The Walls Are Caving In

“Yah know something? I don’t give a flying fuck one way or the other. Just do something—anything. Make something happen. I’m bored as hell.” Alex’s eyes didn’t leave the TV screen while he screamed. Xbox controller in hand, he slouched on the hand-me-down floral-patterned couch.

            “Fuck you, Alex. What am I supposed to do? Everything about this place is boring,” I yelled back from the kitchen, where I sat at the chipped dining room table, balancing our checkbook. We both could’ve walked the seven paces to the other room, but were far too focused on what we were doing to do so. I flipped my bangs out of my eyes.

            Shit, I thought. Looks like we still can’t take that trip to Florida. Our trailer here in Akron, though shabby and rundown, still ate up all my tip money every month. Waitressing at the local diner had proven futile. How had we ended up this way?

           

Alex and I had met at Ohio State seven years earlier. He’d washed his hair daily back then, and he was clean-shaven and well dressed. A sophomore business major, he’d had graduated at the top of his high school class and planned to attend the University of Michigan for his MBA. Yeah, yeah, we know about the rivalry, but even I can admit UM’s business school is highly ranked. I would’ve made due in Ann Arbor, anyway.

            I was still writing, then, and my passion for European history hadn’t faltered. I was thin back then, too. I was a catch. Alex and I—we were a good match—great, even.

            We met on a snowy Friday night. Since it was so chilly outside, the local bar was packed. Halfway through the evening, I went to grab yet another beer. I spun away from the thick oak bar and ran directly into him, dumping my Coors all over his plaid button-down.

            “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! Let me help you clean that up,” I exclaimed, searching for the barkeep and his rag.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Alex said and smiled, his electric grin lighting up the dim, smoke-filled bar. “Can I buy you another?”

            I nodded. We got another and I followed him through the hordes of drunken students to the table he and his buddies had claimed. The cheap veneer was chipped and scratched, carved with the names of hundreds who’d come before us. Though he was there with a bunch of his friends, Alex seemed to only have eyes for me. That night, I discovered that he was in one of my history classes and had often thought about asking me out.

            “Ya know, Sarah, you’re beautiful. I look at you all the time from across the lecture hall,” he said, grinning again. I was smitten.

            “Yo. Bring me a beer, will ya?” Alex didn’t even glance up from his game to make his request. I was tempted to throw the can of Coors directly at his head, but aimed for the couch cushion instead. Couldn’t afford those hospital bills, that’s for sure. Can’t afford anything about this life, I thought, looking around the kitchen, suddenly severely depressed. The paneling was peeling off the wall above the ten-year-old stove. The refrigerator was dirty and barely kept anything cold anymore. The faucet in the rusty, discolored sink wouldn’t stop dripping. Seven steps away, in the living room, the carpeting was a mess of cigarette burns and stains from spaghetti sauce, chocolate syrup, and coffee. Alex spent all his time in that room, playing his games and wallowing in unemployed self-pity. I had the lucky opportunity to serve him dinner night after night, my existence barely being acknowledged, unless I happened to step in front of the television. After five years of marriage, added to an earlier two of living together, I had picked up on some tricks to get him to notice me again.

            He’d proposed in July, after graduation but before we hopped the flight to Paris. Our plan was to backpack through Europe for a few months before grad school. Alex told me he was too anxious to wait until we returned to the States.

            “…So, Sarah, will you?” Alex was down on one knee in the middle of the busy expanses of O’Hare. His jeans were wrinkled and his hair had grown a bit shaggier to go along with his new beard. I’d never been more in love with him.

            “Oh my God! Yes, yes, YES! Of course!” Tears were streaming down my face, and I dropped my pack, letting brochures fly. Alex picked me up and spun me around, my white peasant skirt floating behind me. I’d never been happier. I felt as if I was floating myself.

            The ring was vintage, tiny and perfect. He slipped it on my ring finger and the crowd that had gathered around us applauded, blew kisses, and smiled. We walked, hand in hand, toward the gate to board our flight.

            Alex’s blond mane was shaggier now—greasy, too. He’d lost his love for business, for sports, for running…for me. That was obvious. He was too far-gone, adrift in the fantastical worlds of Halo and EA Sports. His obsession with video games had stemmed from a long list of unanswered resume submissions, unreturned follow-up phone calls, and hundreds of rejection letters. Although he’d had all the education, money, and talent in the world, Alex was missing something. It took six years for him to give up, but he has, and for no other reason than he’s found it easier to give up than to continue trying and failing.

           

            When we returned from Europe, Columbus sat waiting for us like a big ball of clay with which we could build our hopes and dreams into reality. Though he hadn’t been admitted into any of his MBA programs, Alex was determined to make his mark on the business world. He considered opening his own store, but couldn’t decide what to sell, buy, repair, or otherwise do for the general public. He didn’t have much talent or passion for things beyond learning business techniques, but was positive his ambitions would prove fruitful.

            We had a small ceremony in the backyard at my parents’ estate outside of the city. My father’s horse breeding business had been doing well for decades, and I’d grown up comfortably, riding horses and attending private school. Alex also came from farming money, but we both decided to move away from our parents in hopes of striking out on our own—for real this time. We refused our inheritances and swore that we knew how to live simply and support ourselves.

            “You don’t want any of your old jewelry, Sar?” My mother was concerned, as it felt to her that our determination was a renunciation of our former lives. “What’ll we do with Betsy? She’ll be so lonely without you.”

            “Mom, it’ll be fine. Alex and I don’t need all that stuff. I’ll come visit Betsy when I can, ride her for old time’s sake. We want to do things for ourselves!” I was certain we were making the right decision. “You’ve taken care of me, fed me, clothed me, given me everything I could’ve ever needed or wanted…I want to try things on my own now. And Alex…well, he’s right here beside me.”

            “My darling daughter, I’m just so damn worried about you!” She started crying again. “I’m proud, too. I know you and Alex will be happy and do great things. I just don’t understand why you’d want to cut ties with us!”

            It wasn’t Alex and I that cut ties, in the end. My parents stopped visiting when we moved out of our apartment and into the trailer. They claimed the drive from Columbus was too long and exhausting, but Akron was only two hours away. They were too embarrassed to knock on our busted door, too worried about parking the BMW in the trailer park lot. Alex’s parents were too busy traipsing around the world to come visit at all. I still call Mom on Christmas and her birthday, but she’d grown so ashamed of us that I wouldn’t doubt she’d told all of her friends we’d died.

            With the checkbook balanced, I went to see about the laundry situation. I generally spend my days off from the diner doing the cooking, cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping—everything. I’ve stopped trying to get the stains out of the carpet in the living room, because I’m sure to find new ones every time I step foot in there. Otherwise, I keep the trailer as tidy as possible so I don’t go crazy.

            I separate the boxers and bras from the jeans and towels and start a load of colors. I wish with all my heart that things will change, that Alex will come around, that we can try again someday. I rub my belly; it’s emptiness the sorest subject of all in this predicament.

            I was pregnant by the time we moved to Akron, two years in to our marriage. My parents came to stay a lot back then; our apartment was far more welcoming and acceptable. I’d make them lasagna and meatloaf, feeling so matronly with my apron wrapped over my bulging belly. Alex had hoped to find work, but was sorely disappointed at the lack of options in his field. For a long time, he refused to work, leaving me to fend for the three of us. Since I wasn’t able to get my master’s, I couldn’t teach history as way I’d intended. I started waitressing after our savings ran out, when Isabel was nine months old. With all the hours I was picking up at the diner, I wasn’t able to do much else. Losing the baby weight had proven impossible and I dealt with it as best I could, but I knew Alex was no longer attracted to me. Our only saving grace was little Izzi. No matter how many rejections Alex got, he was ecstatic to be a father. He poured all of his energy into Izzi, coming up with creative ways to keep her occupied while I was away at work. Night after night, I’d walk in to macaroni necklaces or play-doh messes on the kitchen table. She’d leave her coloring book pictures out for me to admire and always expected to see them on the fridge the next day.

            With the laundry started and the checkbook balanced, I moved on to the dishes and grocery list. The sounds coming from the living room were unmistakable—gunshots and clinking metal were the soundtrack of my Sundays at home.

            “Al, hon, do you want anything from the store?” I pulled my dark hair back into a ponytail and turned on the faucet.

            “Just, whatever. Hey, are we leaving this town or what? I need to get out of here.” I heard him take a swig of his beer over the din of the video game.

            “Um…I don’t think so. I wish we could, but we can’t afford it. Maybe if you got a job…” I closed my eyes, waiting for his verbal abuse to begin.

            “Oh, right,” he replied, scoffing and pausing the game. “Rrriiight! Like that would solve all of our fucking problems! Me getting a job…bah. Fuck that. You owe me so much. Izzi…” His voice sounded choked, and he coughed to clear his throat. “I just…I’m not getting a job. Not right now. I can’t.”

            “Six months ago, on a day-off Sunday, the three of us had decided to go to the zoo in Columbus. Izzi was four, and all she could talk about were the bears and penguins she saw on TV at daycare. Alex held my hand as we traipsed about the park. He’d been working at FirstEnergy Corporation for the last four years and was, luckily, making enough money for me to cut back on shifts at the diner.”

            The prosecutor looked uninterested. “What happened next?”

            “Izzi’s four-year-old independent streak had convinced me to allow her to buckle herself into her carseat. I drove the Camry on I-71 north towards Akron. We were singing along to Izzi’s favorite Disney Princess CD and I may have allowed myself to get a little reckless.”

            The prosecutor looked up from her nailbeds. “And…?”
            “All I remember is waking up in a puddle of blood. I saw Izzi’s legs sticking out of the windshield, but she wasn’t squirming like she normally does. Alex was still unconscious and we had flipped the Camry over the median. I could hear sirens and see lights, but I couldn’t move.”

            “Thank you, Mrs. Douglas. That will be all. The prosecution rests.”

           

A year ago, I was sued after a car crash I had caused killed three women and a child in a neighboring car. The crash also took Izzi’s life and severely damaged Alex’s psychological state. The lawsuit ate away at our savings and we found ourselves hitting rock bottom emotionally, physically and financially. Alex went to therapy for a while but, ultimately, we couldn’t afford anything but absolute necessities.

The funeral was held on the Sunday following the crash. Alex and I had been lucky enough to walk away from the crash with minor cuts and scrapes. I had continued to work, as I felt more productive at work that I ever could at home. I threw myself into my job and allowed my mother to plan the service.

It drizzled that day, as if we were in the movies. Izzi’s casket was the smallest I’d ever seen. I felt uncomfortable in my black polyester dress, aware of the way it hugged my chunky body. Alex couldn’t stop crying, but I couldn’t bring myself to start. Everyone brought flowers and casserole dishes for Alex and I. Of course, the procession to the grave was as depressing as ever, but I kept my mind on my dress. I didn’t think about Izzi.

            After the funeral, my parents sent Alex and I to a hotel. When we returned, every trace of Izzi was gone. The apartment was wiped clean of her coloring pages, colored macaroni, and tubs full of Barbie dolls and play-doh. My license had been revoked, so we found a trailer park within walking distance to the diner and a grocery store. Well, I found it. Alex has been a little off ever since. He stopped going to work during the trial and can’t bring himself to search for another job. Times are tougher than ever, and I don’t know where to turn.

            “Okay, well, I’m off, then,” I said, grabbing my ragged shopping bags and heading for the door.

            “Don’t forget another thirty-pack of Coors. And hurry back!” Alex’s eyes were glued to the screen again.

            As I walked the mile to the Piggly Wiggly, my mind went blank. I didn’t want to think about Alex, or Izzi, or work, or my life any longer. I didn’t want to pity myself any longer. Maybe I can go back to school in the fall, or maybe I can find a better job. Something, anything to make this life worth living again. I hadn’t allowed myself to mourn the death of my own daughter. I’m sick of serving everyone else, putting Alex before myself. Putting my customers before myself. I’ve stopped looking out for me. I looked up to see my reflection in the grocery store door. I’m thirty pounds overweight. My hair’s stringy and unwashed. I’m wearing stained gray sweatpants and a tattered Ohio State t-shirt. My face is wrinkly and my eyes are drooping. I’m twenty-six years old and this is all I have to show for myself. After buying these groceries, I’m going to go home and find some extra money. We need a vacation.

            I could smell it before I saw it. Burning leaves, maybe? As I rounded the corner and headed in to the trailer park, I caught a glimpse of orange flame licking a tree. Shit. I dropped the groceries and ran straight down the dirt road towards our trailer, now fully engulfed in flames. The wood paneling, cheap carpeting, and electronics must’ve it easy for the fire to spread quickly, devastating everything in its path. The trailer was gone. But where’s Alex?

            “ALEX! Where are you?” I screamed between sobs. As if things couldn’t get any worse…

            I ran to the neighbor’s to use their telephone, but Mrs. Mulvaney had already dialed 911. A fire truck, ambulance, and two police cruisers screeched to a halt in front of the trailer. As the firemen hosed down the remains of my home, Officer Kirt questioned me.

            “Do you know what the cause of the fire was?”

            I scanned my brain, trying to remember leaving the stove on. “Well, there were clothes in the dryer…”

            “Was anyone inside?”

            Panic seized my heart. “Alex! Alex, my husband. I can’t find him. I went out to get some groceries…”

            “Settle down, ma’am. We’ll figure out where your husband is. Anything else you can tell me?”

            “He was playing video games. That’s what he does, for hours on end. Could it have been an electrical fire?”

            “Maybe, ma’am. We’ll find out soon enough. Do you have anyone to stay with?”

            I tried to remember the last time I’d talked to my mother. “My parents are in Columbus, but I don’t want to leave without my husband!”
            “I’ve sent a search party out to the woods. He probably thought the fire would spread and wanted to get as far away as possible.” Officer Kirt pulled out a notepad and pen. “Can I call your parents for you?”

            I gave him my parents’ address and phone number and asked if I could use his phone to call them myself. My mother picked up on the first ring and hesitantly agreed to come pick me up.

            “It’s two hours from Columbus, officer. What should I be doing right now?”

            “Well, I can take you back to the station if you want. Or you can wait in my cruiser.”

            I needed something to busy myself with, something to keep my mind off of my husband’s disappearance. I knocked on Mrs. Mulvaney’s door once again, and spent the next two hours planting her tulip bulbs.

            “Sugar, don’t beat yourself up. I’m sure everything will be just fine,” my mother said calmly, rubbing my back as I took deep breaths to steady my thoughts.

            “I know, Mom. I just need to know if he’s alright.”

            “You’ve been through a lot today, hon. Why don’t you go take a nap and I’ll let you know when Officer Kirt calls?” She pushed my shoulder gently, urging me upstairs.

            In my old bedroom, remnants of my old life glared at me from every corner. Horse show ribbons, honor roll certificates, and dance medals covered one wall. My desk was as I had left it, with college papers strewn about. Straight A’s, all of them.

            I sat down on my canopy bed and pulled my knees to my chest. The floral pillowcases invited me to lay my head down and, before I knew it, my mother was shaking me awake, holding the phone out towards me.

            “Officer Kirt? Did you find him? Did you find my husband?”

            “We did, Mrs. Douglas. I regret to inform you, however, that it was only his body we found. It was inside the trailer.”

            A single tear slipped down my cheek. I brushed it away quickly, unable to think of anything but the phone calls I needed to make. After hanging up with Officer Kirt, the fire department finally called with their final report. Their assessment, along with AAA’s, determined the cause of the fire to be faulty wiring. I was able to claim all my losses, but could barely think knowing Alex would never sit by my side again. After hanging up with AAA, I called Alex’s parents, who were in Alaska for the summer.           

            “Mrs. Douglas, I’ve got some horrible news.” I explained about the fire and expressed my sadness for her…our loss.

            “Well, m’dear, he’s probably in a better place now.” Mrs. Douglas’ voice was garbled, as if she was holding back sobs. I wasn’t sure where her optimism was coming from.

            “Darling, he never wanted to burden you, but he was a horribly sad boy. Right from the very beginning, we had him in therapy. Bipolar disorder.” She went on to tell me about the late-night phone calls she’d been receiving from him for years, the tears and agony and threats of suicide.

            “He always told me that he was a bit…off…but never to this extent. I can’t believe him!”

            “Like I said, dear, he didn’t want to burden you. He loved you, wanted to be with you, wanted what was best for you. He wanted everything in the world for you and, when he couldn’t give it to you, he sprialed out of control.”

            “I don’t understand. How could he not tell me?”

            “He was never very talkative, dear. He loved you and Izzi with all his heart, though. He hasn’t been able to cope since you lost her. I’m so sorry, Sarah.”

            I lay back down, finally unable to hold back the sobs that had been building for so long. That night, I cried for Izzi. I cried for the life I was never able to give her and for the time I wasn’t able to spend with her. I cried myself to sleep and, in the morning, cried for Alex. I cried for the things he was never able to tell me and for the bitter end he had reached. I cried for what seemed like days. My mother and father came in intermittently with tea, water, and their own tears. We shared grief that had been, for so long, bottled up and hidden away. I had finally found a way to express myself and I spent days holed up in that room. I found my voice again, started writing and started allowing myself to face my failures for the first time. In the end, it was me that I found. Finally, I had reconnected with that girl. When I emerged days later, I breathed deeply, knowing that things would be forever different.

Delusion

Her sagging breasts, flabby stomach, and bulging thighs suggested an age that far surpassed her actual years. She gasped, sucking in that godforsaken stomach for as long as she could manage—a few seconds at most. She turned to the side, her wide green eyes examining her all-too-sad-looking body. In the mirror’s reflection, light shone through the open blinds behind her and she gasped again—this time in embarrassment. Surely the neighbors could see every dimple she tried so carefully to keep concealed. She ducked, resting her paunchy knees on the marinara-sauce-splotched carpet that she had forgotten to clean again this month. Ugh.

Crawling out of the window’s sight, she straightened up again and allowed her body to become what it truly was—fat, ugly, disgusting. Her chin too jiggly, her neck too thick, her shoulders too square, her breasts too floppy, her ribcage too damn huge—nothing fit right. Nothing worked right. In her short twenty-five years of life, she’d become old, haggard, droopy, sad. Relaxing the muscles that had never been properly engaged, she sighed. Her waist so wide, her hips so puckered, her buttocks so flat, her legs so short, her feet so flat—she wasn’t happy. Glancing at her reflection once more, she realized it was no wonder no one fancied her. Not only was she unsightly, she was also completely paralyzed by self-loathing. Upon Googling her self-diagnosed symptoms, she finally came to terms with the truth—she was normal. She was suffering from normal issues that other normal people suffer from. She wasn’t alone. With that, she decided to get herself dressed in old clothes and a new attitude.

Cellulite isn’t the end of the world, she reminded herself while tugging on her skinny jeans. You’re curvy, you’re fabulous, you’re…normal. Everyone has cellulite. She grabbed the waistband of her jeans and jumped once, twice, three times, shimmying into them. Sucking in her stomach, she fastened the brass button and zipped. She decided not to breathe normally, instead holding her stomach taut and puffing out her chest. I could pull these off, she thought. I could make these work. She dug through her closet for a flowing tunic top; grabbing one and throwing it on, she hoped beyond hope that it would hide her muffin top. Her anxiety met her at the mirror. She primped and struck a thousand poses. The flowers on her tunic floated about, dancing to the beat of her every movement. The pink petals matched her flushed cheeks, and the green stems complimented the emerald hue of her eyes. She reached a level of contentedness with her appearance that would otherwise be considered settling, but the clock had struck twelve far sooner than she’d hoped it would.

Time for work. She sighed, throwing her bulky black jacket on over her tunic. Chicago looked cold today. She grabbed her brown purse and keys—complete with her “Anne” keychain that her baby sister had given her last year—and headed for the door of her studio apartment. You’d think that living in a sixth-floor walk-up in a large city would help trim her thick frame. Instead, Anne’s appetite was never satisfied. She wanted more, loved the rich tastes of her favorite foods, the way they felt going down her throat, the taut fullness of her stomach. Chocolate, pasta, chicken fingers and pizza seemed to be the extent of her diet. She smiled, thinking of the chocolate scone she planned on eating the moment she walked in to work.

Mocha Choka Coffee Parlor. This shop was both the bane of Anne’s existence and the root of her happiness. At $7.50 an hour plus tips, she barely made enough to pay for that sixth-floor walk-up, let alone the classes she’d wanted to take this semester at the University of Chicago. She’d thought that a political science class or two would be manageable this semester. Too damned expensive, this city was. At this rate, she’d never be able to take the LSAT, never get in to law school, never get out of the coffee shop and into the real world. Had she known it earlier, she might never have left the comforts of small-town Sidney, Illinois.

Luckily, Mocha Choka offered a wide array of sweet snacks, all eager to add to Anne’s waistline. Chocolate scones, marbled muffins, Seven Layers of Heaven bars—Anne sighed, examining the case, her mouth watering incessantly. Of course, eating one of those Choco-no-nos would probably just add to her self-image issues. She reeled from the case, shook her stringy blonde bangs out of place, and made a beeline for the restroom. God forbid she serve any of those sugary delights with unwashed hands.

In the public restroom, Anne couldn’t help but examine her acne-scar-pocked cheeks. She had fastened her hair back with a bobby pin, but the static frizzies didn’t want to stay in place. Finally resting her eyes on the dark bags beneath them, Anne decided to make a change. She thrust her hands under the automatic dryer and stepped out of the restroom a new woman. No more Choco-nonos. No more self-degradation. No more popping pimples.

“You’re late!” Linda’s shrill voice carried over the din of the customers’ conversations.

“Yeah, I know. But my hands are clean!” Anne wrapped her brown apron around her belly, careful to cover her muffin top.

“I’m gonna start cutting your hours, Saunders.”

“No, no, please don’t! I know I’m late a lot, but it’s because of my asthma. I can only walk so fast!”

“Leave earlier. Consider yourself a seasonal employee. Watch your back.”

What a heinous bitch, Anne thought as she made her way from the apron station to the cash register. With her black hair and brown eyes, Linda certainly was a likely candidate for the devil’s wife.

“Get to work,” Linda hissed from the left side of her mouth.

“Welcome to Mocha Choka. How can I help you?”

On her way home, Anne usually had a large Mocha Frappuccino with extra whip in one hand and a scone in the other. Somehow, she seldom noticed the three gyms, the Weight Watchers outlet, and two clothing stores for petite women that she passed on her regular route. Today, however, her hands were empty. She’d elected to skip the normal snack in her new diet. She’d decided to stop eating during the day, instead filling up on one larger meal at dinnertime. Anne’s cheeks flushed at the sight of all those scantly clad women that were willing to ride their stationary bikes in full view of the rest of the world. How could she get a body like that? Why wasn’t it easier? Anne sucked in her stomach once again, inhaling fully and feeling her lungs burn from the bitterly cold air. After a few more deep breaths, she opened the door to the nearest Weight Watchers storefront.

Home again, Anne shed her bulky jacket and pulled the Weight Watchers application out of her purse. Yes, she thought, this is a good idea. This’ll work. I can make this happen. She reminded herself of what the Weight Watchers representative had said to her next to the scale.

“Remember, you control your destiny,” the svelte brunette rep insisted, smiling brightly at Anne. “You can regain control of your life.”

She threw the application near the sink, its stark white contrasting the dark Formica countertops. She opened the cupboard, grabbed a glass, and poured herself a glass of milk, taking deep gulps to slow her heavy breathing. The sixth-floor walk-up wasn’t doing anything for her asthma, that’s for sure. Putting the gallon back in the fridge, she noticed a distinct lacking. Rotting strawberries, one plate of leftover pad thai from the restaurant around the corner, and a bottle of ketchup was all that was staring back at her. Grocery shopping was going to be a hassle. She pulled a pound of ground beef from the freezer, hoping that it would thaw quickly.

            Anne considered avoiding her email, but couldn’t help but wonder what craziness her parents were up to this week. After Anne and her sister graduated and moved from small-town Sidney, their parents sold the farm, bought an Airstream, and started driving. They’d been criss-crossing the country for years, rarely stopping to take a breath before continuing down the road. Anne couldn’t remember the last time her parents had seen her apartment, with its peeling paneled walls, it’s chipped toilet bowl, and it’s cheap linoleum flooring. They were keeping a blog, somehow, and her mother couldn’t help but update it hourly. Anne had scrolled through pictures of the Grand Canyon, the Golden Gate Bridge, Route 66, Mount Rushmore, and the Pacific Ocean, not surprised that they had never taken a vacation during her childhood.

            In her spare time, Mom was scanning all of their old photos onto the computer. Every once in awhile, she’d send Anne one with a caption exclaiming, “remember when you looked this good?” Staring back at her from the screen was usually a prepubescent Anne, thin as a rail with long, lanky limbs. Anne had started gaining weight in high school and, after graduating and with new-found diet freedoms, her weight had skyrocketed in college. Since then, she couldn’t go a day without her mother reminding her of what she could be. Between the pictures of her childhood and the pictures of her parents—they had been married for thirty-two years and had tall and thin replicas of one another—Anne was constantly reminded of her hefty downfall. The criticism from her mother only made her want to eat more, however.

Snug in her bed, Anne found the application less than appealing. Anne decided to think it over a bit longer and instead opted for some spaghetti and meatballs to curb her appetite. She turned on her television to find that the six o’clock news had just finished. Just in time for “Man Vs. Food,” Anne thought, smiling while digging the spaghetti noodles out of the pantry. Before flipping the channel, however, the beginning credits for “The Biggest Loser” came onto the screen. Anne hesitated. Should I watch this instead? Maybe it’ll inspire me.

Commercial time. Anne struggled to pull herself off the couch, carrying a plate, once heaped in spaghetti, meatballs, and marinara, to the sink to wash. She left one plate, one glass, and one fork to dry in the dish rack and turned to the freezer, where one pint of Ben and Jerry’s was sitting with her name on it. Anne grabbed a spoon from the drawer and hurried back to the couch just in time for the eHarmony commercial. Damn, it seems like these things get played triple time before Christmas.

“Joining eHarmony wasn’t necessarily to get a date; it was to meet the right person,” Lee claimed from the TV screen. He and Anne Marie looked too damn happy.

Anne dug her spoon into her Chunky Monkey with intensity, her face turning red from the physical exertion. I am sick of these commercials telling me what is and isn’t good for me. I want it all, faster, easier, better. Before she knew it, The Biggest Loser had returned. Anne dropped the empty container, satisfied with her choice to eat like a real person.

Anne climbed in to bed, her flannel sheets providing warmth that her otherwise cold and empty bed did not. It was only late at night that she wondered what it would be like to be smaller. To be in shape. To be any shape at all. It must be a burden. I can’t stand the idea of having to maintain that kind of image. I think I’m fine the way I am. With that, Anne rolled over on to her side and fell promptly asleep.

Monotony ensued. Anne’s life slogged on at a snail’s pace. She ripped up the Weight Watchers forms the next day and tossed them in the trash on top of the empty Ben and Jerry’s container. She continued to pass the gyms and clothing stores on her way to and from work. She continued to eat entire family portions of her favorite foods. She even stopped dreaming of, one day, being able to go back to school. Instead, she settled for a mundane existence in the Windy City.

At Christmas, her parents called and wished her a merry one. She’d elected to spend it with her sister, Mary, at her home outside of Milwaukee. Watching her nephews race through the house, slipping on the wood floors and shooting each other with their brand-new Nerf guns, Anne realized how alone she truly felt. She helped herself to more than her fair share of Christmas cookies and smiled, hoping that a new year could mean a fresh start.

In April, the lilacs and tulips bloomed outside of Anne’s high-rise apartment building. The sun shone brightly again, and the runners returned to their normal loops, passing Anne by as she coughed and heaved her way to Mocha Choka. The last traces of snow were melting, as was her resolve to be happy the way she was. Her weight had skyrocketed through the winter months, adding more jiggle than ever before. Anne’s habits had gone from bad to worse, as she could now finish an entire box of spaghetti in a single meal. Her clothes stopped fitting again. Her jacket was too tight around the middle. What she had chalked up to “winter blubber” had become Anne’s new norm.

Why is it that, as soon as I start thinking somewhat positively about myself, I decide to binge? Why can’t I keep any of the promises I make to myself? Why don’t I have the resolve to lose weight?

April had proven promising. Anne decided to join a gym. She was getting more hours at the coffee shop and so allowed herself the extra expense. At first, she worked out in men’s sweatpants and the most athletic-like shoes she could find in her closet—a pair of flats from Payless. She promised herself that, with each pound dropped, she would add money to a “gym clothing” savings account. She even hired a physical trainer, who sent her to death’s doorstep three times a week.

“Seven more! Anne, you can do this! Six more!” Jeff’s face flushed as he screamed orders at her. Sweat dripped from his forehead, soaking his muscle tee during the first ten minutes of each session. His V-shaped body, sex-foot-one-inch height, and rippling muscles intimidated Anne, giving her both the energy to push through and the will to quit.

The gym, Muscle Madness, was a sole room that smelled of sweat and empty promises. Jeff met her at the door on that first Monday, greeting her with a “humpf” and forcing her to do a turn, as if he wanted to know what he was working with. He pointed out the cardio stations near the front windows, the circuit machines in the middle, and the locker rooms in the back.

After ten crunches, she couldn’t bear anything more. But Jeff was always kind enough to help her remember her self-worth.

“Anne, get your fat ass up and do some push-ups. Pronto!”

Ten push-ups later, she found herself sweat-covered and collapsed in a heap at Jeff’s feet.

“Anne! I’m not going to tell you again. Get your fat ass up. It’s cardio time!”

His veins bulged from his forehead and neck, making his red face all the scarier. Anne didn’t remember signing up for Army boot camp. Of course, Jeff was an ex-Marine and, therefore, didn’t think anything of his routine vocal abuse.

Three times a week, Jeff led her through normal exercises—sit-ups, push-ups, cardio, circuits—and, three times a week, Anne left the gym feeling as if she’d die before ever again stepping foot in her apartment. Her asthma was working overtime and her muscles ached from all the new activity. Anne couldn’t help but complain to anyone who’d listen. Her sole friend at work, Candace, would shake her long brown curls in earnest every time Anne brought it up.

“Anne, you are not fat!” she would exclaim. “I don’t understand where this obsession with weight comes from.”

“Candy, I’m just so lonely. I think that losing weight would help me find a guy.”

“What do you need a guy for? You’re gorgeous, perfect just the way you are.”

“Get back to work!” Linda would shout. “It’s about time you lost some weight.”

“Get your fat ass up, Anne!” Jeff shook sweat from his brow. “You have a million pounds to lose!”

He handed her a list of approved foods and snarled, “See you next week.”

She examined the list. Fish, spinach, salad dressing on the side? This is going to be harder than I thought.

 “I just don’t trust fat asses to report back to me honestly,” he claimed at their next session. “I don’t care how dedicated they are. There’s bound to be slip ups here and there…and Jeff doesn’t do slip ups.”

Anne’s self-worth dwindled dramatically. She was starting to realize that she wouldn’t be able to do this forever. This weight is a lot to lose. And I still love food. That love affair will always be number one in my heart. Why am I doing this to myself?

“Screw this!” Anne screamed, jabbing the STOP button on the treadmill with her pointer finger. “I QUIT!”

“Oh no you don’t, fat ass. No one quits on Jeff. You’re sure as hell not quittin’.”

“Watch me, jerk.”

With that, she stormed out of the cardio area and into the locker room. Once there, she got onto the scale and weighed herself one last time. 147. Still not enough flab gone. I can’t stand this.

She left the locker room and skulked back to Jeff, her head hanging in shame.

“I can’t quit. I have so much weight left to lose. I know that,” she said, sighing and climbing back onto the treadmill.

“Damn straight you do,” Jeff said, punching the buttons to set the speed and incline. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you look okay. Okay is not perfect. Jeff doesn’t stop until his people are perfect.”

On the walk home from the gym, Anne stopped and looked at her reflection in a store window. Maybe I do need a new attitude. It probably doesn’t help that everyone around me only agrees with me when I say I’m fat. Every time I tell myself that, I hear Mom, Linda, and Jeff screaming back at me.

Anne turned away from the window, her eyes not leaving her reflection. Without a word, a man walked into her, knocking her over and startling her out of her self-pitied daze. She looked up, assuming he would have continued past her. Instead, she was looking into the blue-gray eyes of a handsome stranger. His hand was outstretched towards her and he gestured, helping her to her feet.

“Hi, I’m Steve,” he said, straightening his glasses as Anne brushed herself off.

“Anne,” she replied, turning away.

Steve stopped her. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Anne?”

Tea for Two

For a split second, the world froze. Stopped spinning on its axis, so it seemed.

            In that second, time stopped. We ceased to exist, for a second.

            For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Wouldn’t, didn’t. We were far too invisible to be noticed. Indeed, we had disappeared.

            And then, after a second, everything resumed. Babies continued to cry, mothers rocked and shushed. Lovers whispered sweet nothings, embraced, kissed. Men hailed cabs in big cities, ready for their evenings at home after busy days at the office. Wives prepared roasts in wide pans, bending at the waist to place them in the oven. Children yelled, screeched, screamed, ate ice cream, played tag in the park, fell from swings and bruised their elbows.

            But we, we had noticed that second. That momentary jolt. Electrified we were by that split-second. As if we’d controlled the world with the synchronized blink of our eyelids. A flutter of eyelash, a twitch of muscle.

            For a split second, we were the whole world.

            “You’re right, you’re always right. I can’t possibly…can I?” Miranda shook her freshly-cut brunette bob. Freshly-cut, like the grass of her lawn, which she had just finished running the lawn mower over. A push mower, while not fun to use, provides a good workout. Miranda’s biceps burned as she pulled the mower back into the shed.

            “No, no…we’re safe. We’re always careful,” Bobby replied with a grimace, a grimace that made it seem as if he didn’t believe what was coming out of his mouth, a mouth whose normally rosy-red lips were temporarily blue-hued from his Blow Pop. He’d always loved blueberry Blow Pops, had eaten them for fifteen, fifty, a hundred years, so it seemed.

            “Still, I think I should check. Drive me to the store, will yah?” Miranda could never be too sure about anything. She was rarely convinced. She rubbed her stomach absentmindedly, but Bobby swatted her hand away.

            “Don’t do that. Don’t even think it.” He tossed the paper stick onto the freshly-cut grass.

            “Hey! I just cleaned the yard.” Miranda stalked past him to pick up the stick.

            “Don’t worry, hon, it’s biodegradable.”

            She looked up at the sky and sighed. “You’re ridiculous. Let’s go to the store.”

            They spent $112 on pregnancy tests. Digital reads, triple packs, store brands—they bought them all. Miranda spent an hour in the bathroom—swig, sit, wait, pee, wait. She realized, after her fourth handwashing, that movies made this process so much more glamorous.

            After peeing on ten different sticks and seeing ten icons—pink smiley faces, plus signs, the words “yes” and “pregnant”—she allowed herself to be convinced. Bobby had fallen asleep on the living room sofa with his long legs splayed and his shirt unbuttoned to reveal taut pectorals and graying chest hair. She shook him awake with her thin, chapped hands.

            “I’ve washed my hands ten times. I’m pregnant. Shit.” She slumped to the floor next to the couch, wrapping her arms around her calves. Bobby had barely awoken, squinting at the midafternoon sun streaming through the blinds. Her heaving sobs jolted him awake. He sat up and stretched, his knees creaking.

            “You’re…what? No. What? No way.” He straightened his legs, rubbing her shoulder and making his leg hair stand on end.

            “Yeah,” she hiccupped. “I am. Ten tests confirm it.”

            “How accurate are those things, anyway?”

            “I mean, all those commercials claim 99.9 percent accuracy.” She’d straightened her legs, doing impromptu yoga moves that she’d learned in her forty-plus yoga class. She’d stayed fit for her age.

            His eyes widened. He gulped. “…Shit. Mindy, what the fuck are we gonna do?”

            “Fuck if I know, Bobby.” She buried her face in his lap.

            We were born on a Tuesday in December. We were two weeks early, but our parents were ready. When they first found out about us, Mommy and Daddy were ready to do a lot of things. They didn’t know they wanted us, so they scheduled an appointment. But then, at the last minute, we made Mommy sick and she couldn’t make it to the doctor. We were ready to be alive, so we wanted them to get ready, too.

            Mommy and Daddy got married a couple months before we came. Mommy cursed us (“Fuck you, stupid babies. I never wanted one baby, and now I’m getting two.”) because she was upset that she couldn’t wear a regular wedding dress. Nothing about their wedding was normal. They didn’t even take any pictures to remember it. They didn’t want to remember.

            That Tuesday in December was a cold one, I think. Daddy left the room and every time he came back in his black hair was wet with melted snow. He always stank of cigarettes. He was sixty-two.

            Mommy was forty-six, and the doctors kept saying it was dangerous for her to be pregnant. Even though she was really healthy, she was too old to be having children. They told her that from day one, but we, my brother and I, we wanted to be alive. So we kept Mommy alive, too.

            To get us out, Mommy had to get a Cesarean section. My brother, Thomas, didn’t make it. I think he was too little to be born yet, but I was ready. I remember Mommy’s tears falling on my head when she held me that first time. She wasn’t happy to see me.

            They named me Hannah and I was never good enough for them. Mommy wanted me to be a ballerina, but I had flat feet. Daddy wanted me to be a genius, but I couldn’t concentrate. I liked to have tea parties with my dolls and bears. I always set an extra place for my brother, too. Mommy cried when I had tea parties. When I was seven, Daddy was almost seventy and his hair was more gray than black. Daddy had to go grocery shopping. He hated taking me with him, because everyone always thought I was his granddaughter. Mommy was always napping.

            “Hannah, go play at Mrs. Nelson’s for a while. I have to go get groceries for dinner,” Daddy yelled up the stairs to where I was, daydreaming in my room.

            “But can’t I come with you?”

            “No, no. Just go ask Mrs. Nelson if she needs anything.”

            Our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Nelson, was thirty. I’d seen the guys in their military uniforms come to her front door one day a couple months ago. I think her husband was in the Army. She doesn’t leave the house much, but I really like playing with her cats, Harold and Maude. I told Mommy about the cats once, and she laughed and told me they were named after characters in a movie. She wouldn’t let me watch it.

            “What’s your first name, Mrs. Nelson?” I looked up from my chocolate chip ice cream and cocked my head. She was so beautiful. Her blonde hair floated away from her face in waves. I liked the way her hair looked in the sunlight that came from her kitchen window, and the curtains had cute little birds on them. She moved away from the sink and towards the kitchen table where I sat. It was a big table, bigger than ours, and it looked heavy. I knew the chairs were heavy because I could never move them. Mrs. Nelson always pulled my chair out for me when we had ice cream together.

            She smiled, showing me her perfectly straight teeth. I was going to have braces in a couple years. Daddy’s definitely weren’t as white as hers, either. He liked his Marlboros too much.           

            “It’s Kerry, sweetheart.”

            “But why does everybody call you Mrs. Nelson?”

            “Because that was my husband’s name, and I like to remember it. I want everyone to remember him.”

            “His name was Nelson?”

            “No, honey, his first name was Richard. His last name was Nelson, like your last name is McDonall.” She smiled again, her eyes crinkling at the corners.           

            “Oh. Well, I love this ice cream.”

            “I’m so glad. Can I have a bite?” She leaned over next to me, propping her arms up on the table with her elbows. They were so tan. She spends a lot of her time in her backyard. I’ve seen her lying on a towel on the grass with nothing but bikini bottoms on. Her nipples looked like the erasers in my Ticonderoga pencils.

            “Of course!”

            She took the bite I offered her on my spoon and smiled. “Mmm! That’s delicious!”

            “Can I go play with the cats now, Mrs. Nelson?”

            “Of course, dear. Just be careful. Remember, they have claws.”

            I hopped down off my chair. “I will. Thanks!”

           

            Bobby was never blatant about what he wanted. In the beginning, he waved to me as he walked through his yard to the garage, cigarette smoke streaming from the Marlboro in his hand. I assumed he was going to work, but I never knew where. In the evenings, I’d curl up on the back porch with a book and he’d call over the picket fence, “Whatcha reading?” I always had to check the cover, never quite sure what I was engrossed in. He was always so friendly, in the beginning.

            I received checks in the mail for the first few months. Then they stopped coming and I stopped leaving the house. Luckily, my parents pitied me and started sending me more money than the military ever had. The only thing I could count on anymore was Bobby’s coming and going. Otherwise, I didn’t have a single thing to care about.

            After a while, Bobby started approaching the fence on his way into the house. It was autumn when that started, and dusk was generally chilly in our suburban Milwaukee town. The first time, I was wrapped up in a fleece blanket, swinging and reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and thinking about my garden in the spring. He came closer to me than he ever had, and I smiled at his salt and pepper hair.

            “How’s the book?” he’d asked, grinning.

            “Oh, it’s just fine. I’m getting lots of recipe ideas,” I told him. I truly was inspired by the book, the way Barbara Kingsolver’s family just up and left the city and settled in to their quiet country life.

            “Really? Well, maybe you’ll have to cook for us sometime. Whaddaya say?”

            “I think that might be nice. I’m a fabulous cook. Richie always said so.” My voice caught on his name.

            “Speaking of him—if you ever want to talk, I’d give you some sessions for free.” I didn’t know much about Bobby, but I assumed, then, that he was some sort of shrink.

            “That’s incredibly generous of you,” I said, forcing a smile though my eyes that were full of tears. I had been seeing a shrink, but he wasn’t nearly as attractive as Bobby was. He didn’t have Bobby’s salt-and-pepper hair, or the jaw, or the cheekbones, or the eyelashes. He didn’t have Bobby’s trim physique. Nope, Dr. Miller was drab and snooty, with a comb-over and a closet full of sweater vests.

            “And dinner? Let us know what you need and I’ll pick it up for you. We’re free Thursday.”

            “Thursday should work. I’ll find a good recipe and leave a list on your door. Thanks!” I smiled again and he walked into the house. I watched his back and calf muscles flex through his button-down and khakis as he walked. Damn. I’ve never seen a man his age so fit.

            Now, I’ve never been one for older men. I wasn’t the girl in college sleeping with her professors. Richie was a mere six months older than I—we would’ve grown up, grown some babies, grown old together. Unfortunately, his tour in Iraq served as his final growth spurt. He enlisted in the Army immediately after high school, but only went through basic training before coming to UW Madison to meet up with me. After we graduated, got married, and bought a house outside of Milwaukee, he was deployed to Afghanistan. He survived his first three-year tour, but was called up again two years later. We’d just gotten to know each other again when he got shipped off to Iraq. I turned thirty without him. When the black car pulled up in front of the house, I could barely move. My joints have ached ever since.

            With Bobby, though, I felt limber again. My old dancer self. I had danced all through high school—ballet, jazz, tap, modern, you name it—and was always the first on the floor at a party. Bobby and I fell quickly into a secret routine that excited and pleased us both. He didn’t talk about his wife’s depression. Lucky for us, she napped a lot. He didn’t talk about Hannah, his adorable seven-year-old. Lucky for us, she was at school and day care for most of the day. Bobby only had a few appointments every day at his psychiatry practice, sometimes coming home as early as noon. Lucky for us, he was as horny as a high schooler after he ate lunch.

            So, I buried myself in him. In us. In sex. Fucking, sucking, ass, cock, tits, balls. Wrapping my long legs around his torso. Wrapping my arms around his neck. Grunting, thrusting, screaming, cumming. Pulling hair, scratching skin. We didn’t talk much. A lot of in and out and moving on. He’d run back to his family next door, while I found a new favorite reading place inside my house. Empty, lonely, cold house.

            “Maybe some new curtains, Bob?” Miranda was in rare form, her toned arms reaching for the curtain rod.

            I didn’t look up from the newspaper. “Sure, Mind, whatever you think.”

            “I thought maybe we could do it together, for old times’ sake?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. You’re so much better at this stuff.”

            She looked over her shoulder, her eyes filling with tears. “You know, we really never do anything together anymore. I miss us.”

            “Hannah changed a lot of things for us, Mind. I don’t know what to tell you.” I shrugged, glancing down at an advertisement for carpet cleaning. 

            Mindy hopped down off the chair and sat in it, pulling her knees to her chest. “I just, well, I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

            “I don’t know why you’re thinking like that. How’re you losing me?”
            “We’ve just grown apart. You’d think, after getting married and having a kid, that we’d be closer. But look at us! We can’t even have a normal conversation without—” she burst into tears and fled the room.

            I took advantage of the time to slip out the French doors and into Kerry’s yard. Having glanced between the window and the newspaper, I’d noticed her sunbathing on the grass. How could I not? She always said she hated tan lines and she rarely wore a top when lying out.

            I was a late bloomer, having lost my virginity to some Vietnamese hooker when I was twenty-one and in the service. I lost a lot of things during that war, but my libido wasn’t one of them. Over the years, it’s only gotten stronger, and I can’t help but look at other women, even if I do think my wife’s one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. She’s just not enough. I can be monogamous when it comes to love, sure—but sex? I need more than Mindy merely lying there. Kerry, she’s fun, she’s young, energetic, full of life. She does things Mindy’d never dream of doing. She knows techniques I’ve never heard of. At sixty-nine, I’m getting my kicks easily. Besides, Mindy’s such a drag, sometimes, crying and sleeping for hours and hours. She can’t possibly know. Would she even care? If she’s awake when I get the urge, I just tell her I’m going to the gym. And I do, go to the gym, I mean. I just also happen to be having a lot of rough crazy sex with our widowed next-door neighbor. It’s a win-win situation, really. Mindy wants a husband, Kerry wants a lover—why can’t I find different girls for both?

             

            I pulled the curtains back on my bedroom window, certain I’d be able to see a nearly-naked Kerry Nelson in her yard. I remember when my breasts were that plump and buoyant. I thought nothing would ever bring me down. I was all kinds of immortal.

            Now I can’t go a full day without curling up in bed. My husband the shrink can’t seem to help me. My beautiful seven-year-old doesn’t want to see me. All she is, anyway, is a reminder of what I’ve lost.

            I was almost married once before, when I was younger and happy and free. I was nineteen and he twenty-three. I met him in France on holiday and he, ever the Frenchman, gave me a summer I’ll never forget. Moped rides through Marseilles, picnics in the countryside with fresh cheese and bread. The wine flowed that summer and I was nothing if not completely smitten with him. Phillipe. He was one helluva lover. He taught me how to tease and please a man.

            My parents brought me home that summer, however, and I never saw Phillipe again. My sex drive stayed for a while, but since Hannah, that’s all but faded too.

            I watched Bobby hop the fence. I’m not surprised. He’s been getting his kicks elsewhere for years. I don’t even mind, really. I’m glad I don’t have to be that part of his life anymore. I’m too tired for the sex he needs. He’s been like a schoolboy ever since I met him ten years ago. But we’re too old for school, now. I don’t know how he does it.

            He bends down and slides his hands under her towel, lifting her up and carrying her into the house. At least they try to be a bit discreet. I remember when he couldn’t make it to the kitchen without needed to ravish me. We were like teenagers, going at it in the backyard, under bushes, on the kitchen counter.

            I’m glad he’s found Kerry. She’s lithe, beautiful, spirited. Surprisingly so, since her husband passed and all. It’s almost as if she was biding her time, just waiting for it, expecting it to happen. I’ve never seen grief manifested in libido.

            I climb into bed, leaving my slippers on but shedding my robe. Under the blankets, I examine my wrinkles and stretch marks—signs that this body has led a long life. Maybe today’s the day I’ll go through with it. Maybe tomorrow…

           

            In the end, the world kept right on spinning. Clocks ticked, birds chirped, leaves fell, snow swirled. Babies came screaming into the world. Children held hands, played hopscotch, blew bubbles. Adolescents rolled their eyes, wore too much make-up, had their first kisses, experimented, cut class, applied to college. Adults ran the world, got married, bought houses, had babies. Old men and women drew their last breaths.

            But in every life, at some point, a jolt hits, knocks us off course. For a split second, the person’s whole world stops, and all they can hear is their own beating heart.