate suggested. “I’ll call you when I get to the office and double-check my calendar.”

  “Of course,” her mother said.

  “What book are you thinking about getting?” Cate asked as she walked over to the kitchen counter. A sheet of paper was propped up against the toaster. Cate picked it up and began to read.

  “The club chose To Kill a Mockingbird. We’re rereading classics for the next few months,” her mom was saying, but her voice faded into a buzz in Cate’s ear.

  The note was from Naomi. She was moving out, heading to Europe for a year to model. She was leaving in two weeks.

  “Shit!” the word escaped from Cate’s mouth.

  “What’s wrong? Honey, are you hurt?”

  She never stopped being a mother; it was equal parts comforting and annoying.

  “No, no, just a note from Naomi. She’s—” Cate cut herself off, as abruptly as if she’d snatched up a knife from the but
cher block and sliced away the end of her own sentence. A terrible thought flashed through her mind: What if her mother offered to take Naomi’s place? She could almost hear the conversation unfolding. Her mother had gotten plenty of money in the divorce settlement, and her house was already paid off. The rent wouldn’t pose any problem for her; then she could pop up to New York all the time, split her time between the city and Philly—she wouldn’t be imposing on Cate’s roommates, and she’d love the chance to see more museums, to stroll through the busy streets. To cook dinner, and wait for Cate to come home.

  It was worse than the air being forced from her lungs during the final sprint of her run; Cate was suffocating. Her mother wouldn’t really suggest something like that, would she?

  She just might.

  “Naomi’s just complaining about the mess we left in the kitchen. No big deal,” Cate lied, crumpling up the note in her hand. “Typical roommate stuff.”

  “I see.”

  Was it her imagination, or did her mother know she wasn’t telling the truth?

  “Mom? Can I call you back later? I need to hop in the shower.”

  “Of course, honey.” The musical voice brought back a million memories: a cool washcloth on her forehead whenever she’d had a fever; the way her mother changed out of jeans and into a nice dress for her school conferences; homemade yellow cakes with chocolate icing served for breakfast on birthdays.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Did you hear the Johnsons sold their house and are going to assisted living?” her mother said. “They got a really nice unit. Two bedrooms.”

  This is an old-person conversation and you’re not old! Cate wanted to shout. At sixty-one, you should take salsa classes! Travel to Portugal with a girlfriend! Learn to play poker!

  Guilt and frustration and love: Those were the steady bass notes in her dance with her mother.

  Cate wound down the conversation and stripped off her T-shirt as she headed for the shower. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to get clean, to wash away her sweat and grime. Reading the paper no longer held appeal; she’d head into the office and try to make a dent in her workload.

  Cate forced herself to stop thinking about the lonely day stretching ahead of her mother and concentrate on work. The polygamy piece, for example. Cate had envisioned one woman’s story about what it was like to be in such an unorthodox relationship, but Sam, the writer, had bloated it with statistics and facts. It was informative, which was good. But it wasn’t compelling, which would be its death knell.

  The problem was, Sam was a senior staff member. He’d penned many cover stories for the magazine. Critiquing his work would be delicate. Maybe Cate should leave in some statistics. After all, he had far more experience than she did.

  Did other editors question themselves this way?

  Cate turned on the cold water tap and shivered as she forced herself to endure the icy spray, hoping it would wash away her turbulent feelings.

  WHO KNEW APPLE martinis had so many calories? Renee thought as she rolled over in bed and burrowed deeper under the covers.

  Renee had been about to order her favorite drink at the bar they’d gone to the previous night to celebrate Bonnie’s new job—but then she noticed the menus had been changed; they now, somewhat sadistically, listed calorie contents. Which meant her usual Friday night fare—a few appletinis, a handful of chips and guac, maybe a fried wonton or a nibble of whatever appetizer was being passed around the table—added up to thirteen hundred calories. Ignorance wasn’t just bliss; it also had a second job as cellulite’s partner in crime.

  What she’d regularly consumed, without even really tasting, between 7:00 p.m. and midnight was now her calorie allotment for the entire day. Renee pulled herself out of bed with a sigh, slipped on Lycra pants and a T-shirt, and laced up her old Nikes. Renee hated exercise, but she was going for a walk. She’d put in two miles a day, and by next month, she’d be up to three.

  She lifted her head at the sound of a soft tap on her bedroom door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  “Hey there.” It was Cate, looking bright-eyed and together as if she’d been up for hours—which, come to think of it, she probably had. Her straight, shiny hair was down around her shoulders, her high cheekbones were defined by a rose-colored blush, and she wore a mint green top with dark Seven jeans.

  “I’m heading into the office,” Cate said.

  On a Saturday? Renee thought. The forecast was calling for an unseasonably warm, sunny day—possibly the last one before fall clamped its chilly grip on Manhattan. But maybe that was why Cate had won the promotion. Renee worked long hours—everyone at the magazine did—but she’d have to stretch them out even further now that she was vying for the beauty editor job.

  “There’s fresh coffee in case you want some,” Cate continued.

  “Ooh, I want,” Renee said. “Thanks.”

  Cate hovered in the doorway. “And there’s some bad news. Naomi’s moving out.”

  Renee rubbed a hand across her forehead and flopped backward onto her bed. “Oh, no. I mean, she’s obnoxious, but at least we never see her.”

  Cate nodded. “I know. We’ll figure something out, okay? Sorry to start your morning like this.”

  “Not your fault.”

  Cate turned to leave, and Renee called, “Cate? Don’t forget about Trey’s party tonight. Do you want to come with me?”

  Cate hesitated. “I think so. Can we meet back here at eight? We could grab a cab together.”

  “Sure,” Renee said.

  She stood up and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face and sweep her hair into a ponytail. She glanced at the scale, debating whether to risk ruining her morning by stepping on it. It hadn’t been like this in her early twenties—she could binge on pizza and beer, and the next morning her stomach was flat, her skin and eyes clear. She’d never been a skinny girl, but no one would dream of calling her fat. She’d played field hockey and softball in high school, and had been at her thinnest then, a size 8. But ever since she’d passed twenty-five, she swore her metabolism had slowed to a crawl, as abruptly as if it had been whipping down a highway and had hit a traffic snarl. She’d put on sixteen pounds in the last few years, a slow, insidious creep, despite the fact that her eating habits hadn’t changed all that much. It was scary to think about the trend and what it foreshadowed.

  She’d been so careful last night. She’d nursed a single vodka tonic, then justified the lemon shooters someone else had bought for the table to toast Bonnie as being celebratory. She’d passed the gooey, cheesy bowl of crab dip to the woman sitting next to her without dipping a single crostini into it.

  She stepped onto the scale, and saw her restraint hadn’t been rewarded. But at least the number hadn’t nudged up another tick—which was especially important, because she was going to see Trey tonight.

  Renee hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it for the past week. When the e-mail had popped up in her in-box—Stop by for a few drinks next Saturday night—she’d actually felt her heart thud against her rib cage, until she saw it was also addressed to dozens of other people. Still, she’d saved it for the thrill of seeing his name on her computer screen. She’d waited two days, then typed back, Sounds great. I’ll try to make it!

  Casual. She had to be casual this time.

  She wondered if it could be a sign: After all, she’d met Trey at another party, just a few months earlier. She’d known who he was, of course, but that was the first time they’d ever talked. Renee leaned against the sink while she brushed her teeth and thought back to that night, when, in a room full of women, Trey had noticed her.

  That entire day had seemed laced with magic, from the moment Renee had woken up. She’d taken a long, hot shower—miraculously, the temperature had remained consistent—then had wandered out to run errands and stumbled across a beautiful leather purse in the window of a thrift shop, marked down to just thirty dollars. Who cared if it had a big purple ink stain on the lining? No one wou
ld ever see.

  A block later, her new purse on her shoulder, she’d passed by a farmers’ market and impulsively decided to wander among the stalls. The sun had warmed her bare arms as she inhaled the scents of wildflowers and artisanal cheeses and freshly baked bread studded with rosemary. She’d accepted a sample of watermelon from a vendor, closing her eyes as she bit into the crisp triangle of fruit. Impulsively, she’d pulled out her cell phone and dialed Jennifer, one of the few female staff writers for The Great Beyond. Jennifer was hosting the potluck party that evening.

  “Can I bring anything tonight?” Renee had asked.

  “Oh, just a bottle of wine,” Jennifer had said.

  “No, let me bring something good,” Renee had said. “I love to cook.”

  “Maybe onion dip?” Jennifer had suggested.

  Renee had laughed. “I’ll think of something.”

  Renee had roamed around the farmers’ market, filling her arms with a slim bunch of parsley, organic chicken breasts, some freshly churned butter, and a few vegetables with flecks of earth still clinging to them; then she’d hurried home. She’d spent the afternoon rolling out crust and dredging chicken in flour and slicing carrots into coins, losing herself in the rhythms. Other people sought out yoga or meditation, but Renee found the same experience in cooking: It transported her to a better place.

  She’d rejected two crusts—deciding, Goldilocks-like, that one was too hard and one was too soft—before crimping the edges of a perfect one, and finally slipped her potpie into the oven. Before she’d even finished getting dressed, a mouthwatering smell had seeped into her bedroom. Even Naomi had stopped doing leg lifts and wandered over to peer in the oven.

  When Renee had arrived at the party, she’d put her still-warm potpie on a kitchen counter and wandered away. Not ten minutes later, she’d heard a voice boom across the apartment: “I have to meet the woman who cooked this.”

  She’d known who the deep voice belonged to, known it was her potpie, even before she turned around and saw Jennifer raise a finger to point her out to Trey.