“We’re ready for you, Miss DeFelice,” whispered Lupita Nyong’o or a damn fine look-alike.
“Thanks,” I said. “I love facials.”
“Me too,” she said. Her name tag said Harmony. Whisper. Harmony. I wondered if funky names were a requirement for working here. “Please take off your robe and lie on your side.” She held up the sheet for privacy.
“Oh. Okay.” Didn’t a person usually lie faceup for a facial? I’d only had one or two, but I remember liking it . . . and dozing off. All that steam and flute music.
I positioned myself according to the directions. It was comfy. The table was warm. I might get that nap after all.
Then I felt Harmony’s hand on my ass.
“Hey!” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Your first time?”
“Um . . . for what?”
“For the hydrovisconic?”
“Is that a kind of facial?”
She laughed gently, quietly, harmoniously. “Not exactly. But it’s relaxing and wonderful just the same. May I proceed?”
She was so pretty, and her hands were warm. I wanted her to like me. “Sure.”
I would live to regret that word. Oh, yes. I would regret it so much.
CHAPTER 19
Georgia
Finally have an honest conversation about weight.
(Not on the list, but a long time coming.)
“Darling,” my mother said, taking a slurp of her martini. It was one thirty in the afternoon, and while white flour and chocolate may have been verboten, vodka clearly wasn’t. If my mother was any indication, the clientele of Hakuna Matata would mount an armed rebellion if the spa banned alcohol. “So proud of you for doing this.”
“Thanks,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“I come here once a month.”
“Why, Mom? You’re already so thin.”
“Can’t be too rich or too thin, Georgia,” she said. Her eyes wandered over me. “Maybe someday you’ll see. Besides, it’s good for the soul.”
“I didn’t think you had one.”
“Is that your sense of humor, darling? I didn’t think you had one.”
Touché.
We stood there, looking at each other.
All through my youth, Big Kitty had been stunning in that sharp, ice-cold way. Picture Michelle Pfeiffer as an evil queen. Mom never had an extra pound on her. I never saw her eat dessert, not even once. Never saw her clean her plate. I didn’t understand that kind of discipline, that ability to view food as something that would simply keep you alive rather than something that was to be enjoyed, or used as punishment, or comfort. When I was young, heads would turn to look at her . . . and her lumpy daughter.
But then came the plastic surgery addiction—the swollen, unnatural lips and subsequent lisp, the completely unnecessary nose job, the fillers that made her look hard and artificial. She changed haircuts week to week, trying, I imagined, to fill her empty hours. Right now, blond extensions curled down her back. The last time I saw her, she’d been sporting a tousled pixie cut. The change was disconcerting.
“You’re almost there,” she said.
“Where?”
She gave a nod at my midsection. “Your weight.”
“Do you know how much I weigh, Mom?”
“You look good, that’s all I’m saying. I’m proud of you.”
“I think I have an ulcer. Or stomach cancer.” That one had just occurred to me last night, when chomping on antacids hadn’t done the trick.
She rolled her eyes. “Always such a drama queen. Really, Georgia.”
“I have a burning sensation in my stomach almost constantly. It’s hard to eat.”
“Good! It will remind you not to be such a little pig.” She took another slurp of her martini. “Oh, stop looking so wounded. If your stomach hurts, it’s probably because you binge so much.” My childhood in a nutshell, ladies and gents. “Now. What are you scheduled for? You’re still a little chunky for cold lipo, but—”
“I’m going to unpack. I’ll see you later.” Not to be left out, I swung by the bar first. “Vodka, straight up,” I ordered. The buzz would dull my mother’s words, and a little stomach pain would be worth it. I took a hearty slug, and for once, my stomach didn’t punish me for it. Good. I deserved nice things with a mother like mine.
I’d booked Marley and me a suite, and it was beautiful, the windows overlooking the rolling hills of the Catskill Mountains. Autumn color was just seeping into the trees. I unpacked, read the pamphlet on the night table. In addition to the expected hyperbole about mind and spirit and fat-suctioning, it urged me to dress in the “custom-made white jersey pyjamas made in Switzerland just for you, our precious guest.” This would help me achieve a sense of oneness.
“You had me at pyjamas with a ‘Y,’” I said. “Very classy. Not as fun as the sock monkey pajamas I got at Target, but hey. Yours are nice, too.”
The vodka had gone right to my head.
There were several pairs of pyjamas. I took a pair of the large, pulled them on, knotted the drawstring.
The pants fell right off.
Well, well, well.
I tried the medium. They were roomy, but they stayed on.
I took my drink out onto the balcony and sat on the chaise longue. My treatment package didn’t start till tomorrow; I’d let Marley go first, since she was my guest, poor innocent lamb. I took another sip of vodka, and closed my eyes.
One of the regulars at Camp Copperbrook was this girl from Alabama named Faye. She’d been a big girl; all of us were, but Faye had been at least a hundred and fifty pounds overweight. Not as big as Emerson, but almost. It was one of my worst summers, weight-wise; my brother had been home for six weeks before I went to camp, and he’d been even meaner than usual. There was a new hole in my bedroom wall, courtesy of his fist, because I’d told him Dad had called.
The result was that I was at my heaviest from misery-eating and trying to stay away from the house as much as possible, which inevitably turned into a reason to eat—Starbucks or LuLu’s Pancake Hut or the movies, where I’d get a large popcorn with free refills.
Anyway, Faye and Emerson were definitely the biggest girls there, and I was in the top quarter. Faye and Emerson had gotten really close, and I was something of a third wheel. I liked Emerson more; Faye was harder for me to read, full of half compliments and constant body scanning. Are you fatter than I am? Are you losing more weight? Am I prettier than you?
The next summer, Emerson and I both returned. I’d lost some weight but not enough, never enough; Emerson had gained more. I saw that as we greeted each other on the first day, and my heart ached for her, sweet, shy Emerson. And then one of the counselors pounced on us, hugging us tight.
“Hey-ay,” she said. “How y’all doin’? It’s me! Faye! OMG, y’all didn’t recognize me!”
Because Faye had lost all the weight. All of it. She was tiny. Petite. Her hip bones jutted out above her cutoff jeans, and her thighs were tanned and toned, and Emerson and I stood there, our mouths open as she pranced around us.
“I know! Isn’t it amazing? I look fantastic, right?” She turned, stuck her butt out and looked over her shoulder at us. “I might even do some modeling!”
She’d come back to camp to “make sure I don’t slide back,” she said. But really, I suspected she was back to lord her tiny body over us.
“How did she do it?” Emerson whispered the second we were alone. “She’s right. I didn’t recognize her.”
Faye stayed mum on her amazing weight loss, saying only, “Hard work, y’all!”
Her accent, which we’d found so endearing last year, grated now.
For two weeks, she stuck to Emerson like a burr, the differences vast . . . Faye five foot eight or so, Emerson five inches shorter and two hundred pounds heavier. Faye wor
e skimpy shorts and little shirts with spaghetti straps; Emerson wore tent-sized baggy T-shirts and shorts that hiked up between her thighs. There was no saggy skin to be seen (and Faye showed a lot of it, stripping into her pj’s or bikini right in front of us). Youth? Extra elasticity in her DNA? Breast implants?
She even ate. Tiny portions, to be sure, but she didn’t seem bulimic. Didn’t seem post-bypass. (Believe me, we could tell. We were experts, even at that young age.)
When you’ve been fat, your body has devious ways to keep the weight on. Emerson and I did the math—three pounds a week, maybe more. We envisioned the diet, the exercising, the iron self-control it would take. Faye’s refusal to let us in on her methods added to our state of jealous wonder. I just wished it had happened to a nicer person.
The biggest question Emerson and I had, whispered between us at night: Why is she here?
You don’t come to fat camp when you’re a size 2. You come to prove you aren’t one of us anymore. And sure enough, after two weeks of mincing around in her tiny clothes, Faye went back to Alabama. Once she’d made us all feel worse about our physical selves, her work was done.
Now I, too, was entering the world of the skinny. In tiny little ways, my life was changing.
I took another long sip of my drink, grateful that my stomach wasn’t acting up today, and glad for the buzz the vodka was giving me, loosening my thoughts. Evan Kennedy would never have asked Fat Georgia out for dinner. Should I care about that as much as I did? Everyone judged people on their looks. It was human nature. Couldn’t I just be glad he was interested?
I sighed and closed my eyes.
Apparently, I fell asleep, because I jolted awake sometime later as the door to our suite burst open. Marley stood there in her white bathrobe, hair wild, face red.
“What happened?” I asked, bolting out of my chair. “Are you okay?”
“No! Would you like to know what just came out of me?” she demanded. “Would you like to hear what was flushed out of me and sucked into a tube which led to God knows where, Georgia? Because I just had my colon irrigated, and I want to kill myself! I thought I was getting a facial!”
“Oh, my God,” I said, the wheezing laughter starting. “I’m so sorry. What did they do?”
She sat on the bed and winced. “We can never talk about this again. You tell anyone I have been violated in this way, I will kill you. Hydro-something, my ass. Literally, Georgia. My ass. I didn’t think the Inner Glow package meant small intestines. That technician boldly went where no one has gone before.”
I was laughing too hard to answer.
It felt just like camp, when Marley could make everyone happy.
“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” she said, looking at the martini glass. “You didn’t even get one for me. You’re a crap friend. Dang, I better avoid using any poop words until I’m hypnotized to forget the past hour and a half. My only joy in life is knowing you have one tomorrow.” She grinned. “Fudge has been ruined for me,” she added, which set me off into another gale of laughter.
When I’d calmed down (and Marley found the minibar and poured herself a glass of wine), we went back out onto the balcony and watched the sun set. “I ran into Big Kitty,” Marley said. “She’s looking very tight these days. Face, not sphincter, though maybe both.”
“Did she recognize you?”
“No. I’m batting a thousand in that department.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I hugged her and freaked her out real good.” She grinned and took a sip of wine. “So, Georgia. We need to talk.”
“Don’t break up with me.”
“I never will.” She put her feet up on the railing, her toenails painted light blue. “Why are we here? It’s not the kind of spa I thought it was.”
I took a slow, deep breath. “I’m sorry. I tricked you. I just didn’t want to come alone. And there are facials, somewhere.”
“We’re here to lose weight?”
“I am,” I admitted. A prickle of shame crept up from my chest. “I’m not implying you should. I know you’re happy with where you are.”
“I wouldn’t call it happy. I’ve accepted it. I try to appreciate the fact that my body works, and I’m healthy. But it’s a daily battle, G.”
“I know. And I just can’t win it. All I need is just a few more pounds, a couple more inches, and I might be . . . I might be there.”
She nodded at the horizon, the sun sinking into the tree line. She knew. Every fat girl in the world knew that dream. Tucking in that shirt. Shopping at the regular store. Using clothes to show off your body rather than hide it.
We hadn’t talked like this since she moved to Cambry. We’d agreed we’d talk about everything but weight, gain or loss. But if I couldn’t talk to Marley about this, and she to me, who else was left?
“The other day,” I said, clearing my throat, “I was at the car wash, and the guy came out and asked me what I wanted. I just asked for the regular wash, you know? The eight-dollar one? He took my money and said, ‘I’m throwing in the undercarriage treatment for free.’ And he winked.”
“So romantic,” Marley said, smiling a little.
“I know. But that’s never happened to me. And at the Blessed Bean the other day, Lucinda, you know her?”
“Yep. She always screws up my order.”
“She remembered my name.”
“You go there every day. She should know your name.”
“But she never has, Marley. For almost five years, I’ve gone in almost every day, and she has never remembered my name. That night, at the bar with FDNY, two men asked me out. Two! You know how many men have asked me out in my entire life?’
“Three.”
“Yes. Three. And those guys at the bar . . . they didn’t ask me out because I have a sparkling personality and I’m good with kids.” I paused, my eyes stinging. “It’s because I’ve lost weight. My whole life, I’ve tried to lose weight, and I’m so close. So I came here, and I dragged you along.” I shrugged, Mason-like, embarrassed and a little ashamed. “The list brought things up, you know? If seaweed wraps and a high colonic take off a few more pounds . . . I had to try.”
Marley squeezed my hand. “I understand, hon, I do. But I’m worried, too. You’ve lost a lot of weight, and sure, you’ve been eating better since I moved in. But still. You said you might have an ulcer. You can’t just let that go. Look what happened to Emerson. She didn’t take care of herself, and she ended up dead, Georgia! Just because you’re getting thin doesn’t mean you can ignore things.”
“I know. I do. The stomach pain started after Mason was in the hospital. It’s probably just stress. But some of the weight loss is good. I’ve been eating better than ever, thanks to you, and I’m happier teaching nursery school, happier without Rafe—”
“Do not try to sell that here, sister.” She arched an eyebrow.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Well, okay, but I’m . . . more relaxed without Rafe. We did love each other, but we didn’t have a great marriage.” The memories of those tense months, the omnipresent sense of failure made my chest feel heavy, but what I said was true. There was a big hole in my life where Rafe used to be, but when he had been there, he was just too big. Too much. He wanted what I couldn’t give. Even more, he wanted to give me something I didn’t know how to handle.
Love. Romantic love, sexual love, committed love.
Marley set her glass down and tightened the belt of her robe. “Okay, well, getting back to the topic at hand . . . what do you think will happen? When you lose a few more pounds, life is going to be great?”
“In some ways, it’s already getting better,” I said. “I have a date with Evan on Tuesday. I got an undercarriage rinse.”
She gave me a long look. “I want you to make an appointment with your doctor when we get back.”
/> “You’re right, as usual. I’ve been meaning to, anyway.”
We sat in silence a few more minutes, watching as the pink faded from the sky, the horizon turning purple, then blue. “How’s it going with Camden?” I asked.
“Not good,” she said. “We text a little here and there, but I can’t move out of the friend zone.” She looked over at me. “And you’re right. It’s because of weight. If I was a size six, he’d want me. We’d be married by now.”
“So why are you putting so much effort into someone like that? You should find someone like . . . well, like Rafe.”
She gave me the stink-eye. “Listen to yourself.”
“I know, I know. But does Camden deserve you? That’s all I’m asking.”
“Maybe? I don’t know.” She waved her hand in the air. “I want to be with someone. I want to be part of a couple. I want kids. He’s a good person, Georgia. All I have to do is—what’s that saying?—make the scales fall from his eyes, and I think he could love me.”
“He should love you right now,” I said.
“I know it. Honest to God, I don’t want to have to lose weight. It would have to become my life’s work, all that measuring and weighing and passing on all the good stuff.”
“You trade one side of the addiction for the other.”
“Yes! Besides, I’ve put so much goddamn effort into forcing myself to believe I’m fine the way I am that if a fairy godmother came down and said, ‘Hey, want to be Beyoncé?’ I’d have to say, ‘Fuck you, Fairy Godmother, where were you when I was sixteen?’”
I laughed. “Only you would tell a fairy godmother to fuck off.”
She snorted, running a hand through her gorgeous hair. “I’m unique.”
“You’re the best friend anyone could ever have. You’re like my sister.” There was a pause, and I cringed a little. I should’ve known not to bring up sisters.
“Vodka makes you sentimental,” Marley said, her voice husky. A second later, I felt her hand holding mine. “I love you, too. Now let’s go to dinner, because I can swear on the pope’s personal copy of the Bible that there is absolutely nothing in my digestive tract.”
Good Luck with That Page 20
