Teenage Waistland (5 page)

“
Ten
diets?” I wail. “I can’t think of ten.”

“Pfft. Sure you can. We’ve been on at least a hundred. Here, off the top of my head, in alphabetical order: Atkins, the Blood Type diet, the cabbage soup diet, Fat Loss for Idiots, the
French Women Don’t Get Fat
diet, the grapefruit diet, the Hollywood Diet, the Negative Calories diet, Nutrisystem, Weight Watchers, and the Zone.” She crosses her arms smugly and smiles. My best friend, the Rain Man of diets.

“Uh, what about the No-Fad Diet diet?” I ask, and Char throws a pillow at me. “Okay, ‘Describe yourself how you think family and friends would,’ ” I read aloud.
Friends. N/A
I write in the air and say, “Not applicable in the plural sense.”

Char snatches her pillow back like she’s going to need to throw it at me again. “What about Friday night?”

“Mary and Diane probably invited me only because you asked them to.”

Char shrugs. “We still had fun, and it’s important not to sound like a loner.”

I sigh. “Is it okay if I put that
people
would describe me as smart, maybe a little too serious, and shy.”

“Yes, good,” Char says. “Forget the ‘shy’ and ‘serious,’ though. And add that you’re a good daughter, sister, and
friend. Wait, forget ‘good’ and put in ‘reliable.’ ‘Reliable’ sounds better.”

“It sounds canned.”

Char rolls her eyes. “It
sounds
like you’re responsible and dependable—a good little girl who’ll change her eating habits, be positive, and do what she’s told, no questions asked. Except for the part about you being positive, we wouldn’t even be lying. Seriously, you always do what you’re supposed to do. And I promise—the minute we’re accepted into the trial, you can go right back to catastrophizing the hell out of everything.”

“That’s a relief,” I mutter.

“Okay, now.” She’s reading the next question over my shoulder. “ ‘When did your weight seem to become an issue and was it tied to any specific event?’ ”

Char and I hardly ever talk about my dad, but I know we’re both thinking that was when I—we—started gaining. “I’ve got this one,” I say.

“Good, cause I gotta pee,” Char says. I watch her walk out and then return to the questionnaire.

Up next, Weight History. I skim the annual checkup reports my pediatrician’s office faxed for the bad news.
Age: 12, weight: 115; 13, 165; 14, 220; 15, 268
.

Fighting tears, I flip back to finish off the Eating Behaviors section.

What generally signals you to stop eating?

A. I feel satisfied and full.

B. I feel uncomfortably full.

C. I am disgusted with myself.

D. I never really feel full.

I circle
C
several times and then erase it and circle
D
to bypass another tiff with Char. This is like those quizzes in
Seventeen
magazine. I’ll tally my points and turn to the answer key, only to discover there’s no hope for me.

“My mom said to remind you to take the leftovers from tonight’s chicken. It’s on the counter wrapped in aluminum foil,” Char says as she bounds back into the room. I smile and shake my head.

“How is there anything left over after what we ate?” I try to joke, but the last part gets caught in my throat. Crystal always makes extra food so that I can have something homemade to eat the next day. Every time she does it, though, her feeling sorry for me makes me feel sorrier for myself. “Okay, I’m done with this stupid thing, I think.”

“Really? The first page too? The family background part?”

“Right,” I mumble, rustling the sheets back to page one. “That part. Guess I saved the best for last. Ugh.”

“Ah, yes, definitely time for some—ta-da—M&M’S,” Char says, producing a fresh king-sized bag from under her bed and tossing it to me. I tear it open and cram a large handful straight into my mouth to get the chocolate running through my veins as quickly as possible. Then I pour more into my hand and pass the bag to Char. She puts it on her bed without taking any. Then she sits on the floor, next to me, and starts pulling on the carpet fibers. “Things sometimes run in families,” she finally says.

I shake my head. “My mother wasn’t always like this and you know that.” Char half shrugs and keeps pulling on the carpet. “It’s not my mom you’re talking about, is it?” I say.

“I’m thinking you’d better keep what happened private,” she says softly. “If—When anyone asks—and they will, you
know—it’s part of your family medical history, just make it like your dad had, I don’t know, a heart attack or something.”

“Heart attack, check,” I say. “I’ll just fill this part out when I get home.”

“That’s fine,” she says, her voice still soft. “But um, your mom … I think we should probably come up with a backup plan.”

“Oh, I see. You’re not a hundred percent confident anymore about your ‘get her a nice outfit so she’ll feel better about attending the parent part of the psych evaluation’ plan?”

Char’s back to the carpet fibers. “It’s true—I’m worried about her meeting the shrink, but actually, it’s not the getting her out of the house part as much as the family supportiveness thing that worries me,” she says even more softly.

“What—” I start, but Char jerks up her head and looks straight at me.

“I’ll just come out and say it,” she says in her regular voice. “I’m, um, not sure your mom showing up in her present condition is such a good move—the appearance of having a supportive family is key, so I think we should get Park Avenue Bariatrics to deal with your mom solely over the phone, not in person.”

I can feel the tears brimming. I throw up my hands and scatter the questionnaire sheets all over the floor. “What’s the point of any of this? First you convince me I can get her out of the house with a Gap velour sweat suit.
Now
you’re saying that if I pull that miracle off, I’ll still be screwed. This is a massive waste of time!” I bury my face in my hands and wait for the usual Char shoulder or neck rub, but she smacks me on the arm instead.

“Feeling sorry for yourself is the big waste of time! You’re awfulizing again. We just need to focus on the no-show plan. It’s not a big deal, Shroud. If anything, this will
help
get your mother agree to the surgery. And the frosting on the cake is that our worst-case scenario—that she won’t leave the house—now becomes the best-case scenario.” I’m still trying to make sense of what Char’s talking about when she announces, “Check this. Problem solved. Your mom is really sick at home with something, like Lyme. Wait, better. She has swine flu! Yes, swine flu! That’s why she can’t leave the house.”

I stifle a groan. “Your swine-flu story will
ensure
they reschedule the evaluation, not do it by phone. They’ll want to make sure my ‘family support system’ hasn’t died before letting me into the trial.”

“Good point. Forget swine. Okay. She has a nasty, oozing MRSA infection. You know, those infections that can’t be cured with antibiotics and people are like deathly afraid of catching them. Oh my God!” Char screams, and jumps up. “I’m a genius!”

“Genius?” I say. “MRSA has the same problem as swine flu, only worse. It’s more fatal. And I don’t like the idea of giving her a real illness. How about bedsores?”

Char scoffs and sits back down. “Bedsores heal when the patient gets out of bed—it’s so the opposite of a good reason for your mom to be bedridden and do the interviews by phone,” she snaps. I’m waiting for her next brainstorm to hit, but she’s got her chin in her hand now and I’m surprised at the panic that starts rising when Char’s run out of solutions. Murphy, the family Persian, enters the room and curls into Char’s lap, and that’s my signal to leave before I start
sneezing. Char absently strokes him while she watches me get up and gather my papers. Suddenly, she flings the cat off her lap, jumps to her feet, and cries “Bingo!”

“Yes, Char?” I say dully as I swing my backpack over my shoulder and head to the door.

“Allergies! Nonfatal, not contagious, not a family medical issue, but definitely a good reason not to leave the house! And, since no one’s going to bother predicting future pollen counts, a severe seasonal allergy is a good reason not to reschedule.”

I feel a smile spread across my face. How much of a lie would it really be? Mom would probably be allergic to
something
as soon as she stepped foot out of the house anyway. Char’s waving her hand for a high five, and I give her one. “Worst-case scenario,” I warn. “If she hates the sweat-suit idea and won’t leave the house.”

“Done! What do you say we run over to Mario’s for a couple of pastries to celebrate? In a few weeks, those cream claws could be hist-oh-ree!” Char says, doing her strut thing around the room again.

“Um, Char?
Nothing’s
going to be history if I don’t convince my mother. I’d better talk to her immediately, before I come to my senses.”

It’s nine-thirty p.m. and I hear the muffled sounds of Mom’s TV. Two empty family-sized mac and cheese tins and her coffee mug from yesterday are on the counter. From the din of Char’s chattering parents and the afterglow of Crystal’s chicken cacciatore, I’ve crossed into a twilight zone of stale
air and dim lighting. The only sound of life in here comes from the TV, and I follow it to Mom’s room.

She’s in bed, her hair all messy and greasy. She doesn’t go to the beauty parlor anymore, so she keeps getting grayer.

“Hi, Mom.” She props herself up and moves a large pile of yarn to make room for me to sit. Her eyes are fixed on the TV, though, as I come toward her. “Can I turn it off?”

“Oh,” she says, and hits the Mute button on the remote. That remote control is her lifeline. Once, about six months after Dad died, Mom finally left the house to go shopping. I thought she’d finished grieving and would return to cooking meals, making lunches, and driving me around, and to her part-time interior decorating job. My heart sank when I looked in the grocery bag. She had purchased, like, every AAA battery the store had in stock. Never mind milk, but the batteries for her remote …

“I have something to discuss with you, Mom,” I say. “Can I turn on the lights?” I sit on the edge of her bed and block her view.

“Here.” She turns on the lamp on her night table. Her arms have gotten huge. For every pound I’ve gained, she’s packed on two.

“I’ve been reading about this program for obese teens and I really want to do it,” I blurt. I hand her the Park Avenue Bariatrics “Qualifications for Teen Lap-Band Surgery Clinical Trial” information sheet and the application form, along with her reading glasses, which are permanently filmed over. Her dresser is coated in dust, and the housekeeper can’t get into her room half the time.

Mom takes one glance at the cover sheet and puts the packet down. “What’s this, East, surgery?
Experimental
surgery? Isn’t that what ‘clinical trial’ means?”

“No. It’s not experimental at all. It’s been proven safe and effective on adults. And it’s more like a procedure than surgery. It’s just that it hasn’t been officially approved for teens yet, so it’s called a clinical trial. Park Avenue Bariatrics has FDA approval to do Lap-Bands on teens.”

“It says for
obese
kids. You’re hardly heavy enough to qualify, are you?”

I close my eyes and focus on not crying, or, worse, screaming. “I do qualify, Mom. I more than qualify. And I need the help. If I get this, I won’t be able to eat as much and then I can finally lose weight. And there’s more than enough money in my college fund to pay for it and the entire cost of college, even NYU.” I say the last part fast—despite the fact that my father’s late mother left us money, the thought of her could get Mom hysterical and blow the whole thing.

“If you want to lose weight, why not just lose it on your own?”

Why?
I don’t bother mentioning the countless diets I’ve tried that she’s been oblivious to, or how there’s never a single prepared meal here, and that, at my current rate of expansion, I’ll be as big as her in no time. In fact, I don’t answer her at all.

“Surgery is dangerous.” She says it more like a plea than a statement. But then her voice hardens. “
That girl’s
put you up to this, hasn’t she?”

“Mom, for me,
not
having this surgery is dangerous,” I say loudly, ignoring the Char crack. Ever since Mom stopped talking to Crystal, everything that has to do with Char threatens my well-being. If I tell her Char and I are taking the train into Manhattan, she acts like I’m jumping the Grand Canyon on a motorcycle. That’s Char’s analogy, but it’s true.

“You’ll need anesthesia, and they’re going to cut you
open. I saw it on
Oprah
. Very scary.” She’s holding the information packet away from her, as if getting it too close to her body could cause harm.

“There’s barely any cutting. It’s laparoscopic, Mom. They make tiny incisions through a tiny scope. And
you’ll
be with me.” I’m praying that my needing her, something I haven’t in a long time, will replace her fear. Instead, I’ve dropped a bomb. Her face goes the color of the dingy white curtains that haven’t been cleaned since Dad. Or opened.

“I don’t know. I don’t think—”