“And what do you say to people who make these rude comments?”
“Nothing. I just pretend like I didn’t hear it or that it didn’t bother me.” If I ignore it, then it isn’t real.
“In an ideal world, what would happen?”
“I’d like to see them get what’s coming to them.”
“Such as?”
“Pain and suffering. Death.”
“That’s honest. Do people often make rude comments?” I told her that I tried to avoid situations where that was likely to happen, but I still had to go out. Every morning before I left my apartment I felt dread.
“What kind of places do you avoid? Be specific.”
“Parties, clubs, bars, beaches, amusement parks, airplanes.” I told her that I hadn’t been on a plane in four years. One time a man asked to be moved because he said I spilled into his seat. I couldn’t always buckle the seat belt around me and it was embarrassing if I had to ask for an extension. The flight attendants weren’t always nice about it. Once the plane was delayed from taking off because they couldn’t find an extension for me and I feared I’d have to disembark in shame. The flight attendant at the back of the plane became so exasperated that she spoke over the loudspeaker to the flight attendants at the front. “Can’t you find a seat belt extension for the lady in twenty-eight-B?” Passengers looked in my direction. For more than twenty minutes, the stares and murmurs persisted, until an extender was found on another plane. People complained they’d miss their connecting flights. I offered to get up and leave, but they said I couldn’t. My luggage had already been checked. That was the last time I had flown.
“My mother has to come to New York if she wants to see me.”
“What about your father?”
“He can’t afford to visit New York. I haven’t seen him in five years.”
“Will Alicia be able to visit her father?”
“Alicia will be able to go anywhere.” I felt a momentary, inexplicable flare of resentment toward my future thin self. “Do you understand now why I want the surgery? Don’t you see?”
“Of course I see,” she said, writing something on her pad. I wished she would leave. I had already decided to have the surgery. There was no need to excavate these depths of humiliation.
“What else can Alicia do that you can’t?”
“Everything!” I said, snapping at her. “She won’t be alone all the time, she won’t spend all of her time in this apartment, she’ll dress in pretty clothes, she’ll travel, she’ll have a job that she likes, she’ll host dinner parties.” This last comment must have sounded silly, but I had always wanted to host dinner parties, with candles stuck into empty wine bottles, the orange and red wax dripping down the glass like stalactites.
“What else?” Verena was digging for more, scraping out the cavity until she hit the nerve.
“Alicia will be loved,” I said, at last.
I hadn’t wanted to say it, but she’d pushed me. She knew what she was digging for and I had said it and now it floated in the room between us like a big black cloud of shame. It was so thick, I couldn’t see through it.
“Isn’t Plum loved?” she asked. I told her that my parents loved me, but I wanted more than that.
“Let’s talk about men,” Verena said. “Or are you interested in women? Or both?”
“Men,” I said. “And what about them?”
“Do you want to be in a relationship with a man?”
“One day.”
“When you’re Alicia?”
“Yes.”
“Do you hope to marry?”
“One day.”
“What about babies?”
“One day.”
“When one day finally arrives, it’ll be an exciting time for you.”
I looked at her pale, delicate face and felt scorn. She thought she could judge me, but she couldn’t last five minutes living in my skin. I remained silent. Sulky.
“I want you to consider something, hon. What if it’s not possible for you to ever become thin? What if there is no one day? What if this is your real life right now? What if you’re already living it?”
“I’m not.”
“But what if you are? What if this is your real life and you’re fat and that’s that?”
“Then I wouldn’t want to live anymore.” As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I knew I shouldn’t have said them. “I’m not suicidal.”
“I didn’t say you were,” she said, and then after a few seconds she asked if I took any prescription medication. She was looking for evidence. I told her that I took thirty milligrams of Y—— every night and had done so since college.
“That’s a powerful drug. Who prescribes it for you?”
“Just my regular doctor.”
“A general practitioner?”