Unpretty: An Unloved Ones Prequel (5 page)

The doctor leads my mother back into the examination room, and I try to get her to make eye contact with me, but she’s avoiding my glare. What did she mean, my dad wasn’t my real father? She had sex with a stranger? My father is a stranger?

I’m too shaken by this news to listen to anything more the doctor tells me. I am in a daze as another nurse draws blood. We are told the majority of the results should be back by the end of the weekend. Dr. Morris is going to rush the tests. My mother thanks him, and we get back into her car.

Out of habit, I stretch out the seat belt as far as it will go when I sit down. And then I realize I don’t have to anymore, and let it whiz back to a normal size. I strap it across my chest, and my body feels flat against it.

“Mom,” I say. My voice sounds like someone else’s. I must have lost weight in my mouth, too.

She ignores me and starts the car. We back out of the parking space, and the bright sunlight shines through the windshield, making me sleepy.

When we’re at a stoplight, I try again. “Mom, I want to ask you a question, and I don’t want you to get mad.”

She grips the wheel a little tighter.

I continue. “I heard what you said in the hall. About Dad. About him not being my real father.”

The light turns green. It takes her a second to notice. Her shoulders are tense as she grips the steering wheel with both hands. Without signaling, she turns off onto a side street and parks in front of a house with a For Sale sign. She shifts the car into Park, and then returns her grasp to the wheel.

“You were eavesdropping,” she says. She doesn’t look at me.

“That’s not the point,” I protest, but she speaks over me.

“Can’t expect to like everything you hear, can you?” she asks. “Maybe that’ll teach you to mind your own business.”

I hate it when she’s childish.

“But who
was
he?” I insist. When she doesn’t respond, I try a different tactic. “It might help me understand what’s happening to me. It might explain something.”

She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t explain nothing.”

“Please,” I say softly, going for all the weakness I can exploit. “I don’t like there being secrets between us. We used to be best friends.”

Her shoulders relax, and she turns to me, her eyes getting teary. “We still are, Kathy. I just don’t like talking about it. It makes me feel…” Her eyes look around as she searches for the word. “It makes me feel
trashy
.”

I force my face not to react. I simply stare and wait for her to continue.

“Anyway,” she says after a moment, “I suppose you’re old enough now to hear it.” She takes her hands from the wheel and fiddles with the keys hanging from the ignition. “The whole night is…
hazy
. I’ve thought about it many times, and I honestly think I was drugged. I had some to drink, but I’ve never been
that
drunk. And not just from one drink.”

She looks over at me, obviously ashamed, and I keep my face free from judgment.

“He bought me a drink. I was staying at the Regency by the airport in Miami for a conference. That was back when I did sales.”

She sells cosmetics to department stores.

“Anyway, I had gone down to the front desk to check to see if I had a message from your father—I mean, you know what I mean—and I ran into this man. He was…” She squints her eyes, trying to remember. “I
think
he was tall. I don’t really remember what his face looked like; all I remember is that he had the whitest teeth I had ever seen. He asked me to join him for a drink at the bar, and… I don’t really remember what I talked about. I know I took him back to my room.” She turns to me and takes my hand. “You have to believe me, Kathy. I swear I was drugged. I’d never cheat on Hank. Never.”

Hank is the man I
thought
was my father until today.

“How do you know I’m his?” I whisper, “I mean, are you sure it was
him
? Couldn’t I still be Hank’s?”

She shakes her head sadly. “No, honey. Hank was impotent. Honestly, I think he might be gay.”

I let go of her hand. This is too much information.

My mother lets out a loud, nervous laugh. “Wow!” she says. “It feels
good
to finally be able to talk about this with you. It’s been such a weight on my mind.” She reaches to turn the keys, satisfied with the end of the conversation. She pulls away from the curb and makes a U-turn before turning back onto the main road. It makes me dizzy.

“So you have no idea who he is?” I ask as she’s driving. “Or where he is?”

“Nope,” she says. “I don’t even know his name.” She’s smiling. She must really feel relieved. “And you know what? I don’t care. I got what I wanted out of it.” She takes one hand off the wheel and takes mine. “I got my new best friend.”

I have never felt more hatred for her than at this very moment.

I am still mad when we get home, and the scale reads 192.

* * *

I spend the weekend in bed. I sleep through the days, waking up with dust on my sheets at sunset.

On Saturday night my mom supervises my visit to the scale. I can hear her gasp when it displays 173.

“You need to eat,” she says, as if figuring out the solution to an equation.

“I’m not hungry.”

She forces me to drink a full glass of milk. I manage to drink it down without gagging. As soon as the glass is empty, she takes me by the hand and leads me back to the bathroom.

“On the scale,” she says.

“I already did this,” I object.

“Just let me try something.” She must not believe that I’m keeping my food down. I oblige and get on the scale.

It reads 171. She starts crying.

“Now do you believe me?” I ask. I step off the scale and go back to my room.

* * *

The next afternoon Dr. Morris calls. I can hear both sides of the conversation from my room, even without speakerphone.

“The tests came back negative,” he tells my mother.

“I don’t understand. What’s wrong with her?”

“My guess is her hormones are still straightening out. The teenage body is in a constant state of flux.”

“But she’s lost so much weight!”

“True, but she is still above a healthy level for her age and height. All her tests came back healthy—healthier than she has ever been before, I might add. If anything, all this weight loss has been beneficial to her health, not detrimental.”

“But what about her mood swings? Her lack of concentration? Her depression?”

“Mrs. Blythe, there’s nothing wrong with your daughter physically. If you want my advice, what you should do next is seek out a psychologist.”

My mother thanks him, and that evening when she collects me for my weigh in, I am down to 148. I am wearing her clothes now.

 “We’ll find a different doctor,” she says. “That Morris doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I’m not sure a doctor can help,” I say, stepping down from the scale.

She starts to cry again.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She shakes me off. “I’ll bet you are. You don’t even care how
I
feel about all this.” She sneers at me and stomps out of the bathroom.

I guess we’re not best friends anymore.

* * *

Monday is the start of Spring Break. I begin to worry I might disappear altogether before it’s time for back-to-school. After all, if you keep subtracting from a number, eventually it will get to zero. What will happen to me then? Will my mother come into my room one morning, and in my bed she’ll find nothing but dust? I am afraid to sleep, but when the sun rises, I can’t help it. Exhaustion covers me like a warm blanket.

When I wake up on Tuesday, my weight is down to 115. None of my clothes fit. None of my mom’s clothes fit. There doesn’t seem to be any fat left to lose, and I am starting to understand the fact that I am going to die. I send Sarah a text message:

“I won’t be at the beach. I am sick. The doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong.”

She texts back: “OMG!!! Are you OK?”

Apparently, Sarah’s education was light on reading comprehension.

“No. I am sick.”

She doesn’t text back.

Then, on Wednesday, something odd happens. Or rather, something odd doesn’t happen. I climb out of bed and force myself to confront the scale. When it reads 115, I am too set on defeat to believe it. I trudge into my mom’s bathroom, and step onto her scale.

115.

“Mom!” I yell, and she comes in from the next room. Her eyes are red from crying. I can tell she’s holding her breath, expecting more bad news. I laugh. “Mom, I’m one fifteen! I’m
still
one fifteen!”

She squeals and runs forward to clutch me into a tight hug. We laugh like witches and cry into each other’s shoulders. My mother steps back, looking at me and holding my face in her hands.

“Oh honey,” she says. “If it’s still like this tomorrow, let’s go out and celebrate.”

I smile. “I’m still not that hungry.”

“We’ll go shopping,” she says. “You need some new clothes.”

Hope swirls in my chest like smoke.

My weight has stabilized. I am not going to waste away to nothing. I am not going to die.

And then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like a stranger.

I look thin.

Chapter Six
 

The mall is a different experience when you’re thin. You can shop anywhere. People are friendlier. The food court is no longer a battle between shame and sustenance.

It’s also easier to walk around.

We've already picked up a few basics: t-shirts, underwear, pants, shorts. I even needed new shoes, as my feet aren't as wide as they used to be. In the shoe store, I also splurge a bit, spending what I have in my savings on a pair of knee-high black leather boots. I've never been able to wear boots, and I'm still not sure when I'll get an appropriate opportunity, but I want them. They are a symbol of the new me.

My mom also called ahead and got me an appointment with her hairstylist. My hair, which I've worn straight and long for my entire life, suddenly seems so lifeless. I could never pull off short hair before; it makes the face look rounder. But now that I'm thin, I think I want something that only thin people can pull off, like a pixie cut.

I'm also amazed that not only does everything fit better now, everything also looks good on me. I had no idea how fun clothes shopping could be. I get it now; I get why girls like to shop. It's kind of fun, even when I'm doing it with my mom.

"Come on, Kathy," my mom says. I'm in one of those trendy stores for skinny people. Even Sarah can't fit into half the clothes here. And everything is on sale. I want it all; I want to wear tank tops and short-shorts and—I spot a mannequin in the center of the store. I stop walking.

I know I have to use my savings for this item. My mom would never approve.

The fact that I've never worn one of these before makes it all the more perfect.

My mom is calling to me again. "You're going to be late for your appointment."

"One second," I call back. "I just need one more thing."

I grab the smallest size, and take it to the counter before I can change my mind.

* * *

On Friday I ride my bike to the beach alone. I chain my bike to a rack by the parking lot, and then head to the bathrooms to change. I feel like a criminal, but I keep my face mostly calm.

I lock myself inside a bathroom stall and strip out of my shorts and t-shirt. Underneath I’m wearing a bikini top that ties at neck and back with strings, and a matching bikini bottom whose thin triangle barely keeps me from being naked. My mom would
die
if she knew I was planning to wear this in public, but when I saw it in the store, I had to have it.

I don’t know how long my new body will last, and I want to enjoy it while I can. If I get fat again, something tells me I’d regret never finding out what it feels like to wear a bikini.

I stuff my clothes into my beach bag, and then step out of the stall in flip-flops.

The girl facing me in the mirror still catches me off-guard. I can’t believe this is me. I think what is throwing me off the most right now is my hair. I had my mom’s stylist cut it short and into a pixie cut, with feathered strands sticking up in the back and on the sides, and long bangs over the face that make my eyes look mysterious and deep. Adding to the change is the new color. When my mom left for work this morning, I dyed my hair with a cheap kit from the grocery store. It is now fire-engine red. I would never in a million years have thought
I
would be able to pull off fire-engine red, but the girl looking at me in the mirror is stunning.

I step back and turn to see myself in my new bikini.

My body is perfect now. I don’t know
how
it happened—if it was the wish, if it’s some horrible disease—but whatever it is, I don’t care. I like being thin. I have slender legs and a tiny waist, with the pelvic bones visible and prominent. You can see my ribs, both the bottom of my rib cage and the top of my chest, above my breasts. I’m still getting used to the sight of my collarbones, and my neck is skinny and swanlike. My skin is astonishingly pale from years of hiding it under layers of clothes, but between my body and my hair, it works. Everything works when you’re thin.