JUST A LITTLE SAMPLE . . . Part 2
EXCEPRT FROM SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE . . .
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Sometime soon, maybe
at the end of the summer, I’ll have to tell Rett we
can’t do this anymore. Just thinking about it makes my throat ache, my
stomach
gurgle with worry-hunger, but there’s no choice. I’ve sabotaged at
least that
much, and I’m determined. I can maintain only one relationship at a
time, and I
can’t let the other go.
Please
stay. Rett, please stay.
Libras need at
least a little bit of weight to balance their scales.
*
* *
We settle on
Georgena’s Place, an old diner a few miles away from Camden’s harbor.
Georgena is
one of those floral-patterned elderly types with Kleenex up her sleeve
and a wallet full of fold-out
great-grandchildren, which she feels obliged to show at every table.
She runs the place with her
granddaughter and a left-over child in-law cooking in the back
somewhere, long since disattached
from Georgena’s bloodline but still hanging around, no place else to
go.
We’re forced to stare at hairless infants as we scan our menu—Georgena
has printed their faces
on the laminated place mats, like a cheesy Wal-Mart ad for photo
services.
“Oh look, there’s a new one since I was last here,” I say,
pointing to the far left corner. “I think it
might be a boy. Maybe. Cute, though.”
“Olivia babe, you haven’t been here for at least four or five
years, I should hope there’d be a new
one. Do you realize that most of these babies are nearly as old as
you by now? But sure, they’re just
great. All babies are great, as long as they’re not mine. Hey, you
need to get the four-egg omelet.”
“I think I’ll get a bowl of scrambled egg whites.”
Rett peers at me over the top of his grease-trapped menu. One eye
is half shut—he doesn’t do it
on purpose, doesn’t even know it’s happening, it’s an automatic angry
reflex. The other eye is normal-
open, but the gray of his iris has darkened to the color of a
seal-throwing storm.
“No you won’t. You need to eat more.”
I hate Rett. I hate him I hate him I resent him I hate him. I
think of all the oil or butter or Crisco or
whatever the miscellaneous child-in-law uses back there in the hidden
kitchen (I’m sure most
restaurants don’t use Pam Cooking Spray). I think of the goop of
cheese, at least an ounce per egg,
that’s four ounces at 110 calories per ounce. I resent Rett for the
sausage they serve on the side—I
know he’ll make me eat it, and I know it’ll make me want to vomit (but
I don’t do that sort of thing, it’s a
vile and despicable habit). I don’t resent Rett for the chives and
spinach inside the omelet, but they’ll
be so coated in grease that I might as well.
There’s already a glass of orange juice in front of me. Small,
but at least 120 calories and loaded
with sugar. All natural, perhaps, but does my metabolism really know
the difference? Add a cheesy
gigantic omelet and two links of sausage, and my entire daily
allotment of calories, fat, and sodium are
exhausted—BAM!—like a hideous Emeril.
Georgena’s granddaughter chews gum as she takes our order. She’s
a restaurant cliché, a Flo,
except her barely-blonde hair falls straight against her shoulders, no
beehive torment to keep Aqua
Net in business. “So?” she asks, then smiles. “This one here is mine.”
She pokes her pen at the
center photo, a fuzzy child in a frilly green dress. “Cutie, huh?”
Her gum swishes around her mouth as she talks. It’s green, like
her baby’s dress. Extra's sour
apple, I’d say. I’m a gum expert, I chew a lot of it, it keeps my
mouth occupied so I won’t have to fill it
with other things. What if Flo’s gum falls out while she’s reciting
the morning specials? But there are
no specials, there’s never any specials, what you see is what you get
at Georgena’s Place. Flo taps
the heel of her stubby pumps as she waits. I can see them below the
table, they’re beige and scuffed
and in need of replacement. Looks like she’s been wearing them since
the Blondie concert in 1980.
Rett glares at me (why does his jaw look so pointy and angular?)
and then at Flo. It’s obvious, I’ve
been obliterated. I’m so skinny, I barely exist within the confines of
his line of vision. The missing
Olsen triplet.
“Well, I’ll have pancakes. One stack, blueberry, with blueberry
syrup. A side of bacon and another
orange juice.”
“I’ll have a cup of coffee, please,” I say, quick so Rett can’t
add anything. Dump a packet of no-
calorie Splenda and the slightest touch of skim milk, for a hint of
color only, and presto! You have
yourself a nice low-cal beverage. Most people sabotage the potential
of coffee with gobs of cream
and sugar, but that’s such as waste. Sometimes I don’t even include
the touch of skim milk, it adds a
little but not much. On second thought, I’ll pass on the skim today.
Totally unnecessary. I’ll wean
myself of it completely.
“She’ll have the four-egg omelet, and sausage. And—”
“No.” No! I look at Rett and I like him in excessive amounts, but
I hate him.
“Actually, I’ll have two boiled eggs.” I’ll take the yolks out,
it’s the yolks that hold the most
calories, whites only have 15 each, and that’s for a large egg. If I’m
lucky, they serve only small eggs
here, or medium at the worst. I’ll get rid of the egg centers when
Rett goes to the bathroom. He’ll have
to go soon, I know he will—he hasn’t been all morning, I’ve been
watching. Eagle-eye Olivia. Or I
could take the yolks out in the ladies room, just sneak those eggs
into my Hello Kitty handbag and tell
Rett I’ve got to pee, I’ll only be a minute or two. Would it work?
Probably not. Too obvious. But, if the
opportunity arises . . .
Rett’s eye squints deeper. How is that possible, how can he not
feel it? It’s weird. Bizarre-o Man.
“No, she’ll have the omelet. And sausage. And give me an extra serving
of bacon, she can help me
eat it.”
“No. Absolutely not.” Quiet, controlled, but I can’t let this
happen. I’ve let this happen too often—
all summer, practically. And even before summer, back home in SF,
there were too many times when
Rett would get his culinary vibe on, or latch onto the idea that he
needed to take me out
someplace
nice.
As if Robert didn’t force me to eat
someplace nice
on an excruciatingly regular basis. As if
enjoyable restaurant dining wasn’t completely and utterly and totally
destroyed for me. It’s surprising I
don’t weigh 200 pounds. Or even 100, for that matter. Although I have
to admit, I used to weigh over
100 pounds, back when I was a kid, and it wasn’t that bad. It’d be
okay if I got that way again (at least, I
think it’d be okay), but it’s the stopping that’s the problem. Weight
gain is like a Slinky—once you start
the thing it’ll just keep loping along, end over end, nearly
impossible to halt without a hideous tangle.
I can’t start that mess. 100 pounds could too easily gallop to 200,
then 300. The risk is too great, I’ll
stay right where I am and ignore the complaints, thank you very much.
Flo is unsure, she hesitates with arms limp at her sides, gum
motionless inside her mouth. Finally
she looks down, at the greasy laminated photo of her daughter. She
doesn’t speak. She waits.
My stomach is burning. My spine itches, my head is tight. An
elderly couple chatters in butterfly
language behind us, but we have no words. Flo looks as if she’s just
watched someone being struck
with a hammer or fist, non-comprehending at the sudden turn of events.
We’re still, unmoving, a
solemn showdown. Rett is barely looking at me. I’m barely looking at
Rett. Flo isn’t looking at either of
us. I can feel the Libra scale, tight to my shoulders, heavy stress on
my neck. It’s tipping. The
pressure firms my body, strengthening like a lat raise or bicep curl.
The balance is comforting, mine
to control, and the pain in my temple starts to subside. “We’re done,”
I finally say. “You can take our
order to the kitchen. Pancakes for him, boiled eggs for me. What the
hell, I’ll splurge and order three.
Will that satisfy you, Rett?”
Too much. Too far. Flo scampers away. Rett shakes his head.
“Whatever. Get worse if you want to.
Weigh 80 pounds so your head looks too old and too large for your
childish body. I miss your breasts,
Olivia. You used to have breasts. And somewhat of an ass. And a pelvis
that didn’t jab me at night. But
whatever. I have to go to the bathroom.”
Ha!
I think as he walks toward the hallway adorned with a male/female
sign, an arrow pointing the
direction as if there was any other way to go.
Good good good.
Maybe the order will arrive before he
gets back, and I can discreetly tug the yolks from my eggs without him
noticing, saving myself at least
180 calories.
The order arrives, but Rett doesn’t. I poke the center out of my
eggs, soft dull-gray balls the color
of a dead seal. I wait, but Rett still doesn’t return.
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Copyright © 2008 Jen duBay. All Rights Reserved. |
