“No, I’m not going back,” I state. “She’s stupid.”
Pause. “Oh? What makes you say that?”
“She told me I should go to a support group for fat people.”
Another pause. “That seems reasonable to me,” my mom says, and adds, “You’re fat.”
“No, I’m not. And you know it and she knows it. I stripped for her.”
“In the eyes of the world you’re fat.”
“Whatever.”
“Please promise me you’ll go to a support group for fat people. At least once.”
“That’s crazy.”
“No. Wearing fake fat is crazy.”
Whenever my mom dwells on her favorite topic—my fake fat—I try to change the subject with her second favorite topic: her upcoming trip to Australia in March.
“Hey, by the way, have you figured out what hotels you’ll be staying at in Australia?” I ask.
“No, not yet,” she says. “I can’t concentrate on that and I won’t feel at peace until you promise me you’ll meet with a group of fat people.”
“You said I didn’t have to go to more than one meeting with a therapist.”
“And you don’t. This is different. It’s a support group. Give it a chance, please. I don’t often ask things of you, do I?”
I don’t answer.
“Barb, I beg you, do it for me.”
“Okay, fine,” I answer.
We say good night and hang up. I take a deep breath. I wish my mom could be patient. I will take off my disguise, in time, when the disguise of old age takes hold of me.
I adore my mother. We get along very well. Our only point of tension is my appearance. I inherited her looks. She used to be a top model, appeared on dozens of Vogue covers, as well as all the other major fashion magazines. Despite her disapproval of my appearance, she is not a shallow person. Unlike many ex-models, she is not obsessed with beauty. She’s not particularly interested in clothes or fashion. But even she has her limits. And I surpass them.
She grew up in Des Moines, Iowa, and moved to New York to become a model. The first year she was here, she met my father, a professor, at the New York Public Library when she wanted to escape the unbearable summer heat and spend a relaxing hour in one of the beautiful, cool, quiet rooms. They immediately fell in love and married soon after. She continued to work as a model until she had me.
Eventually, my dad started having affairs with younger, beautiful women, often his former students. My mother was devastated. She tried leaving him a few times, but he always persuaded her to stay, promised her that things would be different. But they never really were. Even when they were for a short while, he resented her for it, and then things went back to being the same. His affairs were making her life too miserable, so she finally did leave him, after having been with him for thirty-five years.
She bought a house in Connecticut, an hour and a half away, in the woods.
Far from being devastated by the split, I was relieved. I’d seen her so unhappy, and now she would start a new life. She was fifty-six and still looked great.
A few months after the separation, she tried dating a man, briefly. But her heart wasn’t in it. After him, I heard of no one else. She would come to the city sometimes, and we’d have lunch or dinner.
It was Georgia who noticed that my increasing lack of interest in my appearance coincided with my mother’s suddenly finding herself alone. Without really realizing it, I guess, I started dressing more casually and stopped wearing makeup. I took things even further, of course, after my close friend Gabriel died, almost two years ago.
A year after Gabriel’s death, I moved into this beautiful apartment which I love and which I thought would distract me. It has a ballet bar anchored to the floor, because the woman who owned the apartment before me was a dancer with American Ballet Theatre. I’m not a dancer, but I still find the ballet bar beautiful and handy. I’m a costume designer. All around the edges of the room are mannequins wearing some of my most extravagant, historical, fairy tale-like creations. These mannequins—many of which are fur-covered animals with upright human bodies—are all wearing fanciful masks I designed. Atmospheric stage lighting adds to the effect, making the room look like some kind of enchanted forest.
But my beautiful living room can’t distract me from thoughts of Gabriel, and neither can my ugly disguise shield me from them.
Gabriel, who was my best friend, made it perfectly clear in his suicide note that he was killing himself because he was in love with me. Until that note, I had no idea he had romantic feelings for me (or perhaps I chose not to know it). He never told me. He knew I didn’t feel the same way and never would, and he was right.
Why didn’t I fall in love with Gabriel? He was quite handsome, had an amazing voice—deep and smooth—and had so many other qualities. I don’t exactly know why I didn’t develop those kinds of feelings for him. I suspect the reason was something intangible.
His suicide was a complete shock, and yet, looking back, he often seemed a bit melancholy. I noticed it especially when I was alone with him.
In some ways he was the most talented of our group, because he was the most versatile, intelligent, and funny. He was a renowned chef who owned one of the best restaurants in New York City. But unlike Georgia, Lily, or me, who are creative only in our specific fields, Gabriel was creative in all areas. When any of us encountered a bump in our work, he seemed always to come up with some suggestion, some little idea that made all the difference. We were in complete admiration. No one could talk to Georgia about her novels the way Gabriel could. He was the only one she actually discussed her ideas with as she was writing them.
He was a private person, never granting interviews or posing for photographs. Even with us he was a bit reserved and mysterious. Whenever we asked him if there was anyone he was romantically interested in, he just brushed the topic aside good-humoredly. Yet there were plenty of people interested in him. When I walked down the street with him, I noticed women and men eyeing him. And they flirted with him when he stood in lines. He could have had his pick. But he never seemed interested in anyone. I had no idea it was me he was in love with.
I do remember one evening when he was supposed to drop off some food. I was wearing a dress I’d just finished making for a period movie and I was eager to get his reaction to it. I loved showing him my costumes because his face was expressive and gave away his opinion even before he spoke.
When he arrived and I opened the door for him, I said, “Tell me what you think of this dress.”
He didn’t look as pleased as I’d hoped. He stared at me and said, “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s physically painful to look at you, you’re so beautiful.”
I smiled broadly. “I knew you’d like it! I think it might be my best one yet.” I twirled.
“It’s not the dress. Your beauty interferes with my ability to judge the dress.” He looked away.
My whole life, people have given me compliments on my looks, so this compliment didn’t particularly stand out. I felt my face drooping. “So you don’t like it that much?”
“I’d have an easier time judging it on a hanger.” He seemed pained as he went to the kitchen and put the food in the fridge.
After that, there was a period when I hardly saw Gabriel. He threw himself into his work and began dating obsessively. Eventually, that tapered off and he spent more time with us again, until one day, after I had a pleasant and uneventful visit with him at his apartment, I exited his building, and he caught up with me by taking the most direct route.
Falling at me from the twenty-eighth floor, he shattered himself at my feet. I don’t think he intended to traumatize me for life—though he has.
I REFUSED TO leave my apartment for weeks after Gabriel died, except to attend his funeral. I was devastated by the destructive effect I’d had on him without realizing it. I wondered if I might be harming others as well. I moped around, feeling dre
adful, feeling like a wreck. My face felt shrunken and shriveled, ravaged by sadness, as though it must have aged twenty years, but each time I gazed in the mirror, hoping I looked as bad as I felt, I never did.
I found it unbearable. It didn’t have to be that way. There could be ways to solve this problem. And if anyone had the skills to solve it, I did.
I began by trying on a frizzy gray wig. It helped a little, but I still looked very good. So I experimented with some imperfect fake teeth that changed the shape of my mouth in a slightly unflattering way. I toned down the brilliance of my aqua eyes with brown contact lenses. And I put some glasses on top.
There was still the problematic body to deal with. I knew how to create a simple-but-convincing jiggling fat suit. I’d made several for body doubles in movies.
I had the materials delivered, and constructed the suit. It was easy to put on, weighed about ten pounds, and made me look eighty pounds heavier. It helped tremendously.
I finally agreed to see Georgia, who had been trying unsuccessfully for weeks to get me out of the apartment. I was wearing the full disguise when I opened the door for her. She seemed startled and said, “Oh, hi. I’m a friend of Barb’s. Is she here?”
“It’s me,” I said.
She was speechless. She squeezed my arm, to feel the consistency of my bulk, perhaps wondering if I’d genuinely gained all that weight in a few weeks.
When she had assured herself that my fat was fake, she said, “Is this one of your new costumes? I’m glad you’re working, at least.”
“No. This is how I should have looked. Then Gabriel would still be alive.”
After a pause, she said, “Yes, he probably would be.”
She walked around me, examining me from every angle.
“From now on,” I said, “I think I should wear this costume. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. My looks are to blame for his death.”
She looked stunned for a moment, but then said, “Absolutely.”
I knew that tone of hers. She was humoring me, to be shocking.
So I reminded her, “His suicide note said he killed himself over me and that my appearance was causing him pain.”
“I think this costume is an excellent idea,” she said. “Your beauty is a deadly weapon. Wielding it recklessly is irresponsible. You must treat it like a personal handgun—keep it hidden, handle it with care, and never point it at people, not even in jest, unless you intend to use it.”
I detected a note of anger in her voice, and I was no longer sure if she was humoring me or blaming me for Gabriel’s death.
“I wasn’t exactly flaunting my looks, you know,” I said.
“If you think your meager attempts to hide your beauty were successful, you’re deluded. Is a gun in a holster hidden?”
“You’re talking to me like I’m a five-year-old who accidentally shot my best friend to death.”
“That wasn’t my intention. Despite what his suicide note said, it’s not your fault he died. Your beauty is not you. But it is in your possession and you should control it.”
“Stop comparing my appearance to a weapon. I didn’t kill him.”
“Exactly. I rest my case,” she said, giving me a small smile.
Through her usual psychological manipulation, she got me to say the exact opposite of what I was saying at first.
“So you don’t think my disguise is a good idea?” I asked.
“Of course not. And I hope you don’t either.”
“Yes, I do.”
“It’s not your fault Gabriel died. And if you believe it is, you’re wrong. And if you still believe it is, forgive yourself for his death. And if you can’t, so be it, but you can’t be serious about wearing this disguise.”
“I am.”
She stared at me and finally gave up. “Fine. Anything that helps you get out of the house is fine.”
I liked the disguise. It felt like a punishment and a protection all at once, both of which I’d been craving without realizing it.
Breaking the news to my mother about my new appearance was not a fun prospect. I made an effort to dress well for the occasion—not in my usual sweatpants, sneakers, and ponytail. Instead, I wore an enormous pair of tailored fancy pants over my fat suit, and dressy black pumps, even with a slight heel. A very large silk shirt over my fake-fat jacket. I wore my well-combed gray frizzy wig, my subtly ugly fake teeth. For the first time since my parents had split up, I even put on a little makeup.
I wobbled toward the car, my huge thighs rubbing against each other. I opened the passenger door and said, “Hi Mom!” I plopped down in the seat next to her with a huff. It was strenuous carrying all that weight around.
She didn’t say anything at first, just stared, looking aghast. And then she asked, “What is this about?”
“This is how I have been looking for a while. And my life has been better. I’ve been happier.” My words were reminding me of people who break the news to their parents that they’re gay. “I like looking ugly,” I added bluntly.
Over dinner, we were silent for long stretches. She hardly looked at me. I, on the other hand, observed her carefully. She was now sixty and still hadn’t been with anyone since her brief attempt at dating after she left my dad.
“Why are you doing this?” she finally asked.
“It helps me cope with Gabriel’s suicide.”
“You weren’t responsible for his death, regardless of what his note said.”
I nodded, looking down at my food, my eyes filling with tears, inevitably.
“Is that really the only reason you’re doing this?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why else?”
I cleared my throat. “This is how I’m going to find the man of my dreams.”
She took this in. “Really. That’s an interesting method. Not exactly tried and true. Good luck with that,” she said, irritated.
“This is how I’m going to find my soul mate,” I repeated, “someone who doesn’t care much about beauty, who values other things about me—someone able to fall in love with me even if I don’t look good.”
My mother was gazing at me.
Gently, I added, “Someone whose interest in me won’t fade as soon as my looks do.”
My mother looked down. “So this is about your father and me.”
Unfortunately, my disguise put the idea in my mother’s head that I should go and see a therapist—a request she began frequently badgering me about and which I didn’t give in to until today: almost two years later, two years of wearing the disguise every day, making small improvements to it along the way.
THINKING ABOUT GABRIEL always makes me want to read some of his letters again—something I do often. So, after calling my mother I go and fetch two of them and sit on the couch. With great care, I unfold his suicide note. His handwriting is beautiful and interesting, like he was.
Clenching my lips, I read it once more. I know it practically by heart.
Beloved Barb,
I’m so sorry I have to say goodbye to you and to life.
You didn’t know. I never made a declaration of love, nor even a declaration of desire. I was very careful not to send you signals revealing my feelings because I knew they were not reciprocated. And worse, I knew it would change our relationship and make you uncomfortable. You would never be the same with me again, never be yourself.
You often mused to me about your future, wondering what your life would be like, whether you’d have children and how many, where you would live, who you would end up with. But you never saw me that way.
You made a drawing of me, once, with that talent of yours which matches your beauty—that beauty that has grown so painful for me to behold. In the drawing, I felt you had captured my soul. You made me more attractive, more appealing than I am. If that’s how you saw me, why couldn’t you love me?
Meeting you meant I was doomed. It has sapped me of my ability to derive pleasure from anything but you. Everything is ruined for m
e because nothing can match you, nothing can compare. I’ve never been as happy as when I’m with you. And I’ve never been as miserable. Sometimes those two feelings are separated by only a moment.
My work, my success, people’s praise—all those things that mattered to me—mean nothing to me now. My professional ambition has deserted me because I know it will not get me your love.
Beloved Barb, I adored you from the moment I met you. You have touched my soul in ways you will never know.
Goodbye, sweet heart.
More later,
Gabriel
Reading this letter always leaves me devastated, even after all this time.
Those two words, “More later,” which under any other circumstance would seem very banal, baffled my friends and me for a while. That is, until I began receiving more letters from Gabriel—letters he’d prepared before his death and had arranged to be sent to me on specific dates when he knew he would be dead.
The second letter resting on my lap is one of those—Gabriel’s latest, and by far strangest, one. I received it two days ago and have discussed it with my friends at length. We have no idea what he’s talking about. It reads:
Dear Barb, Georgia, Lily, Penelope, and Jack,
One of you confessed to me that you did something very bad. I don’t want to reveal what it is until it’s absolutely necessary. And it will be necessary soon.
Love,
Gabriel
Chapter Three
After folding the two letters and putting them away, I turn off the living room lights.
I’m tired. I go to the other room, which is not only my bedroom but my office. There’s a desk in the middle of this large room and a couch in a corner. The bed is simply a mattress on the floor because it satisfies my bohemian taste. I’ve lined the room with floor-to-ceiling storage space. I have built-in drawers that hold supplies for masks, sketches, fabrics for costumes, sewing equipment, etc. I also have a big closet where I keep dozens of costumes I’ve made or am in the process of making. My own clothes take up only a tiny portion of the closet because I have little interest in my appearance other than to make sure it’s bad.
The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel Page 2
