Teenage Waistland Page 21

  “No,” I cut in. “I want to talk about her. I miss her and I’m never going to not talk about her.” The periodic tear is winding its way down my face, and as I glance at East, she shows me her open purse—wads of tissues—and gets a clean one ready for me. “Jen’s toxicology report came back yesterday. Alcohol poisoning.” I stop and let the group do their gasping. I shrug. “Jen has—had—been drinking. A lot.”

  “Since she’d gotten the Lap-Band?” Bitsy says too carefully for me not to see where she’s going. I feel an unexpected burst of rage.

  “She’s not your freaking group lesson!” I explode. “She was my best friend and I already feel badly enough about what I did to her!” East’s ready with the tissue, but I knock it away. Immediately sorry, I gently remove it from her still-outstretched hand with an apologetic smile.

  “What do you think you did to Jen, Marcie? When someone close to us dies, we always think, ‘If only I did this,’ or, ‘If only I didn’t do that,’ ” Bitsy says softly, as if I didn’t just go off on her the second before. My hands starts to shake, but I’m going to cop to my horrible deed, here and now, in front of everyone.

  “Jen came down to New York to be with me during my surgery—we always did everything together and I was with her when she had hers. Except, she had too much to drink at Coco’s party and the next morning—the day before my surgery—she said she felt sick and just wanted to go home. But she didn’t go home—she went to hang out with the guy she had met the night before.” I don’t even look at Coco. It’s not her fault and I don’t want her to think I blame her in the least. “So I spend the night before surgery alone in my room trying to get Jen on the phone, and my calls are going to voice mail, so I figure she’s just home sleeping it off. Except, she calls me after midnight drunk and crying, but all I can hear are the sounds of New York City traffic in the background and all I can think is that my best friend abandoned me for a guy at the moment I needed her the most. Except, I didn’t realize how much Jen needed me. Not only at that moment—when she was alone in the middle of the city at night—but in general. I slammed the phone down on her and turned it off. And that was the last conversation we ever had. But there’s not one day that goes by that I don’t play back each and every message she left for me that night, crying and begging for me—” I can’t finish. It hurts so much, I double over from the pain and howl into my hands. I feel East’s hand on my back, and when she strokes my hair, I cry even harder. And then more hands are on my shoulders and back, and when I look up, they’re all there—Teenage Waistland, standing around me, trying to give some comfort.

  “Thanks, guys,” I manage to say. I try to make eye contact and smile at every one of these wonderful people—even Tia—as they slowly move away and back to their seats. “Jen was drinking and she did show signs of being in trouble, but all I could think about was what I was going through and what she did to me—how she made me feel. Everything was about me, and I don’t blame Jen for not returning my calls and not accepting my apologies. I’ve been such a horrible friend that, honestly, when you ask me what ‘stuff’ Jen was going through, I don’t know how much I can even tell you!” I break out into hysterical tears again, and this time, East just passes me a thick wad of tissues. There’s another hand on my shoulder, and I see Bitsy’s sensible loafers on the floor next to my feet.

  “Marcie,” she almost whispers. “The way things ended with you and Jen was tragic, but it’s important that you don’t take the weight of this on yourself. Jen was troubled, but had she not died when she did, she would have forgiven you, I just know it. Please. Try hard not to put this on yourself. She’s gone now, and if, in Jen’s honor, you can start focusing more on other people, even when you’re in pain yourself, it will help you heal from this. I promise. And the next time someone you care about is in pain, you will be there for them. That’s the only constructive way you can think about this now. Okay?” I nod. Somehow, I even feel comforted. “Marcie, I think you can use Jen’s experience to help everyone here. Would you mind if we talked more about her now?”

  “Sure,” I whimper. “Anything.” And that I say in a strong, clear voice.

  Bitsy moves away and starts pacing the circle. “Can I ask when you first noticed Jen’s problem with alcohol?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “I mean, I first smelled alcohol on her breath the day she came to group, but I’d guess she started telling me about drinking at parties maybe four months ago. That was also when she started feeling good about herself and she became outgoing and sociable. I thought she was happier, if anything.”

  “What was Jen like before her surgery?” Bitsy says as her pacing picks up speed.

  “Jen was mad smart,” I say. “Super creative—she wrote a lot of poetry. And sarcastic. She put even me to shame in that depart—”

  “Okay, sarcasm is a defense,” Bitsy cuts in. “What was she defensive about? Her weight?”

  That’s an easy one. “Of course. Jen was fat from the day she was born, and taking crap from kids about it. Eventually she developed a tough exterior.”

  “Marcie, would you agree that Jen turned to food for consolation because it made her feel better—momentarily, anyway?” Bitsy says.

  “Of course,” I say. “Who doesn’t?”

  Bitsy nods enthusiastically. “What did Jen need to be consoled about?” she says.

  “Being a whale, obviously,” Tia mutters. Bitsy throws her hands up. “Sorry for interrupting,” Tia says more quietly, but Bitsy shakes her head.

  “Yes, I understand that Jen’s weight affected her physically and socially and therefore made her feel worse—that’s the addiction cycle. But what bad feelings started the cycle? Why did she turn to food in the first place?”

  “Food was obviously Jen’s drug of choice,” I say.

  “What you said wasn’t quite as obvious as you think,” Bitsy counters. “Why did you call it a drug?”

  I shrug—that’s just something my mother always says, but then I remember something specific. Shortly before we moved to Alpine, Mom walked in on Dad reading a book, an Entenmann’s chocolate cake on his lap—it was resting on his belly, actually—and she snarled, “Why don’t you just wind down with a martini like normal people?” My hand shoots up even though I already have the floor.

  “In my family, if you feel bad, you head for the fridge, or if someone wants to show their love, they cook something special for you,” I say.

  “Or give you a lollipop to make you feel better after a vaccination,” Lucia cuts in.

  “Excellent!” Bitsy says. “Anyone else?”

  East hesitantly raises her hand. “I guess it’s the same thing as when someone shows their indifference by not cooking for you,” she says.

  “Beautiful, East,” Bitsy nearly shouts. “Okay—food is often used as an expression of love, which is why it often translates into a substitution for love, or a perceived lack of love. So now, let’s go back to Jennifer. Marcie, do you think Jen’s eating was an attempt to compensate for something she needed but couldn’t get? That she was trying to fill an empty space?” Bitsy returns to her seat.

  “Totally,” I say. “I mean, aside from not having many close friends and all, her mom was always stressed and her father works for the State Department—he was always out of the country. He was even late to her funeral—he flew in from Shanghai. So she had this whole feminist ‘men suck’ thing going. But as soon as she got thin, she couldn’t get enough of them—older guys, especially!”

  Tia snorts. “What girl in this room doesn’t have daddy issues?”

  “What guy in the room either?” Bobby mumbles, shaking his head. I glance at East, who’s got the granddaddy of all daddy issues, but her eyes are clear and wide open.

  “Everyone has some sort of something,” Bitsy says. “And we all try to comfort ourselves in some way, whether it’s with food, alcohol, drugs, sex, exercise, et cetera. Sometimes the need for this source of comfort gets so excessive, it becomes an issue i
n itself. Look at the definition of addiction—when the source of comfort has become such a constant necessity that it affects one’s mental, physiological, or social well-being, that’s when it becomes an addictive behavior. This has been my point from the get-go, guys. There’s a reason you all are here, and your weight is only its symptom.

  “That’s why I have you examining your emotions when you record your food. Observing the connection between psychological need and food intake enables you to recognize the difference between physical hunger and emotional hunger and that’s what’s going to enable you to lose your weight and keep it off. Again, your Lap-Band is only a tool.” Bitsy looks around the room triumphantly. Coco’s hand shoots up and Bitsy nods at her.

  “But if the band is only a tool, why was Jen able to lose weight with it?”

  “Coco raises an excellent point!” Bitsy says. “Studies have shown that not only does sugar have the same addictive properties as drugs that are considered addictive, but that it can actually serve as a gateway to drug and alcohol abuse.”

  “Right. From candy canes to cocaine,” Tia quips, and Michelle elbows her.

  “What I’m getting at is the fact that foods containing sugar go down very easily with the Lap-Band, so we don’t see food replaced by another drug very often with Lap-Band patients. The worse thing that typically happens is that they keep eating sugary foods and they don’t lose weight. In Jen’s case, she probably assumed it was food that was causing her unhappiness, so while she was able to stick to the Lap-Band diet, she probably substituted sugar with alcohol to escape her emotional hunger.

  “Jen wasn’t in counseling at all, was she, Marcie? For example, a support group like Teenage Waistland?”

  “Nope,” I say. And there it is again. The cat-that-ate-the-canary expression. This time, on Bitsy’s face.

  “Okay, people. By a show of hands—who now believes that their weight is their only problem?” I scan the circle. Bitsy seems to have gotten to everybody—Bobby looks slightly miserable but he’s picking furiously at his fingernail, Alex’s eyes are darting back and forth like he’s deriving some bold new theorem, and most of the girls are even a little teary.

  “We’re really getting somewhere now, aren’t we?” Bitsy says softly. “See you all next week. And Marcie, here’s my cell number. Please call me if you need to talk.”

  We’re on the elevator heading down and East hasn’t uttered a word since we left the room. I’m at a complete loss until Bobby coughs and I realize he’s right behind us. That’s why she’s not speaking. Jeez.

  I’m toying with the idea of telling Bobby that Char’ll be meeting us in the lobby in ten or fifteen minutes, so maybe he’d like to wait with us—Char wanted to make sure Teenage Waistland already cleared out before she arrived, but she’s got to want to see Bobby. The nanosecond the elevator opens, though, Bobby swiftly maneuvers around East and me and sprints off. Once he’s halfway across the lobby and almost at the exits, East finally gets her voice back.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t ignoring you. I just didn’t want—Holy crap!” She elbows me sharply and points to the bank of glass doors. Char’s coming in the exact same door that Bobby’s headed toward. There’s a crowd of people going in and out around them, but there’s no way they can miss each other. East and I hurry through the lobby for a better view, but there’s nothing much to see. Bobby takes one quick look at her and flies out the door. By the time we reach Char, she’s standing in front of the doors bewildered and in tears like a child who’s lost her mother in a department store, completely oblivious to all the suits and briefcases attempting to detour around her.

  East hugs her tightly and rubs her heaving back while I recite, What a dickhead, what a dickhead, over and over until she calms down. Then each of us take an arm and lead Char out of the building.

  Tonight, it’s a Greek diner on Seventy-fifth Street—in the opposite direction of Chow Fun House; East mentioned she’s in the mood for chicken salad after Char finally stopped sniffling, and Char didn’t put up any resistance. We didn’t talk much at all on the way over. Once Char instructed me to stop calling Bobby a dickhead, I was pretty much at a loss for something to say, and Char certainly wasn’t her usual chatty self. Which left any prospect for conversation in poor hands, since East is where words go to die.

  Except, as soon as we’re led to our booth, East suggests that Char go to the ladies’ room and fix her face. Poor Char’s mascara isn’t on her eyes anymore, it’s under them, and she looks like a raccoon. The second Char’s out of earshot, East grabs my arm and hisspers, “We have to talk.”

  “East—I’m sitting directly across from you and I’m not going anywhere. Unhand me and talk.” She’s so flustered when she removes her hand that her elbow hits the water glass and I have to catch it to avoid catastrophe.

  East leans forward, her eyes darting around to make sure Char hasn’t magically left the ladies’ room without the door—in our direct view—opening. “Char is going to Tijuana in just over two weeks to get a Lap-Band. Her mother has already booked the flights.”

  I think this over for exactly 0.3 seconds and holler, “No!” I clamp my hand over my mouth—everyone’s staring at us and East is slumping in her seat and primed to crawl under the table. “She didn’t tell me anything about this,” I whisper. “Am I not supposed to know? Did Char tell you not to tell me?” East shakes her head. “Well, okay,” I say in a normal voice. “We’ll just have to talk her out of it.” East shakes her head again.

  “I’ve already tried. She’s set on doing it.”

  “Even now? Even with Jen? Didn’t that send up any warning signs for Char?”

  East rolls her eyes. “She broke the news to me at the cemetery!”

  “Did Char ever get any professional help whatsoever after that whole abortion thing?”

  East flinches. “No, I seriously doubt it. I don’t remember her disappearing after school, ever.”

  “Well, let’s just tell her about what happened in group today. How you and I realized that there is something to all that ‘dealing with the underlying problem’ stuff,” I say. “That Jen didn’t deal with her issues and look how it turned out for her.”

  East shakes her head again and gives me a respectable what kind of freakin’ moron are you? look. “Let’s be real, Marcie. Betsy’s been trying to explain the same stuff to us for weeks and we didn’t get it. You think Char’s going to get it just like that?” East says, snapping her fingers. “Trust me. I have thirteen years of experience trying to talk Char out of whatever she’s had her heart set on at the time, and it’s never happened. Not once.”

  “Okay—I got it! Let’s talk her into rejoining Teenage Waistland. Bitsy will make sure Char’s dealing with things properly—or is at least willing to—before she clears her for surgery. And we can help her.”

  But East is shaking her head yet again, and I’m ready to throw the condiments on the table at her, starting with the maple syrup.

  “I’ve suggested that already,” East says in a whiny voice, like I’m spouting the obvious and completely useless. “But she said she can’t go back—she’s too ashamed to face Bobby. And the rest of the group.”

  I put my head in my hands. “And after today’s terrible run-in with him, she’s going to be even more resistant to facing him.”

  “Unless …,” East says, leaning forward.

  “Unless what?” I whisper urgently. “Hurry—she’ll be coming back any second!”

  “Unless we talk to Bobby like you talked to me. Once he understands why Char lied about everything, he’ll forgive her. And once he forgives her, she’ll want to come back!” East says triumphantly.

  Now I’m shaking my head. “East, do you really think Char’s going to let us explain to Bobby that she had an abortion at age twelve and then maybe attempted to kill herself afterward? If so, I agree with you: once he knows those things, he’ll understand why Char had to hide the reason she wasn’t cleared for surgery, which forced her to lie abou
t having had the surgery.” I stop to take a breath. “But it’s tricky. Once he knows those things, do you think he’ll still want to be with her? It’s heavy, and their thang has only been going on, what, three—”

  “She’s coming out!” East whispers. She’s frantic and rearranging the menus and the napkins as though their disarray will tip Char off that we’ve been discussing her.

  “East, calm yourself and listen carefully! Your job is to talk Char into giving us permission to tell Bobby everything.” She’s nodding nervously like I’m reciting a grocery list and she’s supposed to memorize each item. “East, it’s one thing.”

  “So what’s your job?” East asks as she smiles and waves at Char.

  “My job is having the stepsister who’s going to take us to him, of course.” Char’s perfume hits my nostrils and I jerk back in my seat and pick up a menu.

  “Oh God, you’re not really thinking about getting a job this late in the summer, are you, Marcie?” Char says. Her face is clean and she’s looking better.

  “Nah. I’m just going to sit back and live the good life in old Alpine, New Jersey. There are worse places to be.”

  31

  Football Practice

  Tuesday, August 18, 2009

  Bobby (−25 lbs)

  I’m knocked flat on my back again for like the fiftieth time today, the latest humiliation courtesy of Freddie LaRocha, who’s looking tanned and meaner this year. He’s got a good twenty pounds on me these days—I’m down about twenty-five since the surgery. It would’ve been more, but I’ve been lifting super heavy the last week or so to make up for lost time. MT offers me his hand.

  “Down again, you virgin wussy. What’s up with that?” he says as he pulls me to my feet.

  “Just rusty,” I mumble. I’m sore all over from the squats and bench presses I did this morning after my ten-mile run, but lifting after practice would be worse. Dad’s home by then, and he’d be on my case over every rep. He kicked my butt so hard this weekend, I’m lucky I can move at all today.