Fat Chance

by Brandi Kennedy

  I don't know when that time might have been, that time when I genuinely liked and believed in myself, but my heart recognizes the truth in the quote. Somehow, I have to find the ability to enjoy myself again.

  Chapter Ten

  Standing in the hallway, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, counting to ten. It's my fourth time here, and I'm still nervous. It's not because of the therapy anymore though; I actually like being in therapy a lot more than I expected to. After my appointments with Dr. Caswell, I always feel as if I've accomplished something big, just in unloading my personal baggage. I don't lose weight, but my appointments with him make me feel lighter somehow.

  Still, I'm nervous because he's beautiful, and because I'm totally unprofessional to think so. I embarrass myself weekly, walking into the waiting room and sitting there, pretending to read a magazine while all I can think of is his eyes. I'm nervous because now there's a part of me that wants to stay a little crazily obsessed with my weight, because the misery it causes me is what makes me need him.

  I know it's intense, and I'm not sure I like it; I always swore I'd never be one of those girls, those kinds of girls who meet a man and are suddenly so stuck to him that they can't tell where one person ends and the other begins. I don't want to be that kind of woman, I don't want to live that sort of co-dependent life. I don't want to crash and burn the way my father did when my mother died.

  Then again, I've never been in love. Maybe someday, I'd like a little bit of co-dependence, that sense of having someone to turn to and someone to lean on.

  I just need to remember one little thing. That my 'someone' is not Dr. Caswell. Sexy Mackenzie Caswell, with the searing eyes and the gently reassuring disposition. Because I am a patient. And he probably likes the hot, supermodel type, anyway. Most men do.

  Walking into the waiting room, I stop for my usual chit-chat with the receptionist. In the past few weeks, I've learned that her name is Marie. Caswell. As in, she's his mother. I like her; she always greets me so cheerfully when I come in.

  "Hi, Cass," she says, smiling warmly at me.

  "Hi, Ms. Caswell, how are you this week?" I ask, signing my name with a flourish on the sign-in register.

  Her blue eyes twinkle and she giggles a little, which is an interesting sound coming from such an aged woman, but somehow it fits her. "I'm just wonderful," she says to me, glancing at Dr. Caswell's door to be sure it is still closed. "I had a hot date this week," she whispers across the desk.

  "Is that so?" I ask. "Well, at least one of us is getting some man action."

  "Oh, honey, your days are coming. I have a feeling about you."

  I take a breath, trying to think of something to say to this kind little woman who has so charmed me, this woman who sees something special in me that I cannot yet see. Before I can answer, though, Dr. Caswell's door opens and a man steps out. He looks vaguely familiar to me, and he's rather handsome. He looks me over quickly, and I get the feeling that he's embarrassed to be seen here. So am I.

  Behind him, Mackenzie Caswell walks into the waiting room, and something deep in my abdomen clicks on, like a space heater suddenly coming alive to warm a neglected room.

  "Well I guess I'll see you later," I whisper to Ms. Caswell when he gestures for me to follow him into his office.

  ***

  "How are you, Cassaundra?" Dr. Caswell asks me, once we've settled into our usual places in his office. He turns on his recorder and places it on the coffee table, leaning back in his chair. As he crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, I curl into the corner of the couch, playing with the fringe of a forest green throw pillow.

  "I'm okay, I think," I answer. For once, I believe it, at least a little bit. Other than the fact that when he says my name, that little space heater inside me kicks up a little warmer.

  I'm just a patient. I'm just a patient.

  "That's good," he says. "You look cheerful today. Still following doctor's orders?"

  "Yes, sir," I laugh, raising my hand to pop a quick salute. "Today's quote is Glen Beck, who said, 'Sometimes, the hardest part of the journey is believing you're worthy of the trip.'"

  "And where are we on that?" Now he's getting more into the conversation; he drops his foot to the floor and leans forward, bracing his elbow on his knees, his hands hanging comfortably between.

  "Believing I'm worth the trip?"

  He nods. "Mmhmm."

  I sigh. "I'm moving forward, I think, but I wouldn't mind moving faster. I am getting better at noticing when I'm being cruel to myself, and I spend time every morning memorizing the quote for the day. I take my meds like a good girl," I smirk. A good little fat girl who is just a patient.

  "Aww, you should get a prize," he says, laughing. We fit well, which makes him a good therapist for me, because I feel at ease with him. He isn't obnoxiously professional and he isn't afraid to joke around, while at the same time, I know he's perfectly professional in all the important ways.

  "I think I'm learning that I'm the prize," I say, quietly, setting the pillow aside and looking at him directly, trying to gauge his reaction to what I think is progress.

  "Exactly!" he exclaims, slapping one palm flat on the coffee table. The recorder jumps a little at the impact, and I can't help laughing. "Now tell me," he continues. "With all this change in perspective, how are you feeling about the reunion? It's coming up any day now, isn't it?"

  "Yeah." I make a face as Rick's image pops into my mind. Hey there fatty, he used to say. You're looking especially gross today. Get stuck in any doorways lately?

  "I'm really sort of nervous about it, to tell the truth." I know it is an obvious body language, but I can't seem to keep my arms from crossing themselves, as if I'm shielding myself from view.

  "Because of your brother?"

  "Of course. I have great relationships with my sisters, with their mom. They've all always been so good to me, and I love getting together with them. But Rick is, well, he's something else entirely."

  "Let me suggest something. It's maybe an odd way to look at things, but I think it might help you keep your perspective," Dr. Caswell says. He's leaned back again now, with one elbow pressing into the soft arm of the chair.

  "Okay, hit me with your best shot," I say. I lean back against the cushions of the couch, forgetting that this displays my soft stomach more than I care for. This only happens here, in this little office-turned-living-room, this comfy little den he's created. It happens because I am comfortable here, and in this quiet, peaceful setting, I can almost forget how much I despise my body.

  "How were you in school?" he asks, taking me off guard. When my eyebrows come together, he grins at me and waves a hand in a gesture that encourages me to answer.

  "I was pretty good. I spent most of my later childhood moving, you know, and always in a different home, a different school. I don't think I ever finished a school year in the same place that I started it, at least, not after my father died. I had to work really hard, but it wasn't so bad because I was never anywhere long enough to make friends. So I did well."

  "You passed tests, turned in homework? Studied?"

  "I did," I say, pulling the pillow back into my lap, wishing I was small enough to comfortably cross my legs. I don't know why it makes me so nervous to talk about my history as a student; maybe because I was always the fat nerd in school. "What are we getting at, here?"

  "Why don't you think of Rick as a test? If I'm the teacher --"

  Yes please.

  "-- And you're the student --"

  Oh dear God.

  "-- Then Rick is a test, a test to see how well you retain what you're learning. Make sense?"

  My mouth has gone dry, and I cross my arms over the pillow to hide the fact that my breasts have perked up, the fact that the heater core of me is now sending heat waves through my panties.

  I'm just a patient. Not that kind of student. Not for him. I'm just a patient.

  "Cass?" he prompts.

  "Oh, yes," I say, clearing my th
roat. "It makes perfect sense. All this time, I'm studying self-confidence, right? So the reunion is the test, to see if I'm strong enough to hold up?"

  "Exactly."

  Oh, God, let me fail the test, at least a little. Maybe not an 'f', maybe not an emotional breakdown, but please, no 'a'. Not this time ...

  "And what happens if I fail the test? If I have some sort of encounter with him, and I can't hold up?"

  "Well, I suppose you study more and plan a re-take."

  Please, please, I need a re-take!

  "And if I pass? If he's a total jerk and I can be unaffected? Or at least, act unaffected?"

  "Then we celebrate your progress, and we move on to newer, harder strategies."

  Hallelujah! I'll still see him! As a patient, of course.

  "Okay. I shall do my best then. Do you have suggestions?"

  "I'm the therapist, the teacher. Of course I do," he grins, and the dimples appear. "Carry something in your pocket or purse, with a few of your quotes written down. Choose good ones, ones that speak to you and remind you of what your goal is in this. Should you get frazzled and forget your quotes, then you'll have an easy reference. Dress in something that makes you feel confident --"

  I think of that red dress, and the way I felt in it. Confident clothing? Check.

  "-- And don't weigh."

  Crap.

  "Don't weigh?" I ask.

  "Nope. Then there is no risk of seeing a loss and riding an emotional high that you can be knocked down from. And no risk of seeing a gain that will send you into a depression that will make you vulnerable to any comments he might make. You are not a number, Cassaundra."

  "I know," I say. "Still, I really am so affected by my weight. And it's like you just said; when I'm losing, even a few ounces, I'm so high, some days I'm giddy with it. Other days, I've gained just slightly, and I am so sad that I'm a little ill. I hate it. But weekly weighing has helped me some. The first week was really hard, but it has gotten better. I don't catch myself thinking of it as often now, unless some clothes are tighter or looser than I remembered."

  "It's nice, huh?"

  "It really is," I say, and I mean it completely.

  "Good. Because no woman should ever judge herself by the number on a scale, a tag, or a measuring tape. You are so much more than that, and I can't wait until you can see what I see."

  Chapter Eleven

  "So I just had to tell you guys about it, because it looks like I'll be going for a little while. And it's not something I want to keep keeping from everyone," I say. I'm on the usual conference call with my sisters, lounging on my couch, and I've just told them about being in therapy. I've told them why I'm in therapy, how low I really got and how much it scared me.

  They've listened quietly, just like I asked them to, which means I had enough time to reassure them and tell them how much I think I've grown, and how much the doctor's new strategies are helping me. For a minute or so, the line is silent, and I hold my cell phone out, waiting for it to light up so I can check the screen. The call timer is still going, and I haven't accidentally muted the call; I wait, lying back against an old purple throw pillow that Janet gave me as a housewarming gift.

  "Oh my goodness, Cass!" Renee finally exclaims, and her voice is wobbly. "I can't believe it was that bad. Oh my goodness, why didn't you tell me, honey?"

  "Me too," Chelsea says, but she's quiet and I can tell that I've hurt her. In telling them the truth now, I've clued them in to the fact that I felt I couldn't tell them certain things before.

  "I'm sorry, you guys. I just, I don't know. I just have been unhappy about things for a long time, and I felt like you guys wouldn't get it because you guys haven't been through this kind of thing before. And I haven't told Janet, so please, don't tell her either okay? I just don't want her to know at all. I think it would hurt her, to feel like --"

  "Like we do?"

  "Aww, Chels. I’m sorry, I just felt like I couldn't tell anyone. Not anyone." Yanking the pillow from under my head, I press it to my face to muffle a groan as Renee chips in.

  "Obviously," she says. She's upset with me for upsetting Chelsea, who tends to be more fragile. Like me. And now, I'm wishing I hadn't told them at all. I'm pretty sure I don't want to hear their reactions to the rest of what I wanted to tell them, and I wonder briefly if I have any alcohol in the kitchen.

  "Well, if you guys can hold off on being mad at me for a while, I can tell you how it gets worse."

  "Oh my goodness," Renee mutters.

  Simultaneously, Chelsea says, “Oh God, worse?"

  Standing up, I resituate my twisted shirt, and walk into the kitchen. "Yeah, it gets worse. I think I'm kind of attracted to him. And I think maybe it's not one-sided."

  "You need a new therapist," Renee says, and she's speaking seriously. "I went into therapy after dad died, for a little while, and it was just really hard, letting out everything that I was feeling. I can't imagine how the dynamic would have been changed if there had been any sort of chemistry between me and my doctor."

  Now I see why she wasn't mad at me. She gets it; this isn't news to her because she's been there before, though it is the first time any of us have heard that Renee was in therapy. Still, that doesn't stop me from pouring a splash of vodka into a glass and topping it off with orange juice. I give it a swirl with my finger and take a sip.

  "Wow, guys. I'm kind of feeling on the outside of the loop here." Chelsea's usual cheer seems to be going downhill a bit, hearing that Renee has kept a little secret too.

  "Chelsea," Renee says, "it isn't you, you know that. I share everything with you; for goodness' sake, we're twins. And you know Cassaundra tells you everything too. It's just that therapy is, well, it's different."

  "Maybe I need therapy," Chelsea mutters, sarcasm letting us know that even though she understands, she isn't quite happy about us keeping things from each other. Renee laughs, and the conversation moves back to me getting hot and bothered whenever I'm in the office with sexy Mackenzie Caswell.

  "You know, what if it's just transference?" Renee asks. She's being gentle about it, but I have a feeling I'm not going to really like her question. "This sort of thing can lead to a lot of regrets, Cass. On both sides." And now I'm really glad I've made myself a drink. Taking another sip from the glass, I leave it on the counter and start unloading the few dishes in the dishwasher.

  "What's transference?" I ask dryly.

  "That's when you can fall in love with your doctor because he's a great caretaker or something. Or you know, like your therapist, because he's a good listener," Renee explains.

  "Well, I'm sure it doesn't help that he's apparently hot," Chelsea laughs. "I've never known Cass to talk about a guy like that before."

  "Well, he's definitely hot," I laugh, stacking the last plate in the cabinet with one hand while trying not to drop the phone. "He's really tall, and he's built. So he makes me feel small, and I like that. He has these broad shoulders, and his hair is short, and his eyes --" I've gone dreamy, so Renee has to step in quick, before I can get myself into trouble.

  "Looks like his eyes are putting him in danger to me," she says as I snatch my glass from the counter and head back to the living room.

  "What?" I sink into the couch, setting my drink on the end table waiting for Renee to answer me.

  "Duh, Cass, you don't know this?" Chelsea asks. "It's kind of illegal for a therapist to mess with a patient. He'd lose his job, his practice, his license."

  "Oh, wow."

  "Well, not really illegal. Like, he wouldn't go to prison or anything. But he'd lose his license for unethical conduct. So, you need a new therapist. A female," Renee says, and her tone is stern, like I'm six and she's my forty-year-old aunt.

  "No I don't," I laugh. There's a Sudoku book on the coffee table in front of me, with only a few simple puzzles left to do. I lift the book and open it, still talking. "I can deal with the attraction, and if it's transference, it'll maybe wear off. But really, aside from being attr
acted to him, he fits as my therapist. He makes me laugh even when I'm being serious, which helps me to keep moving forward. And it does make it easier to keep talking. I think he's a little unconventional, but he's helping me, and I'm not willing to let go of that just because he's nice to look at."

  "Well, if you have to keep him, there is another strategy for keeping him out of the unemployment line," Chelsea says, and now she's playful. I'm glad she isn't angry anymore; I hate it when she's mad at me.

  "Okay, like what?" My pen is frozen, because part of me knows where this conversation is going. Tossing the pen and the book back to the table, I drop over onto the couch, stretching my legs until my feet hang over the side.