Teenage Waistland

by Lynn Biederman

  I shake my head. “My mother wasn’t always like this and you know that.” Char half shrugs and keeps pulling on the carpet. “It’s not my mom you’re talking about, is it?” I say.

  “I’m thinking you’d better keep what happened private,” she says softly. “If—When anyone asks—and they will, you know—it’s part of your family medical history, just make it like your dad had, I don’t know, a heart attack or something.”

  “Heart attack, check,” I say. “I’ll just fill this part out when I get home.”

  “That’s fine,” she says, her voice still soft. “But um, your mom … I think we should probably come up with a backup plan.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re not a hundred percent confident anymore about your ‘get her a nice outfit so she’ll feel better about attending the parent part of the psych evaluation’ plan?”

  Char’s back to the carpet fibers. “It’s true—I’m worried about her meeting the shrink, but actually, it’s not the getting her out of the house part as much as the family supportiveness thing that worries me,” she says even more softly.

  “What—” I start, but Char jerks up her head and looks straight at me.

  “I’ll just come out and say it,” she says in her regular voice. “I’m, um, not sure your mom showing up in her present condition is such a good move—the appearance of having a supportive family is key, so I think we should get Park Avenue Bariatrics to deal with your mom solely over the phone, not in person.”

  I can feel the tears brimming. I throw up my hands and scatter the questionnaire sheets all over the floor. “What’s the point of any of this? First you convince me I can get her out of the house with a Gap velour sweat suit. Now you’re saying that if I pull that miracle off, I’ll still be screwed. This is a massive waste of time!” I bury my face in my hands and wait for the usual Char shoulder or neck rub, but she smacks me on the arm instead.

  “Feeling sorry for yourself is the big waste of time! You’re awfulizing again. We just need to focus on the no-show plan. It’s not a big deal, Shroud. If anything, this will help get your mother agree to the surgery. And the frosting on the cake is that our worst-case scenario—that she won’t leave the house—now becomes the best-case scenario.” I’m still trying to make sense of what Char’s talking about when she announces, “Check this. Problem solved. Your mom is really sick at home with something, like Lyme. Wait, better. She has swine flu! Yes, swine flu! That’s why she can’t leave the house.”

  I stifle a groan. “Your swine-flu story will ensure they reschedule the evaluation, not do it by phone. They’ll want to make sure my ‘family support system’ hasn’t died before letting me into the trial.”

  “Good point. Forget swine. Okay. She has a nasty, oozing MRSA infection. You know, those infections that can’t be cured with antibiotics and people are like deathly afraid of catching them. Oh my God!” Char screams, and jumps up. “I’m a genius!”

  “Genius?” I say. “MRSA has the same problem as swine flu, only worse. It’s more fatal. And I don’t like the idea of giving her a real illness. How about bedsores?”

  Char scoffs and sits back down. “Bedsores heal when the patient gets out of bed—it’s so the opposite of a good reason for your mom to be bedridden and do the interviews by phone,” she snaps. I’m waiting for her next brainstorm to hit, but she’s got her chin in her hand now and I’m surprised at the panic that starts rising when Char’s run out of solutions. Murphy, the family Persian, enters the room and curls into Char’s lap, and that’s my signal to leave before I start sneezing. Char absently strokes him while she watches me get up and gather my papers. Suddenly, she flings the cat off her lap, jumps to her feet, and cries “Bingo!”

  “Yes, Char?” I say dully as I swing my backpack over my shoulder and head to the door.

  “Allergies! Nonfatal, not contagious, not a family medical issue, but definitely a good reason not to leave the house! And, since no one’s going to bother predicting future pollen counts, a severe seasonal allergy is a good reason not to reschedule.”

  I feel a smile spread across my face. How much of a lie would it really be? Mom would probably be allergic to something as soon as she stepped foot out of the house anyway. Char’s waving her hand for a high five, and I give her one. “Worst-case scenario,” I warn. “If she hates the sweat-suit idea and won’t leave the house.”

  “Done! What do you say we run over to Mario’s for a couple of pastries to celebrate? In a few weeks, those cream claws could be hist-oh-ree!” Char says, doing her strut thing around the room again.

  “Um, Char? Nothing’s going to be history if I don’t convince my mother. I’d better talk to her immediately, before I come to my senses.”

  It’s nine-thirty p.m. and I hear the muffled sounds of Mom’s TV. Two empty family-sized mac and cheese tins and her coffee mug from yesterday are on the counter. From the din of Char’s chattering parents and the afterglow of Crystal’s chicken cacciatore, I’ve crossed into a twilight zone of stale air and dim lighting. The only sound of life in here comes from the TV, and I follow it to Mom’s room.

  She’s in bed, her hair all messy and greasy. She doesn’t go to the beauty parlor anymore, so she keeps getting grayer.

  “Hi, Mom.” She props herself up and moves a large pile of yarn to make room for me to sit. Her eyes are fixed on the TV, though, as I come toward her. “Can I turn it off?”

  “Oh,” she says, and hits the Mute button on the remote. That remote control is her lifeline. Once, about six months after Dad died, Mom finally left the house to go shopping. I thought she’d finished grieving and would return to cooking meals, making lunches, and driving me around, and to her part-time interior decorating job. My heart sank when I looked in the grocery bag. She had purchased, like, every AAA battery the store had in stock. Never mind milk, but the batteries for her remote …

  “I have something to discuss with you, Mom,” I say. “Can I turn on the lights?” I sit on the edge of her bed and block her view.

  “Here.” She turns on the lamp on her night table. Her arms have gotten huge. For every pound I’ve gained, she’s packed on two.

  “I’ve been reading about this program for obese teens and I really want to do it,” I blurt. I hand her the Park Avenue Bariatrics “Qualifications for Teen Lap-Band Surgery Clinical Trial” information sheet and the application form, along with her reading glasses, which are permanently filmed over. Her dresser is coated in dust, and the housekeeper can’t get into her room half the time.

  Mom takes one glance at the cover sheet and puts the packet down. “What’s this, East, surgery? Experimental surgery? Isn’t that what ‘clinical trial’ means?”

  “No. It’s not experimental at all. It’s been proven safe and effective on adults. And it’s more like a procedure than surgery. It’s just that it hasn’t been officially approved for teens yet, so it’s called a clinical trial. Park Avenue Bariatrics has FDA approval to do Lap-Bands on teens.”

  “It says for obese kids. You’re hardly heavy enough to qualify, are you?”

  I close my eyes and focus on not crying, or, worse, screaming. “I do qualify, Mom. I more than qualify. And I need the help. If I get this, I won’t be able to eat as much and then I can finally lose weight. And there’s more than enough money in my college fund to pay for it and the entire cost of college, even NYU.” I say the last part fast—despite the fact that my father’s late mother left us money, the thought of her could get Mom hysterical and blow the whole thing.

  “If you want to lose weight, why not just lose it on your own?”

  Why? I don’t bother mentioning the countless diets I’ve tried that she’s been oblivious to, or how there’s never a single prepared meal here, and that, at my current rate of expansion, I’ll be as big as her in no time. In fact, I don’t answer her at all.

  “Surgery is dangerous.” She says it more like a plea than a statement. But then her voice hardens. “That girl’s put you up to this, hasn’t sh
e?”

  “Mom, for me, not having this surgery is dangerous,” I say loudly, ignoring the Char crack. Ever since Mom stopped talking to Crystal, everything that has to do with Char threatens my well-being. If I tell her Char and I are taking the train into Manhattan, she acts like I’m jumping the Grand Canyon on a motorcycle. That’s Char’s analogy, but it’s true.

  “You’ll need anesthesia, and they’re going to cut you open. I saw it on Oprah. Very scary.” She’s holding the information packet away from her, as if getting it too close to her body could cause harm.

  “There’s barely any cutting. It’s laparoscopic, Mom. They make tiny incisions through a tiny scope. And you’ll be with me.” I’m praying that my needing her, something I haven’t in a long time, will replace her fear. Instead, I’ve dropped a bomb. Her face goes the color of the dingy white curtains that haven’t been cleaned since Dad. Or opened.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think—”

  I cut her off before she says it’s not a good idea. Any time she voices a fear, it takes on a life of its own in her mind and is that much more likely to come true. “I need the sur—the Lap-Band. And yes, Char’s doing it, and Crystal has totally checked it out.” Mom and Crystal stopped talking a few months after Dad died, and by then, Crystal wasn’t just her oldest, best friend, she was her only friend left. Dad’s death was like this irresistible force—whoever Mom didn’t push out of her life eventually pulled away.

  “Crystal’s been in on all this?” Mom says, harshness seeping into her voice. My heart starts racing as I try to calculate the source of her anger and respond in a way to defuse it. I take a deep breath and choose my words carefully.

  “Well, of course Crystal had the exact same response as you when Char first told her about it—she knows how impulsive Char can be better than anyone. But after Crystal read the materials, researched it online, and talked with Char’s physician, she became completely convinced that this sur—program is the only way to ensure that her daughter live a long, happy, and healthy life.” I can’t help that my voice cracks on this last part.

  There’s no longer any trace of anger on Mom’s face, but her eyes are darting back and forth. Like she’s thinking …

  “There’s paperwork I need signed just to qualify for the procedure, and I’ll need a few routine medical tests and a psychological evaluation so that they can see how responsible I am. Then there’s one more evaluation session to get in to the trial—the first part is with the teen, and the second is a private consultation with the parent alone. Mom, there’s a really beautiful outfit I planned to buy you for your birthday anyway, so you could wear it to the meeting—or I bet I can even get them to interview you over the phone and then you won’t have to—to go all the way into the city and deal with parking and stuff. And then Char can be with me at the hospital, and you wouldn’t even have to come—”

  “East, please stop,” Mom begs. “You’re talking a mile a minute.”

  “I know it’s a lot. But like I said, it’s safe and you won’t have to do—” My voice is cracking again when she cuts me off.

  “Honey, stop. I’ll read the brochure, okay? And if everything’s as you say, then I guess letting you get this surgery is the least I can do for you.” She takes a deep breath, but her eyes begin to water and when she starts speaking again, her voice is shaking. “F-forget about phone interviews and having Char with you at the hospital. I’ll do what you need me to, and I’ll be with you at the hospital too. I’m going to be with my daughter every step of the way. If we’re going to do this, we’ll do it right.”

  We? It’s like a wave of bright light sweeps through the room. I jump to my feet completely stunned for a moment, then fling myself into my mother’s arms—something I haven’t done in years. She’s holding me tightly right back, stroking my hair and sobbing at the same time. Suddenly this surgery is bigger and more important than I realized. Maybe it could even save us both.

  5

  Evaluating Psychos

  Thursday, May 28, 2009

  Marcie

  If there’s one thing that has gotten me in trouble throughout my entire life, it’s my mouth. What goes into it, but even worse, what comes out. Your mouth is your own worst enemy, Marcie. When in doubt, keep it shut, Abby always says. Dad says I’m sometimes too honest for my own good, and Ronny thinks I’m spirited, surely his euphemism for “loudmouthed, opinionated brat.” Whatever I am, it can’t be helped. Normal people are born with a flap that prevents everything on their minds from spewing uncontrollably out of their mouths. I have a genetic defect—no flap whatsoever. That’s why, on the three-block trek from the parking garage to the Park Avenue Bariatrics office, Abby is harassing me for my big interview: the “psychosocial evaluation.”

  “Just watch your mouth and be polite,” Abby warns. “No wisecracks or snide remarks. And for God’s sake—do not insult anyone.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t mention that recurring dream of mine—where Liselle and her whole shallow crew of size-zero bimbos get wiped off the face of the earth in one fell swoop of my butt?” My laugh comes out more like a wheeze as I struggle to maintain her pace. But Abby halts in the middle of the sidewalk and I plow right into her. She spins around and squeezes my arm.

  “Let’s get something straight. If you don’t make it into this clinical trial, don’t think for a minute I’m taking you to Mexico. Your surgery gets done here or it doesn’t get done at all. Do I make myself clear?” I yank my arm from her grip. WTF?

  “What if I say all the right things, but I don’t get in because after talking to you, the shrink decides that my living environment sucks and that that homeless fellow living in an old dishwasher carton on Forty-second Street would provide a more supportive family environment than chez Rescott? Wouldn’t you take me to Mexico then?”

  Abby glares at me through watery eyes for a moment, then pivots and resumes walking.

  “Mom—wait! I’m sorry,” I call, lumbering after her. Abby speeds up, but I catch up with her at the crosswalk. She gives me her back as she dabs at her eyes with a Kleenex, and I step around to face her. “Listen,” I say softly. “What I said back there was really wrong. I’m like ninety-eight point three percent positive that I’d get less support from that guy in the box, okay?” Abby tries to suppress a smile, but when I raise my eyebrows—the c’mon, I know you wanna look—she finally lets it out.

  “Okay. But stop giving me such a hard time.”

  “Mom,” I try in the sugary voice that always works for Liselle, “don’t you see how you’re the one who gave me the hard time?” Abby’s face tightens, but she doesn’t turn away, even though the light has changed. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it, Abby says, so I soften my voice even more. “I know you just wanted me to be with you, but that’s meant I’ve had to give up everything else I care about—Dad, my best friend—hell, all my friends. I haven’t made any since we moved here, which isn’t my fault. You’re the one who agreed to push me up to eleventh grade—they’d have kept me in tenth even with my test scores if you asked them to—and now I fit in even less.”

  Abby looks straight ahead without blinking, but she hasn’t budged. I keep it soft.

  “Mom, I fit in at Fuller. Everyone but like two people voted for me for class vice president. Here, I’d be satisfied with being invisible. But I’m not. I’m a joke—Liselle Rescott’s ‘new’ sister. I didn’t know Liselle was a quintuplet. Why did Liselle bring her house to school today? What’s her name again? Moosie? Do you have any idea how many times a day I hear that stuff?”

  “How many?” Abby sighs, checking her watch. And that’s when I lose it.

  “Damn it, Mom! I want to go home. Just let me go home. Please. I’m miserable here.”

  “You are home,” she snaps. “And I know you’re unhappy, Marcie. Believe me, I know. That’s why we’re here, okay? Please, let’s just go while we still have the light.”

  A huge woman with mammoth hips is waiting in fr
ont of the elevator when it opens. “Excuse me,” Abby says, though she could easily slip right past her. The woman apologizes profusely and steps to the side. I follow Abby out, and the woman smiles conspiratorially at me. As if all fat people belong to a secret club. I don’t smile back and catch up with Abby as she beelines down the hall, scanning the suite numbers for the right door. She stops in front of one and waits for me to catch up.

  While Abby goes to the receptionist’s window, I survey the waiting room with relief. Long green pleather-upholstered benches line the walls. All-you-can-eat seating—no armrests to signal where your buttocks must end so others may begin. There’s nothing more terrifying than entering a waiting room, or a classroom, and trying to find a seat while others are watching.

  A few Saturdays ago, my worst seating disaster ever … It was at a special creative writing seminar at the community center. I had been so excited—only two kids from my school were selected, and the presenter was one of my favorite authors. By the time I arrived, she was already speaking and only middle seats were available. It was bad enough the kids had to grab their notebooks off their desks and lean away to make room for me to get through the aisle, but the desks—the kind with tops that lift up like tray tables on airplanes—were like freaking doll furniture. The desktop just wouldn’t clear my stomach on the way down, no matter how hard I pushed. I had to sit with the table up for the whole morning, mortified and barely processing a word. Then, at lunchtime, I tore out of the building and frantically dialed Abby on my cell phone from behind a tree, imploring her to come pick me up. I never even got my book signed.

  I’m beached on a sagging, rust-colored corduroy couch in Dr. Glass’s brown-paneled office, waiting for the inquisition to get under way. The springs are completely shot in this old sofa—not surprising, given the clientele—so my butt is basically on the floor. Her walls are plastered with framed certificates. Master’s in Social Work. PhD in Clinical Psychology. Big deal. My dad, the top lit professor at Fuller Prep, has two PhDs—one in literature and one in education. He turned down a position at Tufts so that I could go to Fuller. Now he’s stuck in a crummy apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts, all by himself, and I’m living in a ten-thousand-square-foot McMansion in New Jersey with my mother, Rich Ronny, and brain-dead Liselle.