A chorus of “oh’s,” rises from the audience, which is clearly impressed by the fast-moving, nonbilious food. Deb raises her eyebrows in wonder.
“Isn’t that amazing?” she whispers. “Ten minutes.”
“Yes,” Nancy replies flatly.
Suze flips her ponytail. She looks exactly like every other nutritionist I’ve ever met. Trim, but not super thin. Neat. Tidy in white pants and funky blue clogs. I bet none of her sweaters pill. I bet her refrigerator coils are vacuumed dustless. She moves the pointer to a thoroughly grotesque slide of a splayed-open abdomen and doesn’t even flinch at the enlarged photo of pink, squishy, slimy insides. Someone in the audience coughs. I have to look away.
“Using miniature instruments, the surgeon makes five to six slits in the abdomen to do all this. The entire procedure takes about an hour and a half to two hours. The surgeon monitors the entire procedure through a tiny video camera attached to the laparoscope, which has been inserted in one of the incisions. The image he sees is magnified one thousand times.”
A laparoscopic picture of a bloodred and pink intestinal something magnified one thousand times flashes on the screen and instead of going “ooh,” we go “ick.”
Nancy scribbles on a piece of paper and slides it to me:
GET ME OUT OF HERE BEFORE I BARF!
“However, the procedure is not without complications. One in two hundred patients dies from it, though those stats are improving every day,” says Suze, passing out a photocopied sheet that I scan with one eye closed. “Here are some warning signs to look for. Excessive bleeding or drainage from the incisions. Redness. Unusual pain or swelling in the lower intestines. Fever. Chills. Black stools. Diarrhea that is pure water.”
My stomach is turning, but I try to be mature and look interested. I try not to think about how I could be walking my cat, Otis, in the park instead, or reading a book on my back porch.
“It will be normal,” she informs us, “for patients to experience some shoulder pain and gas, which, by the way, will be more odiferous than before surgery.”
This is pleasant. Why am I here again?
“I know it sounds gross.” Suze patrols the room in which we all sit studiously, trying to act as if odiferous farting is part of normal conversation. “But in the beginning it may be difficult for the patient to clean him- or herself. Therefore, after a bowel movement . . .”
No. Don’t say it. I cover my ears and think maybe Paul had the right idea in staying home. Because as much as I love Deb, friendship has its limits.
Nancy dashes off another note: LOOK AROUND THE ROOM. PARTNERS.
I look around the room. She’s right. Fat person is paired up with not-so-fat person. Plus, the not-so-fat people are patting and hugging the fat people. Deb is scrutinizing the sheet of warning signs as though her life depends upon them.
Which is when reality clicks. Lead falls into my unstapled stomach. I have been so stupid. Why didn’t I realize it before?
I dash off a note to Nancy: DEB’S DOING THIS, ISN’T SHE?
Nancy reads it and her eyes go wide in alarm. We both glare at Deb, who has tricked us into attending this so-called introductory seminar to break it to us that she is actually undergoing gastric bypass. And to think that only a few days ago she innocently claimed she was just “looking into it.”
I lean over to Nancy. “I bet she’s already gone through counseling and insurance approval. Maybe when the receptionist said ‘Ready for next week?’ she was talking about surgery?”
“No!” Nancy says, a bit too loudly.
“What?” Deb mouths.
Nancy begins to jot another note when Suze approaches us and clears her throat meaningfully. “Is there a question?” she asks.
I feel hotly embarrassed, like I used to in junior high school when our American Studies teacher caught us passing notes.
“Uh, not right now,” Nancy says, slinking slightly under her desk.
Suze smiles thinly and goes on. “The good news is that gastric bypass patients can expect to lose seventy to eighty percent of their excess weight in the first year after surgery, with much of it lost in the first six months. As long as the patient adheres to a program of sensible eating and daily exercise, that weight loss should be permanent and the patient can look forward to lowering his or her risk of diabetes, heart disease, and many other life-threatening conditions caused by excess weight.”
Deb is back to glowing. She grins at us broadly and flashes two thumbs up.
“The most important fact to remember is that gastric bypass is a tool, not the miracle answer,” Suze says. “In the end, it’s up to the patient to restrict his or her diet. It takes discipline and hard, hard work. Most people don’t realize that.”
I can’t wait for the lecture to end so we can corner Deb. Finally, Suze hands out leaflets on what diet to follow the first two weeks, the third week, and so on. LIQUIDS ARE TO BE CONSUMED BETWEEN MEALS, NOT DURING! bold print proclaims across the bottom of each flier.
On the back of a leaflet is a model of a patient’s dinner plate. There is one tiny circle for meat. A tinier circle for vegetables. And a teeny weenie circle for fruit. As a kid I had dolls who ate more.
“Well,” exclaims Deb, getting up. “Wasn’t that interesting?”
Nancy yanks her down. “Not so fast. How come you were so desperate to get us here? How come everyone knows your name?”
“Uh.” Deb shoots a glance at Suze, who seems to know what’s going on by the way she winks at her encouragingly. “You want to know the real reason?”
“No,” Nancy says. “Tell us the made-up version.”
Deb seems temporarily confused. She bites her lip and then says, “About six months ago I started looking into this because, like I’ve said, no diet works for me.”
Nancy throws up her hands. “I can’t believe it!”
“Wait,” Deb says, clutching her arm. “Look. It’s true. You and Nola have already lost, what, six pounds since we formed the pact?”
Actually, after my slip-up on pizza last night, the ice-cream sandwich the night before, not to mention those amazing piña coladas at Caribe’s on Thursday, I haven’t lost one ounce. But really getting into a diet takes time. I don’t want to shock my body, after all.
“Do you know how much weight I’ve lost? None. I’ve gained.” Deb is near tears, her perpetual state these days. “It’s like my body is working against me. But I know that if I have this surgery, I’ll be able to get my weight under control. I thought that maybe if you went to Suze’s seminar you might get enlightened.”
“Enlightened?” Nancy says.
“Because you’re always so quick to dismiss it. I mean, even after I got insurance approval and was ready to go I didn’t tell you because I was sure you’d either laugh at me or try to talk me out of it or . . .” She’s crying so hard now, she can’t go on.
Nancy holds out her arms and Deb collapses into them. I pat her shoulder and tell her that of course we understand, of course this is right for her, though I’m thinking that this changes everything. With a stomach the size of a thumb, Deb is going to zip right past us on the weight-loss front. I mean, what are Nancy and I supposed to do, walking around with these stomach fists that need to be filled?
“I’m so glad you came,” Suze says, having concluded that we are now safe to approach. “Deborah’s told me so much about you during her counseling sessions.”
Nancy and I smile politely, both of us silently wondering what, exactly, Deborah has said. I hope she didn’t mention anything about me ripping my pants and exposing my pink granny underwear in front of Nigel Barnes.
“Deb’s lucky to have such support when she comes in for surgery Monday.”
Monday? So soon. That’s just two and a half days away. Only two more days of normal eating for her—ever!
“Right,” Nancy bluffs. “Monday. We’re looking forward to it.”
“And Paul?” Suze asks tentatively. “Has he changed his mind?”
<
br /> Deb fiddles with the ring of her notebook. “He’s coming around. Slowly.”
Suze reaches out and squeezes Deb’s hand. “I’m sure he will. It’s not uncommon for a partner to have doubts. After all, this surgery is not without its risks.”
“And he says he likes me the way I am.”
“He’ll like you even better,” Suze says confidently, “alive and healthy.”
Chapter Eight
“OK,” says Nancy when we emerge like blinking moles into the light of day. “This calls for champagne.”
“I can’t have champagne. It’s two days before surgery,” Deb says. “I’m supposed to drink only clear liquids.”
“And what do you call champagne?” Nancy opens the door of her Saab and practically pushes Deb into the backseat, giving me a we-need-to-talk look over the roof of her car.
I still haven’t completely comprehended Deb’s undertaking. Gastric bypass. She’s really going to do it. No more popcorn. No more margaritas. No eighteen inches of intestines. Now I wished I’d paid more attention to Suze’s lecture instead of covering my ears and eyes at all the gross parts.
Nancy insists on treating us to lunch at the Princeton Arms on Nassau Street. She parks several blocks away, part of her plan, she observes, to be like Belinda who lost tons and tons of weight simply by adding up five miles every day here and there.
“Really,” I say again, “you shouldn’t take Belinda too seriously. She’s just a ditzy Sass! columnist, kind of loosey-goosey with the truth.” I laugh as if loosey-goosey with the truth is all fun and games.
“She better not be loosey-goosey with the truth, or she’ll be looking at a hefty libel suit someday.”
That does it. I resolve to keep my mouth shut whenever Nancy mentions Belinda’s column.
We stop at the Ann Taylor window to comment on the slim pencil skirts and strapless sundresses. In the good old days we cursed Ann Taylor as an evil bitch who designed the kind of clothes that made us miserable. But now we are drawn to Ann Taylor’s altar of anorexia like religious converts. Visions of us finally being allowed into stores like this are what keep us going, and override Deb’s concern about pouch splitting.
At the Princeton Arms, Nancy leads us to the club level with her special key that comes from being a partner in her swanky law firm. The lounge is gorgeous. Deep walnut paneling, discreet lighting, and breathtaking panoramic views of Princeton University. It’s very quiet, except for the occasional shuffling of newspapers.
A beefcake waiter named Brian pours out our glasses, plunks the bottle back in the chilled silver bucket, bows, and leaves. All three of us watch him go, his rearview almost as good as his front. Then Nancy raises her glass and we do the same.
“To Deb. For having the guts to lose her guts.”
“Hear, hear,” we chime, clinking glasses.
“Soooo,” Nancy begins, getting right down to business. “What’s this about Paul not being on board?”
Deb pushes back her blond curls. I try to imagine her sixty pounds thinner, dimple-free. Will she be the same old Deb? It’s hard to envision her as something besides the Earth mother to Anna and Dylan. She’s such a homebody, always doing crafts, covering her windows with children’s glass paint, knitting, tatting—whatever that is. Deb hardly ever leaves the house if she can help it.
“It’s not so much that he’s not on board, as that he still has to get used to the idea,” she says. “You know, he’s so accustomed to me being this way. Then there are the risks of surgery. He’s not exactly thrilled about that.”
“Understandable.” Nancy puts on her courtroom frown. “But of course he’s going to take care of you when you get back from the hospital.”
“Uhhh . . . more like Anna. She’s on school vacation.”
“Anna’s fifteen. She has her own life. What about Paul?”
I tense up for Deb’s sake. Sometimes Nancy’s well-meaning grilling can be a bit hard to take.
“He has work.” Deb says this in such a way that it’s obvious work means something other than work.
Nancy slaps her thighs. “Alrighty. Then I’ll arrange for a nurse.”
“No, don’t . . .” Deb starts, but Nancy won’t hear of it.
“Listen. I am happy to. It’ll put my mind at ease knowing that you’ve got professional care. I don’t want you oozing and dripping all over the place with only a teenager at the helm. You can even stay with me for the first week, if you want. Lord knows I have the room now that Ron has, um, moved in with his Latina lover.”
At this Nancy takes a large gulp of champagne, an overboard attempt at trying to appear carefree, in my opinion. Since Ron walked out, she’s consistently maintained that his leaving was for the best. But anyone who knows Nancy and Ron knows otherwise.
I’ve always liked Ron. For one thing, he’s incredibly tall and blocklike in a Herman Munster way. I’m a sucker for really tall, blocklike Herman Munster guys.
For another, he loves Nancy—still. Exotic Latina girlfriend or no.
Ron and Nancy fell in love at Seton Hall in South Orange where she was a nursing student and he was a center on the school’s basketball team. The first time I met him was when Nancy brought him home to meet her family and friends over Thanksgiving vacation when we were sophomores. I remember being struck by how softspoken Ron was, how he’d bend down to catch Nancy’s every word, his eyes twinkling merrily as she rested her head against his upper arm.
Back then Nancy was a bubbly butterball with dimples in her cheeks, wavy brown hair, and the kind of chest that made Victoria’s Secret stuff look like training bras. Boys were nuts for her, though there were signs even then—her full face, her lust for cheeseburgers and french fries—that Nancy teetered on the precipice of obesity. No one seemed to care. She was fun and light and “bursting with love,” as she gushed to me shortly before saying her wedding vows, “for my Big Ron.”
What changed only Nancy and Ron know, but I personally think it had more to do with Nancy than Ron. Their early marriage was textbook perfect. She worked at Hahnemann Hospital in Philadelphia to put Ron through Temple Law, spending her free hours helping him study. Then she discovered, much to Ron’s delight, her own quick mind for case law and legal reasoning. When he passed the bar, she enrolled in Temple and trumped Ron’s own academic performance, editing the Law Review and graduating magna cum laude.
Some men might have found her successes castrating, but not Ron. He threw a surprise party when she passed the New Jersey bar, was thrilled by her clerkship in Trenton. He adjusted his work schedule to be home for her and took cooking classes. He did the food shopping and paid the bills. All of which Nancy took for granted.
The constant griping about Ron started shortly after she became an associate at Barlow, Cafferty and Kline—New Jersey’s top criminal defense firm in Trenton. Suddenly, according to Nancy, Ron wasn’t making enough money in the Philadelphia public defender’s office. He was too laid back. Not ambitious enough. Plus, he was hinting about starting a family, an idea that she proclaimed “completely unrealistic.”
It was as though her Big Ron had started to shrink.
While she had started to explode.
Each year she added an extra layer of fat the way a bear prepares for hibernation. Her cute dimples disappeared and her once pinup, Playboy-bunny chest was swallowed by the folds of fat around her middle. Her blood pressure rose and her breathing became more labored. The day Ron suggested she take an exercise class, she tossed a copy of the New Jersey Statutes Annotated Volume 23 at his head.
Two months later, Nancy got a phone call from American Express verifying that a hotel in Cozumel was not fraud. Ron had told her he was off to the Poconos for a fishing vacation at a family cabin. He didn’t mention that he’d left a few days early to join Gina, his twenty-five-year-old Guatemalan law clerk, on a Mexican beach.
His bags were packed and on the doorstep when he got home. Nancy refused to listen to one word of explanation.
Tha
t was about a year ago, and here we are in the Princeton Arms and I, for one, am frustrated that a couple meant to be together for eternity is splitting up for no good reason.
“He wants to get remarried, you know. That’s why he’s been so nice to me lately. Don’t cross your legs, Deb, remember? Blood clots.”
Deb uncrosses her legs. I am impressed that Nancy picked this up from Suze’s lecture.
“He’s getting married? To Gina?” I ask.
Nancy finishes off her champagne and helps herself to a refill. “Who else? Guess it was true love all along, despite what he claimed when I caught them in Cozumel.”
I don’t believe it. “He’s bluffing,” I say. “There’s only one woman he loves, and that’s you.”
“Really?” Nancy leans forward as if she were driving home a point to the jury. “Then tell me why he asked me if I’d be up for a legal annulment.”
I am speechless, partly because I’ve never been sure what an annulment really entails.
“He wants an annulment,” Nancy finishes, her eyes slightly glazed from the champagne, “because he wants to marry Gina in the Catholic Church so they can raise up the dozen Catholic babies he wanted me to spit out as soon as I was done putting him through law school.”
With this, Nancy plunks her champagne glass on the table so hard that the stem shatters and the three of us scream. Brian the beefcake waiter rushes over, followed by a busboy carrying a heavy white cloth. We are ordered to sit still as they clean up the mess, Nancy apologizing profusely.
“Don’t be sorry. No big deal,” he says, leaning over and revealing a large broad back. “Looked like you girls were having fun.”
“It’s our last party before I undergo weight-loss surgery,” Deb blurts, displaying her knack for saying odd things in awkward social situations.
“Weight-loss surgery, huh?” Brian tosses the glass in a bag. “All of you?”
“Just me.” Deb raises her hand. “Nola and Nancy are going about it the old-fashioned way. Diet and exercise. Apparently if you walk five miles a day and cut back two hundred and fifty calories a day you can lose, like, a hundred pounds in a year. Did you know that?”
The Cinderella Pact Page 6
