Teenage Waistland Read online

  “Oh, your mom’s ill?” Dr. Glass says. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  I shrug involuntarily while I’m shaking my head and visualize Char whacking me for it. “Just allergies. My mom gets them bad this time of year. She didn’t realize she wasn’t up to it until this afternoon, and well, um, I didn’t want to cancel last minute.”

  “Oh, not a problem,” Dr. Glass says as she walks to her desk and flips open her appointment book. “When do you think she’ll be able to come in? Or, better—just have her call and reschedule.…”

  I feel my mac and cheese lunch rising, along with a fresh wave of terror, and I slump into a chair. What about not being able to forecast pollen levels? But I hear Char in my head again. We need to get this right. We. I take a deep breath. “Dr. Glass—”

  “Betsy,” she says.

  “Betsy, please—is there any way that we, um, that we can do the interviews with my mom over the phone? She’s just—it’s her allergies. It’s hard to say when they’ll strike, so I don’t know.…” My voice trails off. Dr. Glass closes her appointment book and walks over to shut the door.

  I glance down at my chewed-up nails as Betsy takes the empty chair next to me. She folds her hands in her lap and looks into my eyes.

  “My mom feels awful today,” I say again. That isn’t a lie. She does feel awful. Too awful to get out of bed.

  “I like to meet with the patient and at least one parent together because parental involvement is key. As I mentioned in our last session, your mom’s support is critical, especially since it’s just the two of you.”

  “I know. And my mom is totally on board with me doing this,” I nearly stammer. Right. Support has always been a one-way street on Forty-one Green Lane. My throat is swelling like I’m the one having an allergic reaction. Betsy is nice and I’ve just lied right to her face. Literally two feet from her face.

  “East?” Betsy cocks her head slightly—the same way she did when she first brought up Dad’s death in the last session. “What happened? Was he ill?” she’d asked. I had just nodded. Like Char said, suicide equals mental illness. My answer wasn’t really false.

  “Yes?” I finish yanking the cuticle off my thumb and close my fingers around it to hide the blood.

  Betsy takes a deep breath. “Your brother isn’t living at home, and with your dad passed on and no other close relatives nearby, your mom isn’t part of your family support system. She’s it.”

  I nod.

  “There’s a strong correlation between family support and patient outcomes—I can’t emphasize this enough. This isn’t an easy journey for anyone, let alone someone dealing with a terrible loss.”

  Make that plural, I’m thinking, but I just nod and dig my fingers into my leg.

  “Love never dies,” Betsy says softly, placing her hand on my knee. I stick my nails in deeper. Oh, but it does.

  “I’m fine,” I say loudly and Betsy removes her hand. “My mom and I discussed everything. She’s going to help me. Every step of the way.” I attempt a smile for emphasis—my jaw is so sore from all the teeth clenching, though, I have no idea what it came out like.

  Betsy sits silently for a moment and then gets up and walks around to the far side of her desk. “Okay, why don’t we call her and see if she’s feeling well enough to talk. This contact number on your application?”

  Right. I suppress a laugh. That’s my cell phone. “Let me give you the number to the phone that rings in her room, since she’s probably still in bed. Not feeling well and all,” I say. I give Betsy our home number and she taps the buttons.

  “It’s ringing,” Betsy says. But her smile begins to fade.

  “No answer?” I say. Betsy shakes her head. Six rings, she mouths. Seven. When she reaches what I figure must be the ninth ring, she makes a “yikes” face and hangs up.

  “We get a lot of telemarketers,” I say. “Let me just call her quickly from my phone so that she recognizes the number.” Telemarketers, right. Char is a big influence. What if white lies are a gateway drug?

  “Hold off—I hit redial,” Betsy says. “It’s ringing again.” When she glances in the direction of my nails digging into my thigh, she hits the speakerphone button. “Don’t worry—we’ll reach her.”

  “Hello?” Mom finally answers but it sounds like “huh-low,” like she’s already sedated. Please have listened to my phone message.

  “Mrs. Itou?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “This is Dr. Betsy Glass calling from Park Avenue Bariatrics. I have East with me.”

  “Hi, Mom,” I say with a ridiculous amount of cheer. “You’re on speakerphone, so turn off the TV or we won’t hear you.” I laugh. It sounds more forced than if I were really being forced to laugh.

  “Oh, East. You’re in the city already?”

  “Yes, Mom. Char picked me up almost three hours ago. You must have dozed off.”

  “Char?” she says dully. I laugh heartily.

  “Funny, Mom. Crystal drove. I explained to Dr. Glass you weren’t feeling well enough to come in, and she was kind enough to do this interview on the telephone.”

  “I hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Itou,” Betsy interjects.

  “Oh. I see. I’m on speakerphone. Yes, better. Thank you,” Mom sputters from her haze. I’m terrified that Betsy will ask her what day of the week it is.

  “I’d like to discuss some of the postsurgery lifestyle changes with both of you, and then, Mrs. Itou, you and I can reschedule our parent interview for here, in my office. When you’re feeling better, of course,” Betsy adds. My mind races. Sure, they’ll set up an appointment, but Mom won’t show up again, and then my chances for getting into this trial will go from slim to none.

  “Well—” Mom starts, but I cut her off.

  “Maybe Dr. Glass would be willing to have the private interview with you on the phone today after I leave so that my application won’t get held up.”

  There’s a moment of silence on both ends of the phone, and then Betsy finally says, “Mrs. Itou, we usually don’t conduct parent interviews on the telephone. And typically parents like to meet the team their children will be working with. But if you think your allergies might prevent you from coming in within the next couple of weeks and you can talk on the phone today, I do have this time carved out for you.…” For a second, I imagine Char whooping and high-fiving that I’ve miraculously managed to pull off the whole “phone interview with Mom” plan. But Betsy’s tapping her pen against her arm and she’s looking at the ceiling. She smells something.

  “Let me sit up,” Mom says. There’s a sound of bedcovers rustling and something shattering on the floor. She clears her throat. “It would be easier if we could do this on the phone. East says it’s not surgery. No cutting, but there’s anesthesia.”

  “Well, that’s not entirely correct, but I can review the medical details with you after East leaves,” Betsy says. “Right now I’d like to discuss the support East will need before, during, and after the procedure if she’s accepted into the trial.”

  My mom starts sneezing.

  “God bless you,” Dr. Glass says. God, thank you, I think.

  “Thank you,” Mom finally says. “You were saying?”

  “East told me it’s been just the two of you for—”

  “Almost four years now,” I jump in.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Itou.”

  When my mom doesn’t respond, Betsy looks at me. All I can think is, Please do not ask about Dad.

  “I don’t mean to bring up a difficult subject. I just need to get a clearer picture of whether East is a good candidate for our trial.”

  “East is a good girl. She does everything she’s told.” I try not to cringe. Betsy’s pen is tapping against her arm faster now.

  “I was explaining to East that you are her most important support partner and there will be a lot to manage. She will have an exercise program and a very limited diet, especially in the beginning,” Betsy says.

  S
ilence on the other end of the phone.

  “East, did you explain to your mom how she’ll want to keep trigger foods out of the house and how your diet will consist of liquids and pureed and soft foods for a full six weeks after the surgery?”

  “Yes. And Mom also read through the paperwork very closely,” I say, praying my mother will come back with a coherent response.

  “The company we, er, order groceries from has a large selection of baby foods,” Mom finally says.

  “Mom, we’re going to cook healthy at home,” I say with faux enthusiasm. This is the closest I can come to giving Betsy the impression that Mom and I are psyched for all the time we’ll be spending together trying out low-calorie recipes without losing it.

  “Do you cook a lot, Mrs. Itou?” My mother is painfully silent. Is she cooking up a good lie for Betsy, or did she just fall asleep?

  “Not—uh, sometimes.” Mom sort of croaks this out after a few long moments, and I feel the old anger rising. Never. The correct answer is never, I’m thinking. But thank you for at least not saying it.

  “Mrs. Itou,” Betsy says, “if East gets the Lap-Band, it will dramatically change her lifestyle. Her ability to consume solid foods will be greatly curtailed, so it is imperative for her continued growth and development that the calories she does consume come from high-quality protein and fresh fruits and vegetables. Foods containing processed sugar and flour, rice, potatoes, and pasta are off-limits. They have minimal nutritional value and are high in calories. She’ll need to keep a food diary, and even after the first few months, she won’t be eating more than a few ounces of food per meal.”

  “East is a good girl. She will do—” My mom interrupts herself with a loud yawn. I imagine Char shrieking, Whisper it’s her medication! But it’s like I’m in one of those nightmares where I try to cry out for help but can’t make a sound.

  “Mrs. Itou, I think I may have caught you at a bad time,” Betsy says with a frown. “I appreciate you taking the call and I certainly hope you feel better. East, do you want to say goodbye to your mom?”

  “I’ll call you from the car,” I mumble into the speakerphone. Betsy abruptly disconnects the call and starts scribbling away on a sheet in my paperwork folder. Catatonic mother, she’s probably writing. I’ve got to get to Mom before Betsy does and plead with her to at least try to sound a little interested.

  “Okay, East,” Betsy says. She rises to her feet and removes her blazer from the back of her chair. “Thank you for coming in again. I’ll walk you out.”

  “But aren’t you going to call my mom back?” I say. I’m afraid that if I stand, my knees will really buckle this time.

  Betsy comes around from her desk and slowly lowers herself into the chair next to mine again. “East, I don’t think your mom’s quite up to it. And it sounds like something more than a seasonal allergy. Perhaps we’ll get another opportunity to talk in the future, okay?”

  The future? I lean over to make the sharp cramp in my stomach go away.

  Betsy touches my shoulder. “You are a wonderful, responsible young lady, but I’m not convinced you have a strong enough support system right now to be a good candidate for surgery. It doesn’t mean that—”

  “I need to do this. Please let me in,” I blurt, and the levee holding back my tears finally crumbles. Betsy leans over to retrieve the tissue box from her desk. When she hands me one, my eyes meet hers and the pity in them makes me cry harder. She puts her hand on my arm, but that makes it even more impossible for me to stop, so I shake it away.

  “I’m really independent. I take care of myself. I’m my own support system. And I have Char! Please,” I plead between sniffles.

  “You take care of your mom too, don’t you?” Betsy says softly.

  I shrug. “It’s hard for her to do things. She’s even more overweight than I am. A lot more. And she’s …” I can’t say it.

  “She’s depressed,” Betsy says.

  “Yes,” I whimper. A new wave of sobs takes over my body.

  “I know. It’s in her voice.”

  “But, it’s worse!” I blubber. “She doesn’t leave the house.”

  Betsy shakes her head while she studies her hands. “It must be terribly hard for you. Has your mom tried to get professional help?”

  I shake my head.

  “Has anyone tried to get professional help for her?” she asks more softly. I cry harder into my tissue.

  “East,” Betsy murmurs, “I’m so sorry—”

  “No—please don’t say you’re sorry. Please. Just give me a chance,” I sob. “Look at me. I’m going to be just like her! I’ll get bigger and bigger and one day, I won’t be able to leave the house either. I promise, Dr. Glass. I promise. I’ll do everything right. I’ll prove it to you! My dad didn’t just die from some illness—he killed himself and I’m the one who found him. But I got straight As that semester anyway, and every year since. I arrange for the gardener and the housekeeper and the plumbers—everyone who has to come to the house. And all the bills too! I’ve never paid one bill late. I cook for myself and my mother. Don’t you see? Compared with everything I already do, complying with the clinical trial will be easy for me. I’ll have the most detailed food and exercise diary you’ve ever seen—I’ll be the most dedicated motivated teenager you’ve ever had. Really. I promise.”

  Betsy stands up and takes my hand. She’s got tears in her eyes. “You are a very strong young woman. You should be very proud of yourself.” She puts her hand on my back as I get up, and gently guides me toward the door.

  I stop and turn to face her just before she opens it. “Please,” I beg. “Please don’t make me turn out just like her.”

  8

  Everybody in the Pool

  Wednesday, June 24, 2009

  Marcie

  Abby is waiting in the pickup line at Tenafly High with a huge grin on her face, and she’s waving frantically through the open passenger-side window for me to hurry up. On principle, I won’t jiggle down the pavement for anyone’s amusement, so I keep a steady stride as I make my way to the car. There’s screeching and whooping as kids pile out of school and horse around until their rides come. God forbid these little debutantes, who aren’t yet driving their own luxury car, take the bus or walk. Instead, it’s like a damn mommy fest every day—the circular drive packed with Mercedes, BMWs, and Hummers, and the mommies out in clusters gabbing about this one’s botoxed brows or that one’s new double-D implants and whatever other minutiae is making the rounds.

  Alpine, New Jersey, the zip code with the highest income per capita in the country and the exclusive enclave of my personal hell, is too small to have its own high school, so it feeds into Tenafly’s—the next town over. I’m a proponent of bussing—it was a big deal in Boston when mostly black kids got bussed into more-affluent white areas. Diversity is great for building tolerance, but here it’s just one overprivileged school district merging into another. The only diversity in this population is Asians and fat people. And I represent 50 percent of the latter.

  I used to ride the bus. I insisted on it—I’m no prima donna. But when my butt got so ginormous that there was no room for anyone to sit next to me, some little bulimic in Juicy said, “Could you move over, please—you’re taking up the whole seat.” I couldn’t move over unless I climbed out the window and she knew it. But she kept insisting and soon the whole bus was chanting, “Move it on over.” I called Abby crying from the bathroom before first bell, and never took the bus again.

  Liselle kisses up to Abby by occasionally offering to drive me to school in the new red Beemer convertible Ronny bought her when she passed her driving test (on the fourth try). My mom won’t hear of it. “That’s sweet of you, honey, but it’s your senior year, and driving to school with your friends is part of the fun.” In fact, Abby won over Liselle instantaneously by making it clear on day one that our moving in wouldn’t, in any way, screw up her glamorous little life. The truth is, Liselle is the spaciest imbecile that ever got
behind a wheel, and I’d sooner get into a car with Lindsay Lohan on crack than with her and her band of giggling morons—most of whom wouldn’t fit if I were along anyway.

  By the time I reach Abby, she’s practically halfway out the car window. I chuck my backpack into the backseat and climb into the front. I know the “cat that ate the canary” expression is cliché, but there it is, spread all over her face.

  “You can’t be so happy because it’s my last day of school, right?” I say as we pull away from the curb.

  “Of course, there’s that,” Abby chirps. “And, I get to look at your smiling face all summer.”

  “No you don’t,” I mutter. “I’m going up to Dad’s just as soon as I can pack. Jen and I are probably going to look for internships in Boston together.”

  “You have much bigger plans here,” Abby singsongs. She turns to me and grins madly.

  “Wait? The trial? Mom, no way? I’m in?”

  “Way, my darling. We got the go-ahead in today’s mail. You are going to be T-H-I-N before you know it!”

  I cover my face with my hands. I hate phonies, wannabes, skinny imbeciles who think they have the world coming to them, and everyone who thinks physical appearance makes a lick of difference to who someone is. Nevertheless, I’m bawling like crazy. Abby starts crying too, and neither of us give a rat’s sphincter that we’re blocking the school exit and half of Tenafly’s finest are beeping and flipping us the bird.

  Bobby

  I’m walking home after swimming at Zoolow’s—our annual last-day-of-school pool party. My shorts are still wet and sticking, but I threw on a dry T-shirt the second I got out of the pool, so nothing’s showing up top. The guys didn’t rag on me about having brought an extra shirt this time. Last time, when MT asked where my hat and coat were after I jumped in the pool wearing a shirt, I held him underwater until he turned blue.

  Zoolow’s mom offered me a ride, but I needed to take off. A bunch of girls were heading over and I didn’t want to be wet in front of them. Or the only guy not in the pool.