The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

  My mother gives me a look. “The menus are set six months in advance. And for once we’re all using the exact same recipe. No more of that ‘Cheryl’s mashed potatoes were better than Anne’s’ nonsense. Do you have any idea how difficult it was to get the supper committee to agree to that?”

  “Mom, the challenge—”

  She holds up her hand to stop me. “No, I don’t want to hear it. Separation of church and state, remember? Now hand me that platter. No, not that one. The blue one.” Dish in hand, she heads for the door, then turns back and pauses. “Your father would love to see both of you there. It’s the holidays. Families are supposed to be together. It’s just one meal. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  “Where’s Therese?”

  “Downstairs. We start serving in an hour. I’ve already talked to her about it. I’ll see you both there. Don’t be late.”

  Ugh. Grown woman, I remind myself. There must be some force field around this house that negates that essential fact. Otherwise how is it that I instantly turn into a child just by putting foot in my parents’ door?

  I trudge downstairs, banging my laundry basket along with me. I’ll have extra helpings of salad, some green beans, a couple bites of ham. Skip the mac and cheese, rolls, and dessert. That shouldn’t be too hard. I find Therese sprawled across a club chair, her legs tossed over the chair arm.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She glances up. “Hey.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  She goes back to the old photo album she’s flipping through.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Why would you think something’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. You seem kind of tense.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not tense at all.”

  Right. I know my sister. Obviously something’s wrong. But the more I poke and prod her about it, the more she’ll clam up. I decide to let her stew for a bit. I shrug and go about my business, separating the lights from the darks. Once I get my first load going, I turn my attention to my next project.

  Matthew is a notorious gift peeker. No matter how carefully I think I’ve hidden his presents, he’ll root them out. He must be part bloodhound. And since that takes all the fun out of gift giving, I’ve begun doing my wrapping and hiding at my parents house. I dig into the bags I brought along and spread everything out before me. This year’s bounty includes books and video games, a pair of sneakers he wanted, a new wallet he needs. Invisible socks, of course, as well as invisible underwear. (I did all my shopping locally, but those I had to track down online.)

  This year’s big gift is from me and Ed together. We’re both pitching in for a used car. Something safe and reliable. Ed figures he’ll take Matthew to one of those police auctions where the government sells vehicles that have been confiscated because they were used in the commission of a crime. He figures Matthew’ll get a kick out of that. He’s right. Matthew will absolutely love that. He’ll go nuts. The only problem is that the car will probably look more like Ed’s gift than mine. Which is why Ed’s letting me be the one to wrap up a toy police car and give it to Matthew on Christmas Day.

  Ed is good that way. Nice to have an ex-husband I don’t have to worry about or compete with. Which reminds me…

  “Hey. What are you, Gil, and the girls doing for Christmas this year?”

  “Lily and Stella are spending Christmas Eve with Gil and his folks. They’ll be here for Christmas Day.” She sends me a small smile. “They want to cheer you on at the big weigh-in. A little emotional support, no matter which way it goes.”

  A lovely sentiment, but it still makes my stomach clench. No matter which way it goes. Now there’s an ominous thought. I cannot lose this challenge.

  But since that’s definitely not a topic of discussion I want to pursue, I ask instead, “So everything’s okay with you and Gil?”

  “Okay? We’re still divorced, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I meant, it sounds like you two are getting along okay, divorce-wise.”

  “Of course we are. It wasn’t exactly a spontaneous decision, you know. I think it’d been on the horizon for a while. But I don’t think either one of us wanted to acknowledge it until the girls left for college.”

  I’ve been meaning to talk to her about that. While this may not be the best time to broach the subject, it’s the first time we’ve been alone since she got back. I may not have another opportunity.

  “What happened, Therese? You and Gil always seemed so solid.”

  “Yeah, well, so did you and Ed. What happened to your marriage?”

  “Easy. I fell in love with a cop. Turns out, I didn’t want to be married to one. Your turn.”

  “Rachel. Look. What’s the use of rehashing the past? I’m a thirty-nine-year-old woman. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. And the fact is, marriages have a useful shelf life. Ask anyone. Marriages aren’t any different than a washing machine, or a car, or a toaster oven, or a sofa. Things break. Or they wear out. Their useful life is over and they become obsolete. Gil and I were great together when we were raising kids. But once the kids got older quit needing us, we realized we’d drifted too far apart to come back together again. And yes, I guess we could have gone to counseling and tried to redefine what our marriage was, but neither of us wanted to. We were worn out. There was nothing left to piece back together.”

  “Forty-one.”

  “What?”

  “You’re forty-one.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. The point is, I have a new life now. It’s finally my turn. I don’t have to argue with anyone if I want to repaint the living room, or eat yogurt for dinner, or travel to Italy for vacation rather than go back to that same damn fishing cabin on Lake Winitobe.”

  Not much I can say to that. Except: “All right. Fine. As long as you’re happy.”

  Because clearly she’s not.

  Therese heaves a sigh and sets aside the photo album. She stands, pacing back and forth before me. “Oh, God. Not you, too. Let me guess. You’re going to tell me about this great new dating app so I don’t have to be alone.”

  Now that’s coming completely out of left field. In the first place, I’ve been a single mother for years and have been just fine with it. Secondly, dating advice? An app? Me?

  I’ve never once used an app or even thought about it. I regard those dating apps with the horror of a snail looking at a shaker of salt. Yes, things are going well with Mike right now, but that’s pure chance. Before him, I had only one potential dating partner. A local contractor. It felt like there was some kind of chemistry between us. I had him over to give me an estimate for updating my bathroom. Venting the necessary plumbing was an issue, and he wanted to check my bedroom closet to see if there was room to tuck in the necessary pipes.

  I relate all this because I had a male friend in college who used to love to sneak a peek at the bedrooms of women he was interested in dating. He said the state of their bedroom usually reflected how they felt about themselves sexually. Mess was good. Floral, feminine sheets tossed in disarray, makeup and perfume bottles scattered over the vanity, silk scarves draped over a table lamp, maybe a candle or two, a CD player. All excellent signs, according to him. (Bonus points for visual evidence of kinky toys.)

  Here’s what my contractor friend saw when he stepped into my room: a bed made with tight, military precision, a box of tampons and an earwax removal kit on the nightstand. Unlikely this erotic combo sent his libido racing.

  We never went out.

  The point being, I’m hardly a dating expert. Therese knows this. I’ve told her that very story.

  But before I can say any of that, she says this: “Do these pants make me look fat? No. Your face does.”

  A shocked laugh slips from my lips before I can stop it. “What?”

  Therese says, “I worked so hard to lose all that weight. Sixty pounds, Rachel. Think about that. And the whole time, I was thinking, I’
m going to get hot, I’m going to get the guy I want, I’m going to get the things I want out of life.”

  The washing machine dings. I grab an armful of wet clothes and start shoving them in the dryer.

  “Well, good for you,” I say. “It’s all working out. You’re gorgeous now. You’ve got Rob Urso. How’s that going, by the way?”

  “How’s what going?”

  “With Rob. Did you guys have fun at the tree-lighting ceremony?”

  “I didn’t go.”

  I stop abruptly.

  “What? You stood him up?”

  She passes me a damp sock. “I didn’t stand him up. It wasn’t an official date. I never said I’d go in the first place.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course you did. I was right there in the diner when he asked you out. You said, ‘Great. Sure. Sounds like fun.’ Or something like that.”

  “Well, whatever. I’m not going out with him.”

  “Therese—he’s Rob Urso. The Rob Urso you spent hours—no, weeks, months, years—dreaming about in high school.”

  She releases a brittle laugh. Shakes her head. “Oh, my God. You never got it, did you?”

  “Got what?”

  “I never really wanted Rob Urso. I wanted to be the girl that someone like Rob Urso would want. That’s what I wanted. It was never about him. It was about me.”

  I blink. “But—”

  “And even if I did go out with him, it wouldn’t last. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m not Therese Presley anymore, that’s why. I’m Madoff.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m Bernie Madoff. I’m running a Ponzi scheme with this body of mine. It’s all a front. I’m luring people in with goods I can’t deliver. Look at me, Rachel. Look at this body. This isn’t me. I’m a nervous wreck. Eventually I’m going to gain all that weight back and everything’s going to collapse. The suspense of waiting for it to happen is killing me.”

  “You think Rob wouldn’t want to date you if you gain a few pounds?”

  “Of course not. He’s Rob Urso, for God’s sake.”

  “Then he’s a shallow jerk.”

  “Why? For knowing what he wants? It’s okay for him to want someone gorgeous. Someone sexy.” She shrugs. “I want someone intelligent. Someone who can make me laugh. Someone who would accept me even if—or when—I gain back the weight. And that someone sure as hell isn’t Rob.”

  “So,” I say, then stop. “So… Okay. I have no idea what to say.”

  “You don’t need to say anything. You already said it. Just two minutes ago. You said, ‘You’re gorgeous now.’

  “I did not. And even if I did, so what? What’s wrong with that?”

  I will not remind my sister that she dresses like a walking ‘After’ shot in the most desperate of diet programs. High heels, tight jeans, cinched belt. The only thing bigger on her now is her hair, which is moussed and sprayed to three times its normal volume.

  Therese says, “Because that implies that I wasn’t gorgeous before. Does this dress make me look fat? No! You look gorgeous! It’s always an either/or question, have you noticed that? Yes or no. Because someone couldn’t possibly be both, could they?”

  She swings her arm to point an accusing finger at the photo album she was browsing when I arrived. The page is flopped open to an image of the two of us in our teens. Smiling and pretty. A post-pubescent plumpness to us both.

  “I got the fat girl’s brass ring, Rachel! The promise that’s whispered in every chubby girl’s ear: if you just lose weight, your life will be perfect. You’ll be happy, you’ll be successful, you’ll be admired. Well, guess what? It’s a total lie. I got hooked in, but it’s not happening. So I’m done. I’m done with all of it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? It’s fantastic. I’m banishing all those hideous words from my life. The ones that kept me down for so long. Fear. Fat. Failure. Feminine. Famished. Forbidden food. Fatigued. Flawed. I am a single, independent woman, and from this point forward, there is only one ‘F’ word that’s going to have a role in my life.”

  I’m glad our mother’s not here to hear this.

  “Freedom,” Therese says. “Freedom from other people’s opinions, freedom from the images that bombard us everywhere, freedom from my own negative self-judgment. From this point forward, I’m just going to be.”

  She slips into her coat. Combs her fingers through her hair and looks at me.

  “Oh, and one more thing.”

  I’m not sure I can take much more. “What?”

  “Matthew dropped by the other day to ask me for dieting tips.”

  If my sister had just upended a bucket of icy water over my head, I wouldn’t be more shocked.

  “What?”

  Therese shrugs.

  “Why did he come to you, rather than me?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “What the hell does that mean? Oh, please?”

  “Give me a break, Rachel. What would you have told him, if he’d talked to you about it?”

  “I would have told him the truth. That he looks perfect just the way he is and he doesn’t need to lose any weight.”

  She blows out a disgusted breath. “Exactly.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You would have just shut down his feelings about his body. Told him what he was feeling wasn’t valid. That you knew better than he does how he should feel about himself. You do that you know. You think you have all the answers. That you should be in charge of everybody.”

  “I do not!”

  “Oh, really. Why do you think you’re running for mayor?”

  She reaches for her purse, opens it and retrieves a lipstick. Once she’s done touching up her makeup, she looks back at me.

  “So,” she says. “Glad I got that off my chest. Let’s go get some mac and cheese.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “You have a favorite yet?” Mike asks me.

  I shake my head. “Too hard. They’re all good.”

  It’s Saturday night. Eaton’s first annual winter carnival continues. Mike and I are together, taking in the Holiday Light Show. Here’s how it works. Participants decorate the exterior of their homes or barns with a holiday theme and receive an official number to place in their yard. Audrey created a map showing where those numbered locations are. It’s posted online and in the local paper.

  It’s up to everyone else to visit this weekend and cast a vote for their favorites. There are multiple categories, which include: Most festive. Funniest. Spirit of the Season. Family Christmas. Christmas Past and Christmas Present. Winter Wonderland. Santa’s Favorite Workshop. And finally, Christmas With Jym. Winners will receive a banner to hang across their door and a photo announcement of contest results will run in the paper.

  I’ve downloaded copies of the map and the voting sheet. Mike and I are strolling through our third neighborhood. To my surprise, we received over one hundred entries. That’s a lot of ground to cover. Naturally contestants in Jym’s challenge were encouraged to walk the tour, rather than drive. So we’re bundled up and hoofing it.

  All in all, it’s been a fun night. We’ve laughed at the silly displays, been touched by the spiritual ones, and lost track of the number of Before-and-After Mr. and Mrs. Clauses we’ve seen. Maybe I’m a little peopled out, but my favorite home so far was a Winter Wonderland theme, which featured lightly falling snow and a collection of forest animals gathered around what appeared to be a tiny glowing manger. Mike’s favorite was a group of sporty elves animated to look like they were scaling a rock-climbing wall. (I have to admit, that was a clever way to incorporate both the holiday and the outcome of the challenge—if we win.)

  We pause before a house that has enough flashing lights to land a small aircraft.

  Mike says, “Wow.”

  ALPER FOR MAYOR is strung in bold lights on the roof. The same message flashes in the garden, on the lawn, and bli
nks from the front windows. An oversized image of a Santa hat wearing Brett Alper, his fingers splayed in a peace sign, is projected onto the garage door.

  Mike looks at me. “I’m betting this is Councilman Alper’s house.”

  “I’m betting it’s his mother’s.”

  “Ah. Good point. What do you think she’s charging him to rent advertising space on her roof?”

  “Don’t know. But if Santa’s sleigh crashes anywhere in the world on Christmas Eve, I hope this is the place. Let’s park the media crews right here, broadcasting shots of twisted little elfin bodies all over the yard. A ‘Vote Alper’ sign flashing in the background. That I would pay to see.”

  Mike releases a shocked laugh. “I had no idea you were so vicious.”

  “It’s been a week.”

  He drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Rough?”

  I shrug as we walk away. Not any rougher than any other week, I guess. It’s just the compounding effect of it all. I’m ready for this to be over. Been there, done that, lived to tell the story. Because really, at the end of the day, that’s all I can say about it.

  My name is Rachel Presley, and I was mayor during Eaton’s SlymJymTrymFyt Challenge.

  I endured.

  I certainly didn’t lead. Make no mistake about that. I showed no leadership whatsoever. I can’t get a handle on this thing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Or even what I’m supposed to feel about it all. I’m questioning my every move. It doesn’t help that I’ve got cameras following me around, broadcasting my every mistake for the world to see.

  This past week, for example, Audrey pushed me again to change up Jym’s grueling exercise routines. She wanted to bring in a friend of hers who teaches African dance. Images of that particular class being broadcast on national media flashed through my mind.

  I froze. “Won’t I be guilty of cultural misappropriation? I’ve already stepped in it as far as the body-positivity movement goes. I don’t want another group attacking me.”

  She looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head.