“Why do you think you and your mother aren’t close?”
“She doesn’t . . .” Abby’s voice trailed off. “She loves me, of course. She made me dinner every night when I was growing up. I always had clean clothes and stuff. She just . . . she isn’t . . .”
Abby swallowed hard and tried to organize her thoughts. How to convey the lifetime of unease, as if she were always tiptoeing across a freshly waxed floor in slippery socks; the sense that her mother sometimes wished Abby would just go away—that she didn’t wish Abby any harm but wanted her simply to disappear. Her mother went about parenting the way Abby suspected some factory workers worked through their shifts. She met all the requirements without absorbing a bit of joy from them, her eye on the clock as she anticipated her release. Another meal to cook, another school conference to attend, another winter coat to buy . . . Nothing she did for Abby seemed to bring her the slightest bit of happiness.
“She loves you,” the counselor repeated, not prejudicing the words with any inflection.
“I don’t know,” Abby whispered.
Something inside of her cracked open, releasing slow tears down her cheeks. “I picked her flowers once from this field on the way home from school. I was about eight or nine. I cut my thumb on a thorn, I remember that part. I sucked my thumb until it stopped bleeding because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise by asking for a Band-Aid. I handed them to her, and she just kind of stood there. She didn’t . . . hug me. Sometimes I would see my friends with their parents, and I always noticed the parents who hugged. I remember my best friend’s mom would say ‘I love you’ every time we left the house—even if we were coming back in an hour. My mom never really . . . touched me.”
“Is she a cold person?” the counselor asked.
Abby shrugged. “I guess. But not as much with my brother, Trey. He can get her to smile sometimes; she’s looser with him.”
Her voice grew smaller. This was her biggest shame, the one she’d carried around for her entire life. “It’s mostly just me.”
Abby thought back to the time Trey had learned to drive; both of her parents took him out to practice, and her mother drove him to take the test for his license. But when it was Abby’s turn, her parents kept putting her off—they were too tired, or had to work late. Trey was the one who finally brought Abby to a big, empty parking lot and taught her how to work the car’s gears and pedals.
Now the counselor moved a box of tissues closer to Abby and spoke at length, perhaps suspecting that wrenching free the confession had taken all Abby had. “Sometimes people treat children differently. It could be that your mom’s own mother didn’t act lovingly to her, and your mother unwittingly passed down that legacy to you. She might not even be aware of it. She might see herself in you at that age, and be unconsciously compelled to repeat that pattern.”
Abby nodded, but she didn’t believe it. It didn’t ring true; her grandmother had died of cancer when Abby was in the second grade, but Abby remembered a warm lap, the smell of sugar cookies, and a thin, soft voice telling Abby she was pretty and good.
“Some women also feel jealous of their daughters, especially as they age and their daughters hit puberty. They feel robbed of their own youth,” the counselor continued. “What was your relationship like with your father growing up?”
“A little better, I guess. He’s very quiet,” Abby said. “He reads a lot. Like with my mom, he comes more alive around Trey. They cheered for him at all his football games. I remember being surprised at how animated they got; I didn’t think they could get that way. I don’t get the sense that my dad wished I would go away or anything. It’s not as bad as with my mom. But he didn’t seem to think I was anything special, either.”
“Tell me about Trey,” the counselor said, and Abby smiled for the first time since she’d sat in the chair.
“He’s my best friend,” she said. “Trey looked out for me when we were younger. He still does, I guess. He came and picked me up at a party once when my ride home was too drunk to drive, and he told me where to kick boys if I ever needed to defend myself, and he . . . I guess he kind of ran interference for me with our parents. At dinner, they’d ask him about his latest game or whatever, and he’d always try to turn the conversation to me. He’d ask me about the photography class I liked or the kids I babysat for. It was like he was trying to draw me into the family. Make sure I got noticed.”
Abby’s head began to ache. Exhaustion overwhelmed her. She wanted to lean back against the cushions of this soft chair and let her eyes fall shut. She’d never thought about the inner workings of her family, never seen them so clearly laid out, like parts of a dissected animal at the butcher shop. Her family just was a certain way; Abby had never analyzed the motives behind their habits and rhythms.
The counselor was writing something on her pad of paper. “As for the panic attacks, you can go to your doctor and ask for a prescription for a few pills of Valium,” she said. “But you can’t take them if you’re going to be driving. They’ll make you woozy.”
Abby nodded, even though that defeated the whole purpose.
“In the meantime, try baby steps. You said it’s only the car that causes panic in you. Try to get near it when you can. Let the baby play on the front lawn near the car. See if you can work up to climbing in it. You don’t have to start it, just try to push back against your boundaries so they don’t close you in.”
The thought of it made Abby’s heart race, but she nodded again. “Can you come back next week?” the counselor asked. “Same time?”
“Sure,” Abby said. She accepted the little white appointment card, tucked it into her wallet, stood up and headed out to her car. When she got in, she rested her head against the steering wheel for a long moment, taking deep breaths. Living in a family in which feelings weren’t discussed made introspection taboo. But the memories were rushing back now, one on top of the other, like the pounding waves that had once trapped Abby at the ocean, dunking her ten-year-old self again and again, stealing her breath and filling her nose and throat with salt water until Trey caught her and pulled her to shore.
From the outside, her family had looked perfect: They had a pretty brick house with green shrubs in the front yard, and a pair of calico cats that curled up in any available lap. Her father liked to bake homemade bread, so the house was usually filled with wonderful smells. But there was an undercurrent you couldn’t see, like carbon monoxide creeping through the rooms and poisoning everyone.
Her mother hadn’t loved Abby. She didn’t even want Abby around.
Abby had always known it, secretly, in her heart. This was just the first time she’d spoken the words aloud.
Thirteen
THE ASTROLOGER WHO WROTE Gloss’s column apparently loved old-fashioned words every bit as much as she did clichés. Usually, that wasn’t a big problem—or at least not the biggest problem in the scheme of things. But not this month.
Renee had been on the phone with her for almost half an hour, and she’d saved this particular edit for last.
“I just think we could probably come up with a better word,” Renee was saying. She nibbled on the eraser of her pencil. “Maybe . . . blunder. Or how about blooper?”
“What’s wrong with the word I used?” the astrologer demanded. In the background a couple of her dogs yipped in righteous indignation.
“It’s, um, actually a slang word for something else,” Renee said. “So when you write, ‘Be on the lookout for a big boner, Scorpios!’ your readers might think it means . . . um . . .”
“What?”
“A boner is a male erection,” Renee said softly. But apparently not softly enough to avoid being overheard by the staffers in nearby cubicles, judging from the heads that suddenly appeared over the tops of partitions.
“What was that?” the astrologer said. “Speak up!”
“An erection!” Renee almost shouted. “E-reck-shun!”
By now a few people were convulsing with laughter arou
nd her desk. Renee covered the mouthpiece. “Helpful,” she hissed at them.
“How about we put in ‘boneheaded mistakes’?” Renee asked. “Could I make that edit?”
“If you must,” the astrologer said tightly. “I still prefer a ‘big boner.’”
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty fond of them myself,” Renee muttered. She finally ended the call and reached for the foil-covered plate on her desk. “I made these last night, and I was going to share with you people,” she said, uncovering the plate of dark-chocolate-dipped coconut macaroons.
“Sorry,” said David. “We made a huge boner by laughing at you.”
Renee rolled her eyes, then handed him the plate. He bit into one and groaned.
“No boners were committed during the making of these cookies,” someone else cracked.
“Scram,” Renee ordered. “All of you. I need to get to work.” The plate made the rounds and came back to Renee’s desk. She pushed it to the side and began to type the edits into the astrology column, then glanced at it again. There were five cookies left, little rounds of golden coconut wreathed in dark chocolate. She’d been so good lately—didn’t she deserve just one little treat?
Before she could think about it, she snatched up a cookie and devoured it, trying to finish chewing before the guilt set in. Immediately after swallowing, though, she began to beat herself up. She should’ve savored the treat, made it last. Wasn’t that what all the dietitians recommended? She’d barely tasted it, and now all she could think about was having another.
Although her daily pill was helping her control her eating, it obviously wasn’t doing enough. Last night, she’d wanted to unwind by baking, so while she was making the macaroons she’d cut up a bowl of carrots and celery to munch on. Her strategy had failed—she should’ve known better than to square off against the aroma of freshly toasted coconut—and she’d been unable to keep from eating two cookies right after they’d come out of the oven. But at least she hadn’t gobbled a half dozen, like she would have a few months ago. Her scale was being as uncooperative as ever, though; it seemed stuck on the same discouraging number.
Renee sighed and pushed the plate farther away, then reached for her mouse and navigated onto the magazine’s website. She clicked the link to the blogs for the beauty editor contestants. The page was divided into three columns, with photos of Renee, Jessica, and Diane at the top. Renee didn’t love her picture—the editor had sent around a photographer to snap all three girls sitting at their desks with barely any advance warning—but requesting a retake would make her look like a diva. The other girls hadn’t complained about their photos. Renee just wished she’d been wearing something more flattering that day. She hadn’t realized how her wrap shirt clung unforgivingly to her midsection. Combined with the fact that she was sitting down, it made her look heavier than she actually was, and Renee could clearly see the roll above her waistband.
The blog comments were streaming in, Renee saw. She had twenty-six new ones just in the past day! Renee felt a surge of satisfaction. Jessica and Diane had nabbed fewer than ten comments apiece. Renee opened the comment thread, ready to jump in and interact.
Love your blog! A smile curved the corners of Renee’s lips as she read. I’ve heard of the mayonnaise-for-shiny-hair tip before but thought it was an old wives’ tale—does it really work?
Renee scrolled down to the next one: Maybe you should lose weight before you try to give beauty tips. Who are you to be giving advice?
Renee felt like a hand had reached out of the computer and cracked across her face.
She read it twice, a third time. She could barely breathe, but she was helpless to do anything but continue reading.
The next comment was in defense of Renee: What does her weight have to do with anything? Prejudiced people like you are the ugliest people in the world.
Then another slap: She’s got a fat ass. You probably do, too.
Oh, God. The comments section had turned into a free-for-all, with a few people vigorously defending Renee and one other—along with the original poster—slinging vile, ugly comments that stung like acid.
Everyone at the magazine would see this. Jessica and Diane. Nigel. Her friends. Would Trey see it? Would people pass around the link, sending the comments zipping through the air like blood-seeking mosquitoes? It had happened once before—an assistant at Sweet! had mistakenly forwarded a note from an editor who was planning to fire a writer, and by the end of the day, that e-mail had made it into the in-box of almost every employee in the building. The writer had ended up marching into the editor’s office and quitting on the spot.
Renee couldn’t delete the comments; she wasn’t an administrator of the blog. Bile rose in her throat as she read the ugly, painful words again and again, until they felt as if they were seared into her brain.
She grabbed her purse and started to run for the elevators, but the tears threatened to erupt before she could get there. She veered into the bathroom instead and locked herself in a stall. She put down the lid of the toilet and sat on it, wrapping her arms around herself and sobbing as she rocked back and forth. She felt as raw and exposed as if she were walking naked through Central Park on a sunny day. People she didn’t know were staring at the fat around her waist, mocking her thighs, gossiping about her pudgy upper arms. They didn’t care that Renee put a dollar in the cup of a toothless homeless woman every morning on the way into work. It didn’t matter that she offered her seat to pregnant women on the subway, that just last week she’d ducked out of a bar to take Gloss’s receptionist home after the girl got too drunk at an office happy hour and wound up sick. Nothing she did mattered, because whenever anyone looked at her, all they saw was her fat. She was ugly. Unworthy.
She’s got a fat ass. Fat. Fat.
She stayed in the bathroom for an hour, choking back sobs whenever the door swung open. Her head pounded, and her throat felt dry and sore. She wondered if she should sneak home and pretend she’d gotten sick. No—people might question her absence. Leaving could call even more attention to her. She’d have to go back to work and sit there like a robot and pray six o’clock would come soon. She thought about the writer who’d quit while the entire office speculated about her fate. How had she managed to hold on to her dignity through it all?
Renee finally stood up, unlocked the door, and washed her face at the sink. She held paper towels soaked in cold water against her eyes for several minutes before she began to apply makeup, smoothing on a thick layer of foundation and two coats of mascara, as if it was camouflage she could hide behind. She untied the scarf around her neck and tried to arrange it so it hid as much of her body as possible.
Then, with a still-shaking hand, she reached into her cosmetics bag for Naomi’s bottle of pills. She turned the tap on again, cupped her hand, and washed down a pill with the metallic-tasting water. She hesitated, then swallowed three more.
Renee made herself sit at her desk until the stroke of 6:00 P.M. Then she sprang out of her chair and walked thirty-six blocks home. It wasn’t because she wanted to burn calories, although that was a nice side benefit. She needed to tamp down the energy pulsing through her body. After eight blocks, her feet ached. After fifteen, a blister formed and then broke, bleeding on the lining of her shoe, but she still didn’t break stride. When she got home, she kicked off her heels and, still in her work clothes, attacked the apartment, clearing out the refrigerator and freezer, scrubbing the shower and toilet, and taking everything out of the cabinets and wiping them all down. All the wretched jobs that she usually dreaded, she tackled with zeal.
She created a chart that she posted on the back of her bedroom door with her exercise goals. No more wimpy two-mile walks for her. She’d double the length, she vowed as she refolded the sweaters in her closet into perfect squares.
She couldn’t sit still. She drank only ice water for dinner, wishing it could douse the hot shame and anger bubbling inside her. Those cowardly, heartless bastards who’d left messages on her
blog were losers who vented their frustration with their own sad lives by trolling the Internet for people to abuse. Did they even have friends? No; they probably never showered, thought acid-washed Jordache jeans were the height of style, and counted reaching a high score on a video game as an overwhelming triumph in their lives.
Anger began to crowd out her shame, and she fed it because it felt better. She could still feel each comment searing into her mind, and she knew she’d never forget the precise words.
She’d show those assholes. She’d lose the weight. She felt invincible—for the first time, she knew she could do it. All she’d had since breakfast was that cookie and a cup of tomato soup, and she wasn’t even hungry! The thought made her pause. So the pills were working, after all. She just hadn’t been taking enough of them.
As Renee stripped her bed to remake it with crisp hospital corners, she realized something: Normally, the humiliation would’ve sent her straight for some cake or bread—anything soft and yeasty that she could cram in her mouth. Her pain would be temporarily numbed, but then she’d hate herself even more. These pills were letting her break that self-defeating cycle. She couldn’t believe no one had ever mentioned them to her. Maybe other women didn’t want the secret to get out. She felt pure, and strong, and burning with purpose.
By eleven, she’d soaked and cleaned her makeup brushes and organized her books into tidy, alphabetized rows. She halted her frenzy only when she heard the front door opening a little while later.
“You’re still up?” Cate said, her keys clanking on the counter. She kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the love seat.
“Yeah,” Renee said. She noticed Cate was wearing a black-and-white striped skirt. With horizontal stripes. Only the slimmest women could get away with that; they probably didn’t even bother to make the skirt in Renee’s size. “Where were you?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Okay.”
These Girls Page 14
