Good Enough to Eat (10 page)

Wilbur did manage to avoid most of the traffic on the way to O’Hare, despite eternal construction on the Edens Express-way, and a small accident near the exit to the airport. But I forgot in the long time since I traveled how tedious the process can be. I had preprinted my boarding pass at home, and checked my luggage at the curb, so at least I didn’t have to deal with that, but the security lines were interminable. Everyone in front of me seemed to be first-time travelers, not wanting to remove shoes, not knowing about packing liquids in a Ziploc bag, juggling laptops and endless small children. By the time I got through security, I had less than thirty minutes till my flight, and of course was in the farthest possible gate. I walked at top speed through the terminal, arriving at the gate just as they were calling my group number, and got on the plane.

Settling in, I realized something sort of exciting. I was sitting in coach, and the armrests weren’t digging into my hips or trying to ride up, and I didn’t need a seat belt extender, and when I came down the aisle I never felt like everyone was looking at me thinking, “Not here, not next to me,” or desperately not making eye contact, as if pretending someone isn’t there will prevent her from sitting next to you and invading your personal space with her bulk.

But this time, people saw me, and didn’t look away, and one man, a sort of cute guy who reminded me in a weird way of a professor in college I once had a crush on, even smiled at me. I was so shocked I almost dropped my carry-on. I had walked at a trot from security to the other end of the airport, but I wasn’t breathing heavy or sweating. I think about how many times I spent the first thirty minutes of a flight waiting for my heart rate to slow, waiting for the perspiration to stop. I remember having twin bruises on both hips from long flights with unforgiving armrests, spending flights leaning half into the aisle to avoid encroaching on the person in the next seat, being clipped in the shoulder every time the cart came past. I have to remember to tell Carey about this the next time we chat.

You’d think with all the excitement and adrenaline and nervousness, I’d have a long, tedious trip, but blissfully, sleep came shortly after takeoff, and didn’t leave me till we were landing. My idea of a perfect flight.

Rachel had sent a car for me, and after retrieving my luggage, we went to the Four Seasons. Apparently one of the JUF board members is friends with the general manager and gets great deals. Frankly, I couldn’t care less why I’m at the Four Seasons, and instead am just totally ecstatic to be here. I used to take luxury hotels for granted when Andrew and I traveled. Actually, I used to take luxury in general for granted, but no more. You’d think it was my first time the way I run my hands over the little bottles of products in the bathroom, open the minibar and take inventory. I’m meeting Rachel for dinner later tonight, so for now, I unpack, run a hot bath, strip out of my travel clothes, get into the thick robe, and slide my feet into the monogrammed slippers.

I think I would like never to leave this room. Audrey Hep-burn can have breakfast at Tiffany’s, and think nothing bad can happen to you there, but for my money, I’d rather have breakfast at the Four Seasons where there are thick robes that finally fit me, free slippers, five-hundred-thread-count sheets and a brunch buffet with a guy frying up mini doughnuts and dipping them in the icing flavor of your choice. Because if something bad can happen to you at the Four Seasons, I can’t for the life of me think what it could be, except having to leave.

I look at the bath. I think about the store. I turn off the water, and pick up my phone.

“Dining by Design.”

“Nadia, it’s Melanie. How is everything there?”

“Hey, Mel, can I call you back when the firemen leave?”

“WHAT?! What’s on fire?”

Nadia laughs. “Nothing, silly. The local firehouse just finished a job that interrupted their lunch, which apparently won’t still be edible when they get back, so they are here picking up a replacement meal. I’ll call you right back.”

My heart eases itself back out of my throat and into its rightful place behind my rib cage.

I sit on the side of the tub, and in a couple of minutes my phone vibrates in my hand.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Sorry about the heart attack. But they bought half the case, so we are having a good day!”

“Glad to hear it. Everything else going well?”

“No problems. Kai and Delia are bickering, I’m working the counter, and we’re getting some good random early spring weather, so the snow is melting away. How was the trip?”

“Fine. Uneventful. So you’ll call if anything . . .”

“Melanie, it isn’t brain surgery. It’s food. We’re fine. Don’t think about us. Just have a great weekend!”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Okay, thanks, Nadia, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, roomie!”

I let the robe slide off my body to the floor and gingerly get into the tub. My throat is tight, and my eyes sting. I’m not sure why I’m upset. You’d think I’d be relieved that everything is going so well back home, that I’d be proud of my merry band for keeping the home fires burning (and not actually setting anything on fire). But something about being here and clearly not being needed back there is disconcerting, and makes me sad. I let my body completely submerge, feeling the hot water seep into the follicles of my hair, try to get into my eyes. I float underwater, feeling the amniotic sense of being totally surrounded by warmth and wetness, and try to make my brain unclench.

 

 

“MELANIE!!!!” Rachel yells out the open window of her enormous SUV. I wave to acknowledge that I see her, and walk slowly toward the car. I hoist myself up into the passenger seat, and turn to face her. Her round, smiling face is haloed in wild dark curls, blue eyes shining with excitement. I’m immediately transported back to college and indeed vividly remember sitting in the back of a lecture hall, studying
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
, and passing bags of candy back and forth with this cherubic woman.

“Hi, Rachel. Thanks so much for inviting me to come, it is such an honor.”

“Pish, forget all that! Holy shit, you look AMAZING! I’d never recognize you. It must be so great to be thin.”

I think about this, careful in my wording. “I feel really good, healthy.” Since I began my program, my mantra has been health and not size. I was never trying to get thin, it was never about how I looked, and so when people compliment me on how good I look, I always remind myself why I did this by replying with how I feel.

“Well, I don’t know about healthy, but you look hot! I’m jealous as hell.” She pulls the car into traffic. “I’m taking you to my favorite place for dinner. Hope you’re hungry! I can’t tell you how nice it is to have a girls’ night out. I just told Scott, he’s my hubby, you take these monsters of ours to McDonald’s like a good puppy, and frankly, I don’t care if they get baths, just as long as they are sleeping by the time I get home! I’m going to have a nice dinner and a cocktail and pretend that I don’t have crow’s-feet that start at my neck and three Tasmanian devils under the age of five that are going to wake me up at six in the morning.”

Now I REALLY remember Rachel, the bright personality, the constant stream of words, the sharing of thoughts and stories and opinions. I remember liking that she carried the conversation so I never had to. It’s a little overwhelming at first, but comes from such a genuine place, not that self-centered talking at you of a narcissist, but more a gush of information she wants to share to bring you into her world. She chats about her husband, a wonderful guy who showed up right when she had given up on men, about her kids, two planned and one, oops, whom she clearly dotes upon. She had been in marketing research before the first baby, and is now a stay-at-home mom, which she likes better than she imagined.

We get to the restaurant, a little hole-in-the-wall place that feels like someone’s living room, with a limited authentic Italian menu. We order a bottle of prosecco, antipasto to share, a small pasta course, and then a whole roasted black bass to split.

Over a shared dessert of zabaglione and fresh berries, and glasses of sweet Vin Santo, she asks about Andrew.

“It’s my biggest fear,” she says, taking a small dainty sip of her wine, and patting her mouth with her napkin. Fatties like us are usually very careful in public about manners, not shoveling food in, gently cutting bites, and chewing thoughtfully. True or not, when eating in front of other people, we feel watched, judged, and while we may overeat, we sure as hell aren’t going to be slovenly about it.

“What’s that?”

“That if I lose the weight, Scott will lose interest. He never dated a fat girl before; all his exes are these skinny little picketytwicks, with tiny boobs and long legs, and the kind of arms that cry out for tank tops and perfect fucking clavicles to wear with their strapless dresses. And then he met me, and was like, HELLO! Curves and boobs and butt, oh my! Not getting poked by hipbones. Cuddling that feels like cuddling and not like snuggling up to a bag of kindling. He keeps saying he loves me, whatever size, but that he does want me around as long as possible, so obviously I’m doing this for my health, but there is that little voice in the back of my head that says he might lose interest.”

I take the last swig of my wine. “I wouldn’t worry. Scott sounds like a great guy, and ultimately, Andrew was a shit. We were always so busy with work, most of our conversations were about work and the house and where we wanted to go on vacation. I never noticed until things started going wrong, because the sex was always so good, and it was easy to live together. But really, we didn’t have what I imagined we had. I had no family to speak of, and he hated his family, and we weren’t going to have one of our own. So we just blithely lived our lives like two enormous babies, all id, food and sex and sleep and work and indulgent vacations and a really nice house that we filled with stuff. We never had a wide circle of friends, rarely entertained except as necessary for business, and what few hours a day we had together were spent eating and fucking and sleeping. When I was in it, it felt like the best relationship ever, in part because he was the first man who made me feel totally comfortable with my body, totally sexy and irresistible and powerful. The first guy I dated who brought home chocolates and cupcakes and never once asked if I shouldn’t maybe watch what I was eating or put less butter on my bread or exercise more. And I thought that meant he loved me. But it didn’t. It just meant that his sexual preference was for a larger woman, and once I started getting smaller there wasn’t anything left to keep us together. You and Scott sound great, and he sounds like a real man, and I’m sure that he will love you just as much if there were less of you or more of you, regardless. You’re really lucky.”

I haven’t really articulated this before. I mean, I’ve thought it, in pieces and flashes, touched on it here and there with Carey, as it related to my eating issues, but never so succinctly, never with such resignation. I had a shitty nonmarriage, from the very beginning, and I was too blind to realize it. Or too scared.

“Well, it just means the universe owes you a good one!” Rachel says.

“You’re not kidding!” I laugh, surprised at how much fun I’m having.

Rachel signs the check, and we leave, getting back into her monolithic vehicle. She winds her way back through the gorgeous city, taking the long way around so that I can see the monuments lit up. She pulls up in front of the hotel. “Do you need anything else for Friday? I’ll pick you up here at nine thirty.”

“I think I’m in good shape. I spoke extensively with Sunny at the caterer’s, and she was great. I e-mailed her my recipes, and she made some substitutions based on what is available locally, and it all sounds great. And I think I’m okay with the speech part, although I’m cheating a bit, relying heavily on Q and A to fill half the time!”

“You’ll be great. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Holocaust Museum. I’ve never been, and my dad’s folks both lost a lot of family in the camps.”

“It’s amazing. Give yourself plenty of time; you won’t want to rush it. Call if you need anything, otherwise have a great day tomorrow and I’ll see you bright and early Friday!”

“Good night, Rachel. Thanks so much for a great night and for bringing me out here. I really appreciate it!”

“My pleasure. Us Penn girls have to stick together. See you later!”

She drives off and I head inside, ready to indulge in an in-room movie and blissful sleep.

 

 

It is the most amazing museum I have ever been inside of. I thought I would hate it, but it felt like an important thing to do, even for a half-breed nonpracticing semi-Jew like me, but no question, it started as something like an obligation. The place you should go, the place it would be good for you to see, but not exactly something fun to do. I remember sitting with Grandma and Grandpa Hoffman, looking at an ancient photo album, and having them point out the ancestors. This is Zaide and Bubbe Hoffman, they went to Treblinka. This is Aunt Rivka and Uncle Avrom and their four boys, they went to Auschwitz. Strange names, sepia photos with serious faces, picture after picture of relatives who perished, relatives who died in the marches, who went to the ovens.

Grandpa Hoffman had come to Chicago as a baby, his father determined to get out of the ghettos in Poland. Grandma Hoffman had been twelve when her family came from Germany, the slight accent only apparent when she got agitated. Both families lost nearly everyone they left behind, generations of cousins, brothers, and sisters, close family friends, wiped out. The last trip my grandparents took together was to Washington, D.C., for the opening of the museum in 1993. Shortly after they returned, Grandma had a stroke and the two of them moved to an assisted living facility. She continued to have ministrokes almost daily, and passed away within the year. Grandpa was only six months behind her. But they both spoke about the museum as reverently as if it had been a temple, and referred to it as a holy place, right up there with the Wailing Wall, and made me promise to come. So finally being here, even though it is more than fifteen years since I made that promise, feels like a necessary familial pilgrimage.