by Britney King
Never mind that it was under my tire.
The technician tells me firmly that I can’t leave the cat there. He informs me they are a business, not an animal shelter. I ask him what I should do. It’s dehydrated, he says. And only about three weeks old. Which means it’ll have to be bottle feed for a few weeks. It needed at least three weeks longer with its mother before it would be ready to survive on its own. I can take it to the shelter, he says. But they’ll probably put it down.
“As in kill it?” I ask. It doesn’t feel like a stupid question until it’s out in the open and I see his expression. It’s common sense; that’s the way he looks at me. He doesn’t understand why I don’t know these things, so I assure him I’ll make it a point to put nature on the list of things I need to learn.
I can’t take it home, I say. And then, I tell him that my husband is allergic, as though this will explain everything.
He doesn’t offer a response. Instead, after a rather intense stare down—maybe we’re having a contest to see who will be the first to blink, and maybe we aren’t—he asks if there’s anything else he can help me with.
For the record, I won.
“I can’t keep the cat,” I repeat. I nod toward the veterinary symbol painted on the wall. “What about the Hippocratic oath?”
He sighs heavily. “It’s not the same.”
“Well, it should be,” I say peering at the cat. “What happened to: To protect and to Serve?”
He’s still not amused. “Also, not the same.”
The standoff continues. I consider for a second just bolting. He sees me considering it. Maybe this is why he backtracks. Maybe it’s because he sees how naïve I am. He tells me, if we get some weight on her, get her healthy; she will fare better at the shelter. Her odds of being adopted are better if she’s cute and cuddly, he assures me. If I’m willing to foot the bill, they can care for her until she’s old enough to eat on her own.
I don’t ask how much this will cost, even though my mind is screaming that I should.
I simply hand over my credit card. The one reserved for emergencies. The one I’m well aware my husband will kill me for using.
CHAPTER SIX
SADIE
I arrive exactly on time. The whole ordeal with the kitten has turned me off to cooking, and since I can’t go without eating, I figure I might as well take Ann Banks up on her invitation.
I wasn’t going to. I am not very good with people I don’t know. Come to think of it, not so good with the ones I do know, either.
Tonight is the first time in a long time, since before, since long before that, truthfully, that I’ve made any kind of effort. Even so, it is evident right away it wasn’t enough. To say that I am out of place would be an understatement. I am out of place. My flat, mousy brown hair has nothing on the women here. They’re well put together, with their cultivated, salon-colored, cut, and styled tresses. It’s like a fucking shampoo commercial. Except that I am the only one twenty-five pounds overweight and wearing clothes that don’t fit.
Not to mention, I couldn’t find my contacts. Since I couldn’t very well afford to go in blind, not tonight, not ever again, not with so much at stake, this meant wearing my glasses. They’re not the cool kind, either. They’re thick rimmed and pointy, the kind you buy when you’re naive enough to think you already have a man and no one else’s opinion matters. Let that be a lesson.
Speaking of lessons…not only is my hair and eyewear lacking, I clearly missed the memo about dressing up. My dark jeans and sweater are boring and plain in comparison to these women. Not unlike the rest of my life.
When Ethan said I let myself go, he wasn’t being intentionally cruel. He just didn’t know what it felt like to eat real food. He didn’t know, not until after we were married, how tight a lid I kept on the real me and how life might look if I let it slip. Still, the weight and my appearance are not what made me lose my husband. But they certainly didn’t help.
Now that he has one foot out the door, or rather both of them, if I’m honest, they aren’t helping me get a job either. And I desperately need a job. They say appearance doesn’t matter. But it so obviously does. As my husband said once, who in their right mind would trust you to handle their business if you can’t even take care of yourself? Ann says your outer appearance is just a reflection of how you feel about yourself on the inside. Her critics eat her alive for it. They call her a fat-shamer. But even I have to admit, she isn’t entirely wrong.
I used to be fit. In shape. On top of things. But that seems like ages ago. I was a different person then. I am not that person anymore.
I never imagined I’d be in this situation, although in hindsight, I really should have. It’s fascinating the kind of damage people can do to themselves. It sort of just sneaks up on you. You think you know how low you can go, but really, there’s always another level, another rock bottom.
This is the way it is, Ann says in her book. And then you die. You just sink lower and lower until the bitter end. Basically, it’s like you’re digging your own grave with all your bad decisions. Decisions can be different, she wants you to know. Things either get better or they don’t, and then some part of your body gives— maybe it’s your heart or your lungs or a combination of the two—and then you die. It doesn’t have to be this way, Ann says. But usually it is.
Ann says a lot of things. She believes in survival of the fittest, and she wants everyone else to believe in it too. But there are too many stupid people in this world for me to embrace that notion wholeheartedly.
Anyway, I need a job, and I don’t have a job. And when you don’t have a job your mind takes you places. Dark places.
My mind has hung out in those dark places for a while. Ethan hadn’t wanted me to work. Initially, I’d been fine with that. But that was when life was full of promise for what lay ahead. That was when I had someone else’s income to count on. I hadn’t even missed much about my career at first, except for the connections. But then, I landed here at this dinner party and now I can see, I should have been more patient. Everything has a solution.
People mingle. People drink. People consume. No one speaks to me with any depth—but why would they? We have little in common. They’ve come for a party, and I am the opposite of that, too solid a reminder of what they might become if they aren’t careful. Run down. Overweight. Alone.
No one wants a mirror held up to the fact that they, too, can slip, that things and people can be taken away without notice, simply because they can.
That’s not to say the neighbors are unkind, even if they refuse to meet my eye. Probably most of them don’t even notice me. Probably, like Ethan says, I am imagining things.
It doesn’t feel like I’m imagining things. And anyway, like Ann writes in her book, feelings can be deceptive.
I have to give Ethan credit for being right about something. If I look closely, I can see he has a point. These people, they aren’t thinking about me. They’re all busy trying too hard. Most of the women here rarely get this dressed up on a weeknight. Even a Friday. There’s not much to do in this town, and it’s obvious they are eager, overly so, for the chance to feel seen.
I almost feel sorry for them. I want to text Ethan and let him know I understand now. It was all in my head. I want to make jokes, with our eyes from across the room, the way we used to. I want to feel his hand on the small of my back, his fingers intertwined with mine. I want to feel my back against the wall, my hair wound tightly in his fist. I wouldn’t even mind his hand around my throat, suffocating me in the way only he could.
Mostly, I want to be eager to leave, eager to be alone together, eager to see the night end. But the night goes on forever and it never ends.
I’d like to tell him he had been right about other things, too—things I am now seeing in his absence. I want to tell him you can see a lot if you look closely enough. But I can’t. Not yet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SADIE
If you can’t beat ’em, you m
ight as well join them. In her book, Ann suggests that if I can change—if I can lose the weight, make friends—my life can be okay again. Not like before. Different. If I give it my best shot, if I try hard enough, things can be even better. Impossible, if you ask me. But to Ann, nothing is impossible.
I hope she isn’t wrong, because I don’t have long to figure it out. Currently, I have fourteen months of saved income left, minus what the cat is costing me. If I look on the bright side— the way Ann tells you in her book—it is still well above what the average American has in savings.
Unfortunately, this town isn’t exactly cheap.
Ethan always wanted a big house, in a nice neighborhood, and back then, so did I. Back then, I hadn’t budgeted for living in it all alone.
But I can’t dwell on that. Not now.
Now, I have to do what Ann says and become the change I want to see. I’m getting a head start by standing at the Bankses’ bookshelves, scanning their selection, when out of the corner of my eye, movement catches my attention. A teenage girl comes bounding down the stairs. It is obvious right away she is Ann’s daughter. The striking eyes combined with the same friendly smile give her away. They’re almost the same person. I watch as the girl surveys the crowd, clearly searching for someone. Unlike her mother, she hasn’t yet learned to hide the things she doesn’t want others to see.
She scans the room until finally her eyes land on me. They settle on the book in my hands. She takes the last of the steps two at a time, smiling wryly. “It’s my mother’s favorite,” she tells me, moving in close. Her fingers brush the spine. She lowers her voice. “Better not let her see you touch it. She’s known to remove fingers for lesser offenses.”
I place the novel back on the shelf. Although, not before committing the title to heart. House of Leaves. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Have you seen my brother?” she asks. She poses the question as though I know who she is talking about, as though we aren’t strangers, as though her parents know everyone and anyone there, thereby entitling her to the same. It reminds me what it was like to be her age. Sixteen or so, I presume. Oh, to have the world at your feet—to have the pleasure of being too dumb to know all of the mistakes you’ll make and too smart to make all the ones you should.
“I haven’t,” I say. In fact, I haven’t yet met Neil, the Bankses' oldest child, although in retrospect it was obvious he’d be home. He isn’t the type to make friends easily, and in any case, Ann would want him around to show off.
A caterer swings by with a tray. I take an hors d'oeuvre and stuff it in my mouth. I find it interesting… at the grocery store, Ann spoke as though she were handling everything on her own. She made it sound like she was just having a few friends over for dinner—not the entirety of the neighborhood. Ann, ever the minimizer. Always one to under promise and over deliver. She posts that quote religiously on Instalook.
I have to give credit where credit is due. She certainly practices what she preaches. The music is just right. The lighting is great. Conversation flows. People enjoy themselves. In fact, every person I encounter emits the same sentiment. They can’t believe their luck to have landed in the vicinity of such greatness. They don’t say this outright, obviously. But it’s there, under the surface, in their every comment about how wonderful the Bankses are, what an outstanding entertainer Ann is, how lovely the party has turned out.
The next time the caterer swings by with a tray, I grab a few extra hors d'oeuvres so I have reserves. I even make it a point to chew slowly. Not only can I savor the taste, but so long as I have food in my mouth, I don’t have to actually speak to anyone. Food is comforting that way.
“Sadie!” Ann calls from the stairs. “You came.”
“I can’t stay for dinner,” I say sorrowfully, in the way that I’ve practiced. “But I didn’t want to be rude.” I offer up the bottle of wine I brought. It’s cheap on purpose, because I don’t have a job but also, I want her to know how much I need her. And I really, really need her.
She takes the bottle from my hands and turns it over in hers. Not even a twitch, not a muscle moves in her face, and it isn’t the Botox. She’s that good at controlling her emotions. I want to be, too. “Oh, Sadie. You could never be rude.”
Clearly, we aren’t that well acquainted yet. Her response surprises me. I understand she is a trained liar, sure. I just thought I would see it coming, is all. Apparently, there aren’t warning signs. I didn’t know it was possible a person could radiate such warmth while lying to your face.
This leads me to believe that maybe there’s more I don’t know. Maybe with enough effort, I can come to understand the kind of stuff she is made of. Maybe then, I’ll understand what’s inside me. Maybe then, I’ll know how far I, too, can go.
She motions me with her finger. “Would you mind helping me retrieve a few things from the garage?”
“Sure,” I say, too eagerly. First lesson, all the nicety in the world can’t make a person love you—and isn’t that what we’re all looking for to some degree? I know this so I follow as she leads the way.
“I almost forgot about the cheese tray…” Ann explains that she keeps everything out in the garage. Out of sight, out of mind. Her garage is detached from the house and she apologizes for the trek. She says at least it’ll give us a chance to get to know each other, in peace. But she walks with purpose, leaving little time for small talk, and anyway by the time we reach the garage I’m out of breath. I try to hide how out of shape I am, but it’s pretty obvious in my monosyllabic responses. Nerves cause me to be unsure of what to do with my hands so I stuff them in my pockets. Ann Banks has just said she wants to get to know me. If only, Ethan could see me now.
Ann opens the door to a subzero refrigerator before turning to me. It’s dark and chilly and the lighting is poor. “You shouldn’t stand like that,” she says. “With your hands in your pockets. No one will trust you.”
“Oh.” I slip my hands from my pockets and blow into them, hoping it will warm me.
She peers into the freezer. “Body language is everything, Sadie.”
My eyes search the garage, and as they adjust to the darkness, I spot a second refrigerator. “Would you mind grabbing the half and half?” She points noticing where my attention has gone. “It’s in that one.”
“Your home is lovely,” I remark, once I’ve done as she’s asked.
She sighs wistfully. “Our last house was much bigger.”
“You must miss it.”
“We lost everything,” she tells me. “Well, almost everything”—she slams the refrigerator door— “okay—not almost everything. But a lot.”
“I’m sorry—”
“We still have each other, and that’s what counts.”
“Exactly,” I say, because truer words have never been spoken. I’m beginning to think Ann’s followers are onto something. More than anything, I want to find out what her perceived losses are. She tells me about Stan at the grocery store, and how she heard that he hadn’t pulled through after all. Something about a brain bleed from his fall. Such a terrible thing, she says. Such a waste. She doesn’t say whether it was Creepy Stan or her efforts that were wasted but I get the sense she means the latter.
“Have you ever felt like killing someone Sadie?”
At first, I think I’ve heard her wrong. Her voice conveyed little emotion, so it’s hard to tell. When I turn to face her, she is calm and composed. But it’s clear she’s awaiting an answer.
“No.”
“Never?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I have. Darcy White. Do you know Darcy?”
I shake my head again. Ann talks very fast. It’s like listening to an audiobook on triple speed. Ethan used to do that. Hearing is the fastest sense, he’d say if I complained. The human body can hear faster than it can see, taste, smell, or feel. Once a sound wave reaches your ear, your brain can recognize it in just 0.05 seconds, something he seemed to like to t
est.
“Darcy,” Ann says. “She recommended this caterer, and something deep down said I shouldn’t listen. Alarm bells went off. Clear as day. I knew I shouldn’t have hired her. I knew it. If I didn’t need her to like me for the sake of my kids…her children carry a lot of weight at school I hear…you know… I might have listened. But I didn’t listen—and now I have dozens of overcooked appetizers on my hands.”
I leaned forward with enthusiasm. I could fix this in a jiffy, but I’d probably better not. Ethan always said, less is more. I just hadn’t realized he’d actually meant it.
When I fail to offer a response, Ann apprises me carefully. “What is one supposed to do with a situation like this?”
I note the way she poses a question—what she doesn’t say is what she plans to do about it. In fact, I’m surprised she brought up Darcy White. I doubted she’d go for the ones on a level playing field.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I offer, which is exactly the wrong thing to say. I realize this when she corners me.
“IT WILL NOT BE FINE.”
I stare at her in that wild-eyed and languid way one does when they aren’t sure what to say. Ann is tall and scary. I am short and lumpy. Sure, I could probably take her on size alone, but I’m sure she’s accounted for that. Now, there’s nothing but cheese and cold half and half between us and no way out of this. She’s staring me down. She’s waiting for something to happen, for me to say something, for me to show fear.
I feel nothing.
Well, I feel something. But I don’t think it’s fear. I’d say it’s more along the lines of a rush. Something close to excitement. Something I can’t put my finger on. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.
“Did you know fear can be a turn on, Sadie?”
