When Comes The Joy

Book 1: A New Start

by Charlene Carr

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

When you're embarrassed to step out your own front door, is happiness even possible?

Jennifer's life is falling to pieces. She's out of work. Her brother's in a coma. Her mom just died. And despite stellar qualifications, every job interview ends in rejection.

Also, she's heavier than she's ever been.

Trapped in a world of pain and confusion, Jennifer devotes herself to the one thing she can control: Lose the weight, by any means possible.

Even if it means losing the only people she has left.

Messy and real.

Beautiful and harsh.

When Comes The Joy (previously titled Skinny Me) explores one woman's journey along the road of forgiveness, healing, and strength. Full of relatable human struggles from start to finish, you'll find yourself nodding your head, thinking I've been there, or I know someone who has.

Ready to read? Click the buy button and order your copy of this gripping story today!

 

Here's what readers are saying:

“Exceptionally and intuitively written. Raw, emotional, and witty too!” The Miscellaneous Mom

“This is one of those books that stays with you LONG after you've read it. Truly thought provoking and inspiring.” – K. Brown, Amazon Reviewer

 “This story hit me in the gut. A definite must read!” - Sarah M, Amazon Reviewer

 “I cried and laughed and hated for the story to end...I couldn't put it down!” - Bre, Amazon Reviewer

 “This book hits the heart deeply. I loved every page.” - Fawn K, Amazon Reviewer

“I binge read chapter after chapter.” MamaBear, Amazon Reviewer

 “It's like the author looked right into my soul.” - Jolie Carter, Google Reviewer

“I loved this book ... Sometimes it was heart wrenching, and sometimes I laughed out loud. Carr's writing is solid and the characters were captivating.” – Jennilovesbooks, Amazon Reviewer

“Charlene Carr is the Canadian Jodi Picoult!” - Amazon Reviewer

Book Club discussion questions are available on the author's website.

Release date: August 31, 2014

Publisher: Charlene Carr

Print pages: 201

Sample

Chapter One

 

The woman in front of me steps up to the teller. She is tall, at least five foot nine. Her brown hair flows down her back in graceful waves. Her waist is slim, and her hips are round. She can’t weigh more than one hundred and twenty-five pounds. She smiles at the man who steps out of her way, and it looks to be an easy gesture. She is gorgeous. She is everything I want to be. It’s bad enough that the bank machines are down and I have to stand in line where all these eyes can look at me—see the way my shirt clings to my bulbous form, how the waist on my pants digs into my flesh, letting the fat hang over. I can almost hear their thoughts—she should just eat less. Why doesn’t she exercise more? To have that woman here, a stark contrast to my sweaty self, makes it so much worse.

Another teller waves me over, so I reach for my wallet and shuffle forward. His eyes look vacant. “How can I help you today?” There’s no intonation in his voice.

“I’d like to take out some cash,” I say. He doesn’t look at me, his gaze somewhere over my shoulder as he takes my card. I’m just another client. He’s a glorified ATM. I glance to the woman at the teller beside me. Her teller smiles at her. He laughs. I try to focus my mind back to the task at hand.

“How much?”

“Uh, one hundred and fifty,” I say. Now I’m the one who’s not looking at him. Instead, I envision the skinny girl inside of me. I know when I leave here and squeeze myself into a seat on the bus, suffering the annoyance of whoever’s seat I’m spilling over into, I’ll close my eyes and work out a whole scenario for this girl, for the me I’m supposed to be. The me who walks into the bank lobby without shame. The me I only dream of. She is skinny, yes, but not only that, her skin is smooth, her bottom is firm and round, her breasts are perky. She is kind and sweet and can tell a joke like nobody’s business. She isn’t bitter. She never gets angry at simple, unimportant things.

“Do you want a receipt?”

“Yes, please.”

She barely cries. If she does it’s because of something beautiful, like a child’s first step or a reunited couple at the airport. She shares in other’s joys. She doesn’t begrudge them. She doesn’t need to. Like the brunette at the other teller, she’s everything I’m not.

My teller has to ask me twice, “Is that all?”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” I gather my card, the cash, the receipt, and work on stuffing it all into my wallet as I step into the sunlight. I wish I’d worn something lighter. It’s 18 degrees, warm for spring in Halifax, and with the sun glaring, sweat runs down my back. I stand at the crosswalk, surrounded by people, just waiting for the light to change. I pull at the collar of my shirt, trying to let the breeze. My wallet falls. I cuss under my breath and bend to get it. A horrible rip sounds as the fabric of my pants spread. My world stops. My throat tightens. My breath ceases. I close my eyes, frozen, willing this to be a dream, begging whatever power is out there in the universe to let me sink into the ground.

“Check it out,” says a male voice behind me. I glance back and see a flash of pimpled skin under the shadow of a sideways hat. “She actually split her pants.” Glee dances in his voice. I fling my hand to my backside and feel the hole that spreads beyond the reach of my fingers. I whip up and drop my wallet in my bag, then hold it behind me as the light changes and we enter the intersection like cattle.
Heat works its way up my neck and into my cheeks. I know my face is red. Tears squeeze from my clenched eyelids as I try to tune out the muffled laughter. I glance around. Most people have averted their gaze, pretending it hasn’t happened, pretending they didn’t notice, but that muffled laughter reminds me it’s real. These are my fattest pair of fat pants—were my fattest pair of fat pants.

Rather than wait at the bus stop, where the teenage boys are heading, I continue along the street. It’s further from my destination but away from them. I keep my bag behind my bottom, hoping it covers the bright blue underwear that is now exposed. When I make it to the next stop, out of breath and damp with sweat, I’m thankful the bench is empty and sit down, panting. The tears have stopped, I’ve willed them to, but the heat is still in my face. I imagine I’m blotchy and grotesque.

When I get home, I pull the pants off like they’re on fire then throw myself on the bed. I moan into the pillow and clutch my hands onto it, hard. I want to eat this feeling away, to indulge in cookies and ice cream and chips, but I don’t. That’s what got me here.

I was five and my cousins Daniel and Autumn were over. We spent the afternoon running through the yard, jumping up and down as the ice-cold water shot out of the sprinkler. After, we lay in the sun, laughing at whatever two five-year-olds and an eight-year-old laugh at. We came inside, asking for snacks. Ice cream sandwiches. My mom hesitated before giving them to us. She handed Daniel and Autumn an ice cream sandwich each and told me I’d already had a snack this morning, but I could have some carrots if I wanted. She’d just cut up some fresh ones. She said that like I should get excited, ‘I’ve just cut up some fresh ones.’ I remember being confused. I remember looking at my cousins eating their sandwiches, the milky white cream dribbling down their fingers, and not understanding why I didn’t get one. Then I saw Daniel’s knobby knees and Autumn’s slim belly. I looked down at the rolls that stuck out of my bathing suit and wasn’t confused anymore.

I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I’d reacted differently that day. I don’t know what that different reaction would have been—taking the carrots, chewing on them happily? Maybe my whole life would have taken a different course. Maybe I wouldn’t have grown up as the fat girl. Maybe I wouldn’t be lying here now, humiliated, dejected, and obese.

I didn’t take the carrots. I grabbed Daniel’s sandwich and ran into the bathroom. I locked myself in and ate that sandwich with more joy, more delight than I’d ever eaten anything before. My mother banged on the door. ‘Jennifer,’ she called. ‘Jennifer!’ She was using my full name, so I knew she was angry, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except how good that sandwich made me feel—the chocolate cookie coating and the sweet and creamy ice cream sliding over my tongue. I was happy. I was safe. In the white tiled walls of that small room nothing and no one judged me.

A little over twenty-two years after that pivotal ice cream sandwich, I wake up to the sound of my alarm clock and realize I must have fallen asleep during my cry fest. I’m on top of the covers and still wearing the shirt I came home in. With a grunt, I roll over and turn the buzzer off. My fat jiggles, pulling me over further than I intend to go. It’s a feeling I’ll never get used to. I glance at the clock, though I know what time it is—10:45 on a Wednesday morning because I’ve decided to sleep past eleven signifies that you’ve given up on life.
For some reason it hits me this morning. I’m twenty-seven. I’m twenty-seven, have been for a few weeks now, and I’m unemployed. I’m an unemployed fat loser who has just grown out of her fattest pair of fat pants. I don’t want to admit to myself that I’m a failure, but it seems pretty evident.

My phone rings in the other room and I almost trip as I hurtle myself out of bed to reach it in time. I pick it up, my voice still groggy with sleep, though I’m panting with the sudden dash. “Hello.”

“Hi. Jennifer, are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound—”

“I ran to the phone.”

“Oh.”

“What is it, Autumn?” I lean on the arm of the couch.

“My mom wanted to invite you over for dinner Friday night. It’s Daniel’s birthday. We’re doing a family thing before he heads out with his friends.”

I hesitate. “I don’t know. I—”

“Just come.”

“I’m busy.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Hey!”

“You’re not, are you? I mean,” she pauses. “I didn’t even tell you what time.”

“I was an after thought.”

“Jennifer.”

“It’s Wednesday. You’re just planning this now?”

“No. Mom was nervous, embarrassed. She wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Well.”

“I told her you’re family.”

“Yeah, well,”

“Be there for 6:15. Okay? I met this new guy. He seems like he may be a keeper. I’ll tell you all—”

I cut Autumn off, not wanting to hear about yet another new guy who, if history’s any indication, will definitely not be a keeper. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

“It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

“Sure.” There’s a long silence.

“So, how are things going, anyway? Is the job search—”

“I’m actually kinda busy right now, Autumn. I’ll talk to you later. On Friday.”

“Okay.” Her voice wavers. “See you Friday.”

“Yep.”

“And, Jenn?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m thinking of you.”

Her words cut like a knife. I take a deep breath. I don’t want her to be thinking of me, pitying me. “Thanks.” I say. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

I let Autumn hang up the phone and stare at it. I don’t want to go. I really don’t want to go. It will be a good and well-balanced meal, the one plus.  But I don’t want to go. I return to my room and stare at the clock. I look to my bed, shake my head, then walk to the scale for the first time in months. I step on and squeeze my eyes shut, but I have to open them. I open just one—like a child, like that will make a difference. Twelve more pounds. I step off and breathe deeply. That explains the pant episode last night. I battle to keep back the tears.

I head to my desk and flip open my laptop. It’s been almost four months since I quit my job at the Boys and Girls Club and I’ve almost run out of money. That’s why I went to the bank; I figured if I operate with cash, I won’t risk the embarrassment of having my card declined. There’s no point dwelling on my dwindling funds though, what I need to focus on is getting a job. And, for probably the fiftieth time, I wish I had just held my tongue. At first, I enjoyed working at the Boys and Girls Club, but I’d forgotten how cruel kids can be. Their taunts still filter through my mind. It was like grade school all over again. Fatso, Lard-Ass, Waste of Space, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. As the weeks passed, it seemed a game to them—who could come up with the most heinous insult. And I took it, every time, sometimes pretending I didn’t hear, sometimes laughing their words off or joining in, acknowledging the most recent dig as witty or challenging them to up their game. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?

One day I told a group of loitering grade eight boys they needed to leave the hall. They had to either join the other students or go home for the day—centre policy. They swore at me, taking the insults to the next level, spouting nasty, obscene things about my weight, my supposed hygiene issues, my imagined sexual preferences—bestiality was mentioned.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I snapped. I went crazy. ‘Your mothers are a bunch of skinny sick bitches who didn’t have the sense to take a morning-after pill,’ I hissed. My body shook with rage. The four boys stood there, looking at me like I’d just spontaneously combusted and all they could do was stand in amazement.

‘You can’t—’ said Richard, the smallest one, but I cut him off.

‘I’m going,’ I said. ‘You’ll never have to see my fat ass again.’

I walked away with such shame I could feel it, like a hand around my throat. They were kids, just kids. I was supposed to be the level-headed adult. It didn’t matter that I felt awful. It didn’t even matter whether they ratted me out or not. I couldn’t work there anymore, not if that’s who it turned me into. I walked into the manager’s office and resigned.

When I passed the boys on my way back out, they were laughing—not at me, just laughing, the moment forgotten. Jonathan, the instigator of all the taunting, had made some joke.

Not knowing what I’d do next, I went home. I cried. I ate a bag of Old Dutch Rippled Sour Cream and Onion chips—my favourite—and washed it back with a chocolate milkshake made with skim milk. I tried not to cry again. I grabbed a paper, flipped it to the job listings, realized I wasn’t looking for a job fifteen years ago, and went to my computer. As I scanned the ads online, wiping the tears from my eyes, I tried to think of where my skills best fit. There were dozens of jobs I felt basically qualified for and I applied to dozens of them. And then I applied to dozens more and dozens more, for weeks.

I sit at my computer, contemplating my options. I have some decent qualifications. I’m University educated. I have a double major in Science and English. I’m not stupid. I can work hard and have a good head on my shoulders, but that hasn’t seemed to make a difference. I’ve actually had four on-site job interviews. Not bad, I’m told. But I’ve had zero call backs and although I’d like to think better of the world, I know why. I open the email from the one job I’ve been offered. It only required a phone interview and doesn’t require me to leave my apartment. I haven’t replied because I don’t want to become one of those fat people who gives up on life. It starts slowly. First, they get their family members to take care of small things—picking up the groceries perhaps. They go out less and less because they’re tired, they’re busy, their favourite sitcom is on, and then one day they wake up and that show 600-Pound-Life is at their door. I never want to be on that show. Never.

I let my mouse hover over the reply icon. I think of those pants, those twelve pounds, my mom, my dwindling bank account. If I take the job, I’ll be working twenty-five hours a week and it will pay more than my forty hour a week job that had almost two hours on transit travelling back and forth from Halifax to Dartmouth every day. I stand and walk to the mirror above my dresser, hating what I see. I return to the desk, hit reply, and write my letter of acceptance.
This job will fix one problem in my life, but it’s not even the biggest problem. I can’t keep being the woman who walks into a bank lobby ashamed because she knows she’s the biggest person there. I can’t keep bursting out of my clothes. I make a decision. In the extra hours this job provides I will transform myself. I won’t just succumb to being a stay-at-home. I’ll transform myself into the skinny woman I’ve always dreamed of. I press send and feel a jolt of empowerment. This won’t be a yo-yo diet. Mom and I had done those before, and they don’t work—Juicing for hours a day gets old quick. No, this will be a life change. This will be different. I will wake up exactly one year from today and I will be the person I’ve always wanted to be. The person I was born to be.

My first reaction is to call my Mom and tell her I have a job, tell her I’m going to change my life. But I can’t. Mom won’t be here to help me. She also won’t be here to sabotage me with bags full of McDonald’s burgers or our favourite, the Harvey’s Poutine. I stop as I think this, trying to resist the sorrow that threatens to flood through me. It stressed Mom, me quitting my job like that, but I tell myself there’s no correlation to the heart attack that took her two weeks after. If there is a correlation, Billy’s accident could have been to blame as well. He was always reckless on that motorcycle. Mom hated it. But her doctor didn’t mention stress. He kept talking about her health, her weight, how her heart was clogged with plaque. He was explaining what happened, how it had happened, and he gave me this look, like he wanted to make sure I was taking in every word.

I consider calling my best friend, Tammy, instead. But I doubt she’d join me. She might not even be happy for me. Amazingly, annoyingly, she’s one of those fat girls who seems fine with her weight. She’s active, and her doctor says although she does need to lose weight, she’s healthier than some of his skinny patients.

There’s not really anyone else to call. Tammy and Mom, before she died, made up the base of my social circle. It’s not even a circle anymore. It’s just Tammy. There is my cousin, Autumn—5’3, 134 lbs, a personal trainer with muscles that glisten as she leads her boot camps in the park and, lucky bastard, still curves. But I don’t want to be a project for her. Last time she tried to help me get fit we came close to disowning each other. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to call anyone. I can do this. I’m motivated. It’s not just the whole miserable life thing—no boyfriend, no job, almost no friends, and the fear of becoming a recluse who lives entirely in the confines of a none too spacious one-bedroom apartment. There’s more than that. If I don’t do this, I’ll die—probably sooner than later—just like Mom. And at least Mom had a life. At least Mom had me and Billy and a husband who loved her at one point in time. When Dad met Mom, she was slender. After me she became voluptuous, slowly creeping up into the two-hundred-pound club. After Billy, it seemed like a race to tip the three hundred mark.

By that time, I was racing along with her. I saw the numbers on the scale creep up to 203 on the same day I got my first visit from good ol’ Aunt Flo. I was crying when I asked Mom for a pad. She looked at me. She smiled. ‘You’re a woman now,’ she’d said. ‘Be happy.’ She didn’t know the real reason for my tears. By that time the yo-yo diets had pretty much stopped. She’d accepted her fate. I guess she accepted mine too.

“I’m going to do this,” I speak to the walls. “I have to do this.” In the past few months I’ve hardly cried for Mom. I’ve hardly cried for my lack of a job. I don’t even let myself think about Billy—I won’t cry for him. He’s dead to the world in that hospital room, and dead to me too. I cry today though—for Mom, for my dwindling bank account, for the split of my fattest pair of fat pants. It’s all too much. I close my eyes and press my hands against them, trying to push out the images that won’t go away. I’ve been trying not to think about Mom. When I do, it’s always the same image that pops into my mind. I’d erase it if I could. If there were one memory in my whole life I could eradicate, that would be the one. It would trump every obscene comment that’s come my way; it would beat the day my father left us. All of that is berries and cream in comparison. But this memory won’t go away. It unrolls before me like a surround sound, IMAX theatre presentation, complete with sensory overload. I’m living it all over again…

 

 

Chapter Two

 

I turn the key in the lock and push open the warped door of my mother’s mudroom. The scent of chocolate and vanilla floats in the air. I pull my foot back, just missing a pool of what must have been a milkshake. Shards of glass stick in the thick liquid. Another smell hits me—urine—and my chest tightens. ‘Mom!’ I call out. She didn’t show up to our dessert date at the Middle Spoon, a fancy dessert bar downtown, and didn’t answer the phone when I called.
I waited at the restaurant for almost an hour. On the bus ride over I’d oscillated between worry and outrage. I step over the milkshake and tiptoe my way through the kitchen. ‘Mom?’ I whisper. Turning into the hall I see a foot, one of her favourite purple pumps lays just beside it. I stop. My breath catches. I debate fleeing but step forward instead.
My mother lies across the living room carpet, one hand under her chest, the other hand reached out. The phone lies on the floor, just inches out of her grasp. I am frozen. Literally frozen. My mind tells me a million things. It screams—check for a pulse, roll her over, call 9-1-1, check for a pulse, move, move, move! And my body just won’t listen.

When the paralysis finally leaves me, I catapult forward, trip, and land on her so hard it knocks the wind out of me. I lie there for a moment, gasping for breath, and when it comes, I repeat, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ then stop. I get on my knees and put my fingers across her throat. There’s no movement. She seems colder than she should be, but I tell myself I’m just being paranoid.
I push her over as far as I can and she ends up stuck against the couch, half on her side. The tears are flowing hard at this point, and I choke and gulp like a blubbering child as I pull and yank her away from the couch so I can get her on her back. Her body jiggles as I do this and revulsion flows through me—which morphs into disgust at myself. All I should be thinking about is how to save her. I clench my teeth and put my face up close to hers, listening for breath, hoping to hear or feel something. I do a quick mental checklist of the CPR formula as I hover over her. ‘Idiot!’ I scream and grab the phone, then dial 9-1-1. ‘My mom. She. I don’t know. A heart attack? She’s on the floor. No. I. I don’t think so. I’m not sure. Just get here, okay? Just get here—30 Springvale Ave. Yeah. A house. Are you coming?’

I hang up the phone and start compressions. After two rounds the sweat pours off me and I have to stop. I forget to breathe—into her I mean because I’m trying so hard to catch my own breath. I need to push deep to even have a chance of reaching her heart and it’s hard. It’s really hard, and I can’t stop crying and I want to call Mom, get her encouragement, ask her what else I can do, but of course I can’t and the thought makes me more desperate, so I start again with the compressions, my arms burning. I’m strong but not strong enough, and I’m crying so hard my nose starts to run. A plop lands on my mother’s neck, and I frantically wipe it off, saying, ‘sorry, sorry, I’m sorry.’ The paramedics knock, then burst through the door Mom must have left unlocked.

They usher me out of the way and ask all these questions. I try to get the words out but can’t think, can hardly speak. Nothing makes sense. One man cuts open my mother’s shirt as the other opens a box. The guy with the scissors cuts through my mother’s bra. I gasp and start to say something—it’s one of the new ones she’d ordered online, it actually gave her support and was seventy-five dollars plus shipping—I stop myself before the words are formed.

 They place the paddles on her and set up an automated breathing device. They’re working with slow focus. After what doesn’t seem like nearly enough time, they stop. One of them, the younger one with wavy black hair and ocean blue eyes, looks at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing more we can do.’ I don’t respond. For a moment, we’re all silent.

The other guy stands. ‘We need to get the body ready for transport.’

‘She’s my mom,’ I say quietly.

Blue eyes puts a hand on my shoulder. He looks at me, into my eyes, like I matter. I start crying all over again. ‘We need to get your mom ready for transport, okay?’

I nod. The other guy averts his gaze. I sit back as they struggle and manoeuvre and ultimately fail. I don’t offer to help, but I do go over and pull the blanket blue eyes laid over her chest up higher. It slipped as they tried to move her. She shouldn’t be exposed like that. He tells me they’ve called for some more help and I’m embarrassed, horribly embarrassed, and make a silent promise to Mom that I won’t let anyone know about this.
Remembering my manners, I ask if they’d like something to eat or drink while they’re waiting. The older guy makes a noise that could almost be called a scoff and his expression seems to say—isn’t food what got us into this? Blue eyes says, ‘No, thank you,’ and sits on the couch. I sit across from him and wish I hadn’t told Mom to back off and mind her own business when she was lecturing me a couple of weeks earlier.
When I told her about quitting my job, she was mad. She took the boys’ side. I didn’t tell her what they said to me, what they’d been saying to me for months. Maybe if I had she would have understood. But I couldn’t repeat those words. I just wanted her to tell me things would be okay, tell me they were little jerks, and I’d find another job, a better job. She was upset about Billy, so maybe that was part of it. Now that you’ve made your bed, you’d better sleep in it, she’d said…whatever that means. I snapped back, if I wanted her advice, I’d ask for it. That was the last time I saw her. Today’s dessert date was me making up. I’d even put on some makeup for it, did my hair, added a little wave. During the argument she’d also told me I needed to spend more time on my appearance, like Tammy, like herself, though she didn’t say that part out loud. Mom wasn’t like me in that department. She wasn’t Tammy either, but she was always presentable and never left the house without at least some light foundation, lip stick, and mascara.
Blue eyes gives me the littlest of smiles as the additional paramedics enter the house. They manage to lift Mom and I’m glad this happened after she’d gotten ready. It was bad enough all these men seeing her so exposed. If they’d seen her face naked too, it would have been too much.

I look into the mirror again and shake myself free of this memory. It’s left my throat tight and my hands shaky. It will haunt me again I’m sure, but I won’t allow it to eat up anymore of today. Today I have a mission, though I don’t know where to start. I think to the episode of The Last Ten Pounds I saw yesterday—I don’t know why I watch that show, maybe to comfort myself with the fact that even skinny girls feel fat, it’s just a matter of perspective—A new mom lost fourteen pounds in a month. At the start of the episode the host filled up a whole garbage can of junk food from the mom’s cupboards and fridge. That’s where I’ll start. I pull out a fresh garbage bag and fling open the cupboards. I pause. I’m technically still unemployed and I’m running low on money. Would it be ludicrous to throw out all this good food? It’d be a slap in the face to the starving children of Africa.

That last thought tells me I’m being ridiculous. This is garbage food, despite how good it tastes. I say it out loud to make myself believe it. “This is garbage food.” It’s not what I would give those children. If that’s where the fifty cents a day Alyssa Milano asks us for goes—to buy this junk—people would be outraged. So, I start throwing things in the bag and it kills me. I consider starting slowly, eating what I have and adding healthy food little by little, but I’ve tried that before. It doesn’t work.

My resolve breaks through and I end up with a garbage bag that’s half full. I look at all the things I love piled in there together. There are Fudgee-Os—so good for a quick pick me up. Semi-sweet chocolate chips. Milk chocolate chips. My beautiful, plump, newly bought bag of sugar. There’s Taquitos—delectable. Three boxes of frozen pizza, which were multigrain thin crust and prompted a debate within me since that sounds somewhat healthy. A half-empty bag of Ripple Chips. Onion and garlic dip. Pepperoni sticks, individually wrapped—the ideal nibbler. Full fat whipping cream—divine. I turn toward the cupboard and my favourite cookie tin stares back at me. I just baked the batch of peanut butter fudge oatmeal bars yesterday. I take it out of the cupboard and tilt open the lid. More than half are left. I pull the lid off and hold it over the garbage bag, and hold it, and hold it. The sweet scent makes me salivate. I close the lid and push them to the back corner of the cupboard. I won’t forget they’re there but still, they don’t need to be so obvious. I don’t know as much as I should about healthy food but I know oatmeal and peanut butter are healthy so the bars can’t be all bad. Besides, I need something around for the occasional treat. Everyone deserves a little indulgence.

I turn back toward the bag, tie it up, take it into the elevator, down to the parking garage, and toss it in one of the dumpsters. This is resolve. I’ll do a lot to get my snack on, but I will not climb into a dumpster. I go back upstairs, proud, terrified, and ferociously hungry. My cupboards and fridge aren’t empty, but they look pitiful. Oatmeal, milk, mini carrot sticks that are getting those white chalky lines in them, sliced roast beef, eggs, honey, some lettuce leaves that have seen better days. Nothing I can make a meal out of. I regret tossing my bread. It was white, and white bread is supposed to be death, but I could have made egg in a basket. That would have been something. My stomach growls. This isn’t mental hunger, but I got rid of all my food, so now what? I could go to the grocery store, but I don’t know what to get and I know you’re definitely not supposed to do grocery shopping when you’re hungry—I heard that somewhere. Shop the perimeter, I think. I heard that somewhere too. So, that’s what I’ll do. Go to the grocery store, shop the perimeter, and figure out how to make the food into healthy meals after. But I’m too hungry. I can’t do that. I need food now. The cookie tin calls to me.

Fifteen minutes later the tin is empty and I’m sitting on my couch with chocolate smeared on my fingers and tears running down my cheeks once again. I’m a failure. A failure who really wants her Mom. I need her to tell me beauty comes from within, not that I’ve ever believed it, but I need her to say it and I’m pissed at her because she isn’t here to and that’s because she was a failure as well.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

It’s 11:45am and it feels like the whole day is over—it’s a waste, which translates to me being a waste, which makes me disgusted at myself for how weak and pathetic I am. I’m guessing only pathetic people think of themselves as a waste. It’s all a vicious cycle. I step over to the window and place my hands against the glass. The warmth reminds me that the day is not done. It’s just starting, and my moment of indulgence was just that, a moment.  It doesn’t mean I’m a waste; it just means I’m not perfect. But I will be. I close my eyes and see myself the way I’ve always dreamed, as this happy, wonderful, fit person who isn’t a slave to her desires, who isn’t weak in body or in soul, and I tell myself—you’ll meet her soon. “So, first things first,” I say aloud. I need to figure out what to eat. I grab my laptop, head back to the couch, and type in ‘Healthy Eating Plan.’

Before I hit enter, I scan the other possibilities Google brings up for me: healthy eating plan for women, for men, for weight loss, for beginners, and a healthy eating planner. I let my cursor hover over the weight loss option then click down—healthy eating plan for beginners.

The first two results show sponsored sites, Herbal Magic—been there done that—and some kids’ foundation thing. I scan on: A Beginner’s Guide by Nerd Fitness, a fancy nutrition plan, Dr. Oz’s plan. I contemplate clicking the Doctor’s page but am sceptical about that guy. Everything he pushes seems to be the solution for weight loss, flat abs, or overcoming cancer. It can’t all be so amazing. I continue to skim down the page and the choices seem overwhelming, but I only have a couple hours to make some decisions or I’ll end up ravenous again and that’s not a position I want to be in at the grocery store. I decide to see what the old Doctor has to say. The article is all about meal planning. I can relate to some of it. When you don’t know what to cook or have the food in the house to cook it, of course it’s easier to fall back on frozen pizza or a bag of potato chips. But the article doesn’t give any real tips about how to go about planning or what to plan. My resolve starts to wane. I’ve tried before and failed. What makes me think this time will be any different?

You don’t want to end up on 600-pound-life, my mind whispers. Or on your living room floor. Who would even walk in to see what was wrong? I scroll to the bottom of the page and look at the linked articles. They’re all full of promises. The link titled, ‘Three Ways to Get Your Fat to Eat Itself’ is the most appealing of the seeming lies, albeit a little creepy. I shrug. Cannibalism is interesting if nothing else. The article talks about eating only the good, healthy fats—avocado, olives, olive oil, nuts, nut butter, dark chocolate chips—but in portions that seem barely worth it. Two tablespoons of nuts? How about two cups! Still, it’s better than nothing. I grab a piece of paper and write: nuts, dark chocolate chips, peanut butter…then remember peanuts aren’t actually a nut so the author must mean something else. The next type of fat seems even less appetizing—fish, seaweed, pine nuts. I don’t even know what a pine nut is. Finally, the article talks about some fibre I can’t pronounce and doubt I’d even be able to find.

All this thinking about food makes me want to munch. I click back to the original Google search and open a link that promises a grocery list of healthy foods. I add a bunch to my own list and experience tingles of fear. I have no idea how all these foods will magically combine to make good and filling meals. My mind drifts back to Autumn. She’d know what to do with all of this information, but she’d probably use it to take over my life.

I don’t want Autumn’s help. The list in my hand is something. It’s a start. It’s better than just eating what I want and counting calories. Calorie counting is death. Instead I’ll eat these healthy foods and focus on portion control. I walk to the bathroom and turn from the mirror as I strip down. I’m just about to step over the tub when I stop and turn back with my eyes closed. I can’t even guess how long it’s been since I’ve looked at myself naked in the mirror—most likely years. Heck, it’s probably been years upon years upon years. I’ve seen glimpses here and there, of course, but I haven’t looked. I open my eyes and grit my teeth. This is me. I stare a moment longer. The reflection cuts off slightly past my navel, so I grab a stool, pull it over, then step up so there’s more of my figure in the glass. This is me. I close my eyes then open them again. This is me. These rolls, this dimpled skin, this disproportioned body, all the stretch marks is…No. I take a deep breath. This isn’t me. This is the fat that surrounds me. I say it out loud. “This is the fat that surrounds me.” This is not me. I am going to find me. For good measure I stare at my reflection a little longer, soaking it in, trying to see the woman who’s hiding somewhere inside. I can’t see her though. All I see is the mammoth that stares back at me. A person should like her own reflection. I should be able to look at the woman staring back at me and not have this kind of loathing. The tears start all over again. It has to be a record, three times in one morning. Like a roller coaster on steroids I ride through fear, hope, disgust, resolve, disappointment and, finally, determination. That’s the emotion I decide to hold on to. I turn away, step into the shower, and begin a cleansing process. Old me, goodbye. New me, I’ll see you soon.

When I enter the grocery store it seems bigger than I remember. I’m not sure how to navigate it. Despite nobody here knowing my mission, I feel exposed. All they see is a somewhat unkempt fat girl—her clothes too tight, her hair lying lifeless against her scalp, her face in need of some foundation. I’m not obscenely fat. Not so fat children will either point and stare or hide behind their mother’s pant legs, but I’m fat enough that some will snicker.

The sweatpants I’m wearing make me feel even more conspicuous. They’re not even the tight, spandex kind that have become so popular. They’re cotton, and baggy, and everyone who sees me in them will probably assume I’ve given up on life. But I didn’t shave and my fattest pair of fat pants, the only pair that still fits, has a huge hole in the butt so I didn’t exactly have a choice. At least the dinner at Aunt Lucille’s is a special one. I can wear a cotton dress—so forgiving.

I grab a cart and pull out my list. The perimeter isn’t completely foreign of course—bread is on the perimeter, and milk and eggs. But I generally just make a beeline for those places.

I enter the produce section, also not foreign, but not a place I spend a lot of time in. I do like apples—smothered in peanut butter or Cadbury’s chocolate creme. I pick up about twice as many apples as I usually would and scan the other options. I read somewhere that the more colourful the fruit and vegetables the more nutrients they have. I also read that bananas are pretty much sugar sticks. I pick up a container of strawberries and one of blueberries. They’re bright for sure. They’re also pricey. I cringe. Apparently getting healthy is not very cost effective. I grab some oranges and decide I don’t want to go overboard so I move on to the veggies. Baby green spinach—also pricey. I grab the bag instead of the carton, which is the same price for more ounces. Carrots. Peppers. I opt for green because they’re cheaper. I look at the squash—what would I do with that?—and head to the bread aisle. No white bread for me. Not anymore. But there’s whole wheat, 100% whole wheat, brown bread, Ancient Grains, Oatmeal, and Quinoa. I don’t even know what Quinoa is. This is ridiculous. Bread should be bread.
A woman with beautiful black curly hair and skin as smooth and rich as milk chocolate stands beside me. She’s trim and looks fit. After reading the ingredients list of a bag of Ancient Grains bread, she glances over at me. “I’m checking to make sure it’s got the germ,” she says. “That’s how you know it’s really whole grain.”

I smile back. “Yeah. Of course.” She tosses the bag in her cart and I wait until she’s a few steps away before picking up the same one. Maybe that’s what I’ll do, find trim, healthy looking people and stalk them through the grocery aisles to make sure my cart replicates theirs. I spy the curly-haired woman up ahead buying chicken breasts—seems like a good option. After glancing at my list, I grab some fish too—haddock and salmon. In the dairy section, I scan row upon row of yogurt. I pick up a fat free strawberry yogurt and quickly move on. Almost an hour later my cart is loaded and I’m staring at the price on the screen trying to wipe the deer-in-a-headlights-with-its-mouth-wide-open look off my face.

“Ma’am?” A teenage cashier with dyed pink hair and nose, lip, and ear rings questions. “Ma’am?”

“Mastercard,” I say. I didn’t take out enough cash for this. Two hundred and twenty-eight dollars. Insane. I’m used to having a full cart of food but it’s rare that it ever goes over one hundred. The first thing I need to do when I go home is make sure that job is secure. Heck, I may even see if I can get some extra assignments if this is what it costs to eat healthy. I stare at the bags of food in my cart. What am I going to do with it all? I may have been overzealous. Packaged food doesn’t have the expiry dates this stuff probably does, and I didn’t think to look. Maybe when you’re buying healthy food you just can’t buy so much all at once. Either way, I’m about to find out.

I get home, put everything away, and feel as if I still don’t have anything to eat. I’m hungry though, so I go for what seems easiest—yogurt. I open up my computer browser and before I know it, the container is empty. This is not the best start, but at least it was fat free. I need some more guidance. I open a new tab on my browser and type: quick, easy, healthy recipes. I print off a few featuring ingredients that now line my fridge and cupboard shelves and a sense of success floats over me. Moments later, an overwhelming desire for Fudgee-Os takes its place. It’s just food—why must I want it so bad even after I’ve made all these resolutions? Of course, it’s probably partly because I’m lying on the couch about to watch my favourite show, a show I often watched with Mom. The cravings are worse when I’m missing her, which is just about always.

I wasn’t a popular teen. Before Tammy came along in grade eleven, I was pretty much on my own, so Mom filled the role of best friend. We would cuddle up together on a Friday night with chocolate covered almonds, popcorn, and sour cream and onion chips, watching our favourite lineup of shows. We’d laugh. I’d tell her about my day. Sometimes I’d tell the truth, like how Billy started calling me Elephant at school, and how the whole school seemed to pounce on the nickname. He became Elephant Jr. for awhile, which wasn’t fair, but poetic justice. He was hardly pudgy, but the name stuck because of me. He cried and cried about that one. He said he was barely even my brother. Barely. I never knew what he meant by that. Of course he was my brother. Fully. He yelled at me, ‘you don’t have to be fat,’ like it was something I could change with a snap of my fingers.

Other nights I’d pretend and tell Mom things were wonderful. I turned Janie McCarthy getting first in an art competition to me getting first. When she asked to see the winning painting I said, ‘there’d be a problem with that, it got ruined when I slipped on the way home and dropped it in a puddle.’ It hadn’t rained in a week, but she nodded her head and said, ‘that’s too bad.’
As we watched Cory, Shawn, and Topanga, we’d lick the seasonings off the chips or come up with new ways to dunk our Fudgee-Os in milk; I made us a Fudgee-O/popcorn sandwich one night. It wasn’t good, but it was fun.
The phone breaks me out of my reverie and I reach over to answer it.

“Jennifer?”

“Dad. Hi.”

“How are you?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Jennifer.” His voice has an all too familiar edge to it—disappointment and frustration masked by a veneer of patience and concern.

“What?”

“I just thought I’d call. See how you were doing?”

“Your preferred family isn’t interesting enough for you?” My disdain for my father would be more suited on a fourteen-year-old. It’s juvenile, but old habits die hard.

“Jenny, stop that. I care about you, I worry.”

“It’s Jenn now. I told you that.”

He sighs. “Do you need money? Have you found work?”

At last I have the right answer. “I got a job today actually, just accepted an offer.”

His tone lightens. “That’s wonderful. What is it?”

“Writer. It’s something I can do from home.”

“Oh. Excellent. Very excellent.” He pauses. “It’s a legitimate position? Not one of these make twenty thousand dollars a month from the comfort of your own home scams?”

“Thanks.”

“I just—”

“It’s a real job, Dad.”

“That’s good. I’m proud of you, honey.” There’s silence and I wonder if he’ll say he has to go. “How’s Tammy?” He’s grasping by asking about my friend, but at least he knows her name.

“She’s good. Obsessed with Colin, her boyfriend. I don’t see her as much.”

“Hmm. Meet any new people, lately?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, well,” he pauses again, “maybe you could come over for dinner. Sometime next week? It’d be really nice if you—”

“It’s a nice thought, Dad, but I’m pretty busy.”

“Well, okay then.” He sighs again, this time I’m pretty sure it’s of relief rather than frustration. “I’d like to see you though. I know you’re probably busy with your new job, but how about coffee next week? Starbucks at Spring Garden and Dresden?”

“Steve O’ Reno’s.” I counter.

“Sure. Great. That’s great. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

“Okay.” I end the call and realize I didn’t say bye. He hates that. I hate that he made plans with me without actually making plans. Real plans require a set date. I toss the phone on the couch and all of a sudden, my apartment feels far too small. I want out of it but have no where to go. I put on my shoes anyway, grab a jacket, and head for the door. I walk to the end of the block then turn and walk another block. By the time I reach the third block I’ve started to pant but I don’t slow my pace.
I’m steps away from my apartment when I decide to do the same thing in the opposite direction. These blocks are much bigger, and it takes me forty-five minutes to get back home. At the end of it, I walk up the five flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator. Tired doesn’t even begin to explain how I feel, but I’m breathing. I’m breathing and I doubt I could be more proud if I’d just finished a ten-kilometre run. I feel fresh, invigorated, alive. I puke in the toilet and feel less of all those things. I need to refuel. On my walk I decided that’s what I’ll call eating from now on. Fuel. Food is fuel. I heard that on an episode of My 600-Pound-Life. Food is not life. Food is not love. Food can be pleasurable, should be pleasurable as long as it’s serving its purpose—to fuel me. I pick up one of those newly printed recipes, head to the kitchen, and prepare a meal to fuel me. I smile. A journey has begun.