Good Luck with That

by Kristan Higgins

  Magic??? she wrote back. Oh, God. I’m coming, of course. Yikes.

  And yet, Mason was so excited. He even had—gulp—a cape. The name of his act? Mason the Magnificent.

  He was going to be crucified. High school students were not renowned for their kindness. A cape, a wand, and a rabbit . . . oh, my poor little nephew!

  But I hadn’t tried to talk him out of it. He was lit up with excitement, had bought Zeus and stowed him here. Who was I to try to tell him his idea was social suicide? Or was that my duty as his aunt?

  So now it was Friday morning, the day of the talent show. St. Luke’s was closed for Cultural Heritage Day, one of the many obscure holidays Mr. Trombley inserted into the school calendar. I didn’t mind sleeping in, since I was wicked tired these days. That fun run (which had been very little fun, FYI) had wiped me out; I hadn’t been the same since. Exercise was clearly not good for everyone.

  I thought of the trip to Glacier next summer. Marley was right. I had to get in shape. I’d ask my doctor about it today, since I was finally going for that checkup.

  It was warm for early October, and I figured I’d take Ad down to the courtyard and away from Zeus, who was looking extremely stressed. Just as I picked up my book, my doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I was not pleasantly surprised.

  Mother, clad in a low-cut white satin shirt, flowing black skirt with a slit up to her thigh and freakishly high black pumps with metal spikes on them. Her fake hair was done up in a bun at the nape of her neck. The overall look said sadomasochistic tango dancer.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “I know you have the day off, so don’t bother with excuses,” she said.

  “I do have plans,” I said.

  “Georgia, your clothes are ridiculous,” she said, giving me the stink-eye.

  Yes, I was clad in yoga pants that had never seen a yoga studio and a T-shirt covered in rabbit and dog hair. But I’d been reading. There was no reason to dress up for reading. Books didn’t care. Books were just happy to be read.

  “Would you like coffee?” I asked. In addition to her outfit, she had on full Kabuki makeup—smoky cat eye, eyelash extensions that looked a little freakish on a woman her age, and a deep red lipstick on her artificially swollen lips.

  “No,” she said. “Now that you’re down to a reasonable size, you should flaunt your figure and find a man. Just because you married that Puerto Rican doesn’t mean you’ve ruined your chances for life.”

  “He’s not Puerto Rican. He’s Spanish and Dominican. And American, let’s not forget that. Born in the USA.”

  “Whatever. That nice Blaine Cummings is divorced again, you know. Cheated on the second wife, his mother told me. I gave her your number to pass along to him.”

  “Oh, a twice-divorced cheater! He sounds wonderful.”

  “You can’t be so fussy, you know. You threw away your fertile years.”

  “I’m thirty-four. Weren’t you older than that when I was born, Mom?”

  “I was twenty-nine,” she said.

  “Birth certificates don’t lie.”

  “Stop stalling. Let’s go shopping. I’ll pay.” She sat down on my couch, moved a pink and red throw pillow with a frown, and stared at Admiral. He lay obediently at her feet, accepting her as his dark master. “That thing over there,” she asked, jutting her chin at Zeus’s cage. “Is that a rabbit?”

  “Is it? I thought it was a grizzly bear. Be right back.”

  I went upstairs to change. The truth was, I did need some new clothes. And two hours spent with Big Kitty now would allow me to decline future invitations into the foreseeable future. To the Lawn Club, for example, a place I hated . . . or dinner at her house, when she and Hunter would criticize my life choices in front of Mason.

  My doctor’s appointment was just after lunch, so I had a great excuse to keep the shopping ordeal from lasting the whole day.

  Twenty minutes later, my mother and I were in downtown Cambry-on-Hudson, walking toward Crave, the most expensive boutique in three towns. It was a rather ugly name for a store, putting me in mind of drug addicts, or my late-night food binges, or vampires. The store was on the same street as Bliss, the wedding dress boutique owned by Jenny Tate, my neighbor. She was changing the window display—a gorgeous, long-sleeved lace gown surrounded by gray wooden crates full of chrysanthemums. She saw me, gave a big smile and waved. I waved back.

  “If,” Mom said, “and I mean if you get busy and stop mooning over that Latino, you could get married again and we could get your dress here. She’s very good, that girl.”

  “I’m not mooning,” I said. “And yes, she’s very talented, and also a woman.”

  “Have you been on even one date since he left you?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  She stopped dead. “Anyone of high quality?”

  “What do you mean by high quality? Caring, intelligent, kind? If so, yes.” I thought so, anyway. I was still kind of hung up on the fact that I was pretending not to remember Evan Kennedy, and he definitely didn’t remember me. We’d gone out for a drink a few days ago—our second date—and it had been more of the charming nothingness we seemed to excel at.

  “I meant, Georgia, can he support himself and a wife and family?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t asked for his W-2 just yet.”

  “You laugh, but look at me. It’s a good thing Joseph was rich so I could get a decent alimony. That trust fund of yours won’t last forever.”

  It would, actually, if I didn’t spend it all at places like Crave. I might not have enough to be in the one percent, but thanks to my grandparents and my father’s careful management of my stocks, I’d never be homeless or hungry.

  “You could always have gotten a job, Mom,” I said. “You’re a Bryn Mawr graduate. You’re very smart and, um, fashion forward.”

  “Women from my generation didn’t work, Georgia.”

  “No, no, of course not. Unless you’re thinking of women like Helen Mirren and Toni Morrison and Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Jane Goodall and—”

  “Are you done, Georgia? We’re here.” Mom threw open the door to Crave. “Eliza!” she cried. “My poor daughter is dressed like a hobo. Help her!”

  “Big Kitty! Hello, hello!” Eliza said, dollar signs lighting her eyes. She was as tall and thin as a praying mantis—or was it preying? Preying was more accurate in this case. She reached out for me with her long arms and beamed. “Aren’t you beautiful! She looks exactly like you, Big Kitty! Darling, everything in the store will look amazing on you. Get in that changing room and strip down, darling.”

  Oh, God.

  “She’s lost weight, Eliza. Finally. Last year at this time, she was enormous! There’d have been no way she could shop here,” Mom said with a merry laugh.

  I let my mother’s cruelty go, as I usually did. “I have a doctor’s appointment at twelve thirty,” I said. “We have to be quick.” Because two hours was nothing. My mother could spend a week in a shop like this one.

  “Oh, dear,” Mom said, sitting down and whipping out her phone. “I was hoping we could have lunch at the club. I wanted to show you off to my friends.”

  So we could look at our salads and dream about pasta, and she could pass me around to the middle-aged cheating males for inspection. Now that I wasn’t fat, I was acceptable. She’d taken me to the club plenty of times, but never to show me off. Criticize, yes. Show off, no.

  For the second time in a month, I stripped down to my underwear and tried not to hate it.

  “You need some proper foundation garments,” Eliza said. “We’ll squish those rolls into oblivion!”

  I didn’t have rolls. I had . . . well, I had some loose skin. Not a lot, but it was there. My body wasn’t exactly symmetrical or flat. That’s the thing when you lose a lot of weight. You very rarely look like a person who was never fat
.

  But I wasn’t fat. There was no way anyone could look at me and think the word fat.

  My mother whipped back the curtain. “You can get surgery for that, you know. Some cold lipo or laser tightening would smooth things out perfectly. And if I were you, I’d go for implants. I’m thinking of getting mine a little bigger. And maybe getting the Brazilian butt. Why not, right?”

  God.

  In my guest bedroom, there was a photo of my parents on their wedding day. The truth was, my mom had been girl-next-door pretty, with a button nose and full cheeks. She’d had a perfect figure as far as I could tell.

  Now she looked gaunt and sharp. Her cheekbones and nose had been altered, as well as her eyes and chin. Two face-lifts that I knew of. The iron breasts of the 1980s implants. A neck job. Countless injections and fillers. She didn’t look young; she simply looked like someone who’d had a lot of plastic surgery.

  I didn’t recognize her in that old photo, where her smile was so wide, when happiness and not a surgeon’s blade was the cause of her beauty. I had nothing against plastic surgery when it helped a person’s self-image or corrected something that really bothered them. But the idea that there was always one more thing that could be enhanced . . . it got sad. My mom was almost seventy years old and was still obsessed with how she looked.

  Why? What good would a bigger ass do her? If she wanted to attract men, well, she could. In fact, I’d always been a little shocked she hadn’t remarried after Dad left, if only to show him she could find someone else, too.

  If we’d had a different relationship, maybe we could’ve talked about those things.

  Eliza returned with a few things. “Oh!” Mom said, snatching a sleeveless leopard-print dress with a black lace ruffle at the bottom. “I adore this. Georgia, you don’t mind if I try this on, do you?”

  “I was just thinking it would be perfect for you, Big Kitty,” Eliza cooed. “The two of you could be sisters, you know.”

  I pulled the curtain closed to hide my eye roll and dutifully got started. The foundation thing was about as easy to pull on as trying to squeeze a bucking goat into a garden hose. Once I got into that, I rested a minute, then pulled on the skirts and dresses, showed them to Mom and Eliza, nodded and fake-smiled.

  They were clothes. I looked fine. My criterion for work clothes was whether or not I could sit on the floor without flashing my little darlings, but I didn’t tell that to Mom and Eliza. I could wear these jeans on a night out with Marley. This dress would be good for one of the St. Luke’s fund-raisers. I could wear this skirt and blouse when I went to court for my clients.

  I tugged on the last outfit. I hated that something this shallow was making my mother happy to be with me. Then again, I made her happy in so few ways, I might as well throw her a bone.

  “Georgia, wear that out of the store,” Mom said. “No need to look like we don’t care about ourselves when we’re in public.”

  “Sure.” The outfit was cute—flippy little black skirt to the knee, blouse printed with lemons and cats. My students would like this getup, at least. I donned black tights and stepped into the suede booties Mom had deemed edible.

  When Emerson, Marley and I had written down this particular item—Shop at a store for regular people—I remembered our glee, our longing. The three of us pictured being Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, swinging down the street in our adorable outfits, the envy of all who saw us. Life would be perfect if we could shop on Rodeo Drive and wear those tiny-sized dresses. Even if we had to be prostitutes to get there.

  But now that the moment was here, I realized they were just clothes. Cute, some of them, but not exactly the golden ticket for a perfect life.

  “This was fun, wasn’t it, darling?” Mom said as Eliza handed us our bags. Mom had six to my two.

  “It was,” I lied. “Thank you so much, Mom. I’ll walk to the doctor’s, no need to drive me.”

  “Good! You could use the exercise. We’ll have lunch another time.” She tilted a cheek at me, and I dutifully air-kissed it.

  “I’ll see you tonight, right?” I said.

  “What’s tonight?”

  “Mason’s talent show.”

  She frowned. “Oh. Yes, Hunter mentioned it. What’s he doing? Does he have talent at something?”

  “At many things, Mom. I’m sure he’d love to see you there.” I wasn’t about to tell her what he had planned. She might tell Hunter, and Hunter would very likely forbid Mason from coming if he thought his son was going to do something less than cool.

  “Well, we’ll see. I’m off. Love you, darling,” she said.

  My mouth fell open, but she had already turned, fluttering her fingers as she left.

  I couldn’t remember my mother ever saying that before.

  No, really. Not ever.

  There was the familiar burning in my stomach. It might’ve been rage this time. Was it possible that my mother hadn’t loved me until now, when I was able to shop at fucking Crave? Was this the criterion for maternal love? I hoped she didn’t come tonight, because right now, I wanted to slap her.

  My phone cheeped, reminding me I had a doctor waiting, so I took a few deep breaths and kept walking, my mind blurry.

  In the past few months, I’d gotten a big raise and a promotion. A good-looking guy had asked for a third date. I’d had a free undercarriage wash. Just yesterday, Debbie Lareau invited me to join a book club. She was one of the mean moms at St. Luke’s, the type who always wore two-carat diamond studs with her Pomegranate & Plum workout gear and gossiped about everyone, including her closest friends. Despite my education, family money and whatever other credentials I might have, that group of moms had always treated me like the help (until I lost weight, that is). And now my mother had said she loved me. In public, no less.

  Back when I was fat and something nice happened, I knew it was because of me. Not because of my size.

  The secret world of the skinnies was real, just like Emerson had always said. But now that I was in it, I wasn’t sure I liked it here. My throat tightened, and my stomach ached. I caught a glimpse of a woman in the reflection of a window, and it took a second to realize she was me.

  Shit. I looked good. Horribly, it was nice here on the skinny side of the world. Yes. It was nice to shop without wanting to cry. Nice to date a good-looking guy. Nice to have a mother who sought you out and said she loved you. Nice to get a raise and a promotion and that stupid undercarriage wash.

  It was just that I wanted those things because of who I was, not how I looked.

  I nearly walked past the doctor’s office. But as soon as I noticed where I was, I felt the automatic shame that accompanied these visits. Going to the doctor when you’re fat is a string of humiliations. The second you walk in, you only have one problem. You could have a spear through your heart, and the doctor would say, Eighteen hundred calories a day, lots of green leafy vegetables, and forty-five minutes of cardio every day, and that spear will be no problem!

  Not that I was in a mood or anything.

  The nurse showed me in and led me to the scale.

  “Oh! Someone’s been working hard!” the nurse chortled, tapping my weight into her iPad. “Good for you, hon. Let’s check that blood pressure.” I waited as she pumped up the sleeve. “Nice and low! One hundred over sixty-two. Pulse is one hundred, which is a little high. Did you have coffee today?”

  “Yes.”

  “No worries, then.” She drew blood, put a Band-Aid on my arm and tapped a few more things into the iPad, then beamed at me. “Just get changed into the johnny coat, and Dr. Lott will be right in.”

  I obeyed and changed. Sat on the exam table, considered reading a Newsweek from two years ago. Then the door opened, and Dr. Lott, my GP for the past few years, came in.

  “Georgia! You look incredible!” Dr. Lott said. She was slim and beautiful, about my age, and not for th
e first time, I wondered why I hadn’t chosen a doctor who looked like Morgan Freeman instead.

  “Hi, Dr. Lott,” I said.

  “Call me Annie.”

  Another first. Another star on the Skinny Life chart.

  She looked at the computer. “Look at all this weight you’ve lost! Good for you, Georgia! You must be feeling a lot better!”

  So many exclamation points. “I’ve actually had this pain in my stomach.”

  She nodded. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Um . . . eight months? It got worse after a . . . a family crisis in April.”

  “Sometimes, when the stomach shrinks, it can feel like actual pain.”

  “This is actual pain.”

  “Of course! How long have you been dieting?”

  “Well, my friend is a chef, and she started bringing me meals about two years ago. So my diet definitely got better. But I’m a little worried about the pain. That’s when most of the weight really started coming off.”

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she said, smiling. “Your metabolism wakes up just like that. Portion size, good healthy food and poof! You’re a new you.”

  “Except for stomach pain.”

  She palpated my stomach for about five seconds. “Any pain here?”

  “No. It’s more like a burning.”

  “Try some Tums. They’re great for calcium, anyway. Listen. You might have a little stress from—what was it you said? A family crisis?”

  I nodded.

  “Right. And on top of that, your body is going through changes. But they’re all good. You look fantastic.”

  “The stomach pain is pretty bad sometimes, Dr. Lott.” I spoke slowly, so she could follow along.

  She nodded kindly, and for the second time that day, I felt like slapping someone. “It’s hard. Your body is having to relearn how to do everything—digest the good food, stop storing all that fat, metabolize. Try some good fat and a few carbs before you load up on the protein. It’s probably just gas. But keep up the hard work! Your body will thank you.”

  She went through the rest of the exam at lightning speed—listened to my heart, lungs, squished my ovaries, did the Pap smear.