Good Enough to Eat (2 page)

The firm close of the door, despite not having been remotely slammed, nevertheless reverberates through the profound emptiness of my house. The sheer force of it pushes me down into a chair at the kitchen table, coffee and shards of pottery at the floor by my feet, the now-cold liquid soaking into my slippers. I wait for the front door to open again. I wait for the alarm clock to go off, waking me from this unreal dream. It is only when the sparkles appear before my eyes that I realize I’m listening so hard for one of these sounds that I have forgotten to breathe. Something vibrates near my arm, and I glance down at my BlackBerry, which is reminding me that I have a phone meeting scheduled with my nutritional counselor.

How ironic.

In the past two years I have lost about 145 pounds. Half my body weight.

And twenty minutes ago, my husband of nearly ten years announced that he is leaving me.

For a woman twice my size.

Carey answers the phone on the second ring. “Hello?”

I can’t even reply with a basic greeting. I launch directly into the information I need to impart. “He left. He’s in love with someone else. He’s in love with someone else and he left me.” The words flood out of my mouth, out into the phone, into the ether, the still air in the house crackling with the electric departure of my husband.

“Hold on, hold on, slow down, Mel. Start at the beginning.” Carey’s voice is calm and assured, a tiny lifeline.

I take a deep breath. “Andrew has just announced, in the most matter-of-fact way, that he is no longer in love with me, and no longer wants to be married to me, and is in love with someone else and wants to be with her. He doesn’t want to do any counseling, he knows his heart, he says. He says he’s sorry, that he knows it’s a blow, that he never meant to hurt me, but that all the changes I’ve been going through have made him realize what he wants and needs and it just isn’t me.” I rattle this off as if it is a series of recipe instructions. Sift dry ingredients. Cream butter and sugar. Add eggs one at a time. Mix in dry ingredients. Leave your wife of nearly ten years for your mistress. Tell her that she isn’t worth fighting for, that the marriage is permanently broken beyond repair, and the fact that she didn’t even notice anything was wrong is completely beside the point. Grab your suitcase and briefcase and tell her you’ll come back for your stuff tomorrow while she is at work.

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I thought . . . Well, it’s just a shock. You’ve never given me any indication that things were bad at home.”

“I wasn’t aware that things were bad at home. We don’t fight, never did. I mean, yes, the sex had sort of become minimal, but we’ve both been so busy and I’ve been so tired with getting the store open and on its feet and I just thought it was a phase. . . . It’s not like it’s been years or something, just a brief dry spell. Well. Apparently a dry spell for me—he’s clearly been getting plenty of it elsewhere!”

“When did it happen?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

“Wow. Do you think, I mean, that’s very recent, maybe it’s just in the heat of the moment?”

I laugh, brittle and coppery tasting. “There was no heat. There wasn’t a fight, this wasn’t some passionate blow-up. He got up. He showered, he got dressed, he made the coffee, and then he announced that he has been seeing someone else for a while now, and he is in love with her and he knows that I’ll eventually understand and that he hopes someday we’ll be friends. And I yelled and threw a coffee cup at him, and he stood there and took it and apologized and grabbed a suitcase out of the front closet that he had apparently packed up while I was in the shower or something, and headed out the door.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“Neither can I. It’s like it didn’t happen. It’s like I’m in some weird dream, and I’m going to wake up any minute . . . and . . . I . . .” My breath seems lodged in my throat. I know I’m breathing but I can’t feel it in my lungs. I start making some gurgling choking noises.

“Mel? MEL! Are you okay?”

“I . . . can’t . . .”

“Breathe, honey, just slow, deep breaths. Slow, now. You’re probably going into some sort of shock.”

“Mmm hmmm.” Slow. Breathing. I shake my head side to side, feeling the tears start, impossibly hot, stinging my skin, trying to force the air past the stone in my throat.

“That’s it, Mel. Now, I want you to yell. Loud. Let it out.”

“No, I can’t, I . . .” I sound like I swallowed a fistful of peanut butter.

“Trust me. I know you’re trying to be strong, but you can’t breathe because your bravery is in the way. You have to get it out. Yell. Loud as you can, just . . .”

Suddenly an air-raid siren goes off, shocking me. Shocking especially since it appears to have generated in my chest and is coming out of my mouth. And for some reason, the movie
The Princess Bride
pops into my mind. The sound of ultimate suffering. I’m suddenly farm-boy-turned-pirate Westley, paralyzed by pain as my one true love goes off to marry someone else. And who has more cause to make the sound of ultimate suffering? Through the din I can hear Carey on the phone, offering gentle encouragement, telling me to get it out. The blast dwindles as my lungs empty, and I begin to breathe again.

“That was good, kiddo, really good,” Carey says. “Now, I want you to give me Kai’s number and I’m going to call him and send him to your house.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to see anyone. At least Andrew was good enough to drop this bomb on my day off, I . . .”

“Mel, I’m not asking. You should not be alone right now. Even if you’re just going to go get in bed and sleep all day, someone should be there. If you don’t want it to be Kai, then give me someone else’s number, but since I can’t come myself, I’m sending someone to be with you.” Carey is in Los Angeles. And frankly, I think if I don’t put her in touch with Kai, she is likely to jump on a plane.

I rattle off the number.

“Good. I’m going to put you on hold, and call Kai, and then I’m going to come right back and stay on the phone with you till he gets there, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Keep breathing. I’ll be right back.”

The phone clicks, and I stand up from the kitchen table, squishing in my soggy slippers, which I kick off into the corner of the room, and head over to the living room and plop on the couch. There is no way that this is my life. This doesn’t happen to women like me. I’m smart and successful and educated and I was never a harpy or high maintenance. Andrew never lacked for a friendly ear or sage advice or passionate sex. I still wore decent lingerie, I still gave head joyfully and without being asked. I never belittled him or emasculated him or acted like his mother or made fun of his foibles. We used to shake our heads when we heard about those couples that were breaking up because of infidelity. We concluded that either the guys were so shitty and selfish they couldn’t keep it in their pants, or so henpecked we sort of couldn’t blame them. We were always shocked that the wives didn’t know. How do you not notice the signs? Baffling. But not us. Not me and Andrew. Nothing about this makes any sort of sense, and for the life of me I can’t begin to figure out why I didn’t know I was losing him, how I became exactly the wife I used to pity. I hear more phone clicks, and Carey’s voice is back. “Mel? You still there, honey?”

“What’s left of me, yeah.”

“Kai is going to be there in half an hour to take care of you, and I’m going to stay right on the—”

“She’s fat,” I blurt out on top of her kindness.

“Who’s fat?”

“The woman, whoever she is, he wouldn’t say, he said it wasn’t the right time to get into that, but she’s fat. Fat like I used to be.”

“Oh.” Carey clearly hasn’t expected this.

“Yeah, I know. Kind of a kick in the head, huh?” I start chuckling, although it sounds more like I’m gargling chowder. Then the chuckle turns into a laugh. “SHE’S FAT! A big old roly-poly just like I was! You know, I was always so goddamned IMPRESSED with him for falling in love with me despite my girth. I always thought he was one of those guys who just sees that size doesn’t matter, who recognizes all the benefits of not being with some stick. I gave him such credit, the handsome, fit guy who is so self-confident he can show off his whale of a wife without blinking an eye.”

“Mel . . .”

“No, I know I was deserving of love when I was big, but I always knew that the love I deserved was because of who I was, not because of how I looked. And the whole time, it was the FAT he loved. It was the FAT he wanted. That asshole was just a chubby chaser the whole time, and all his praise of my endless QUALITIES was bullshit!” The laughter segues into tears as the truth of what is happening really begins to sink in. “I worked so hard, I sacrificed so much for this body, this stupid body that is my lifelong nemesis, and all I did with the sweat and deprivation and aches and pains and frustration was create a body that made my husband fall out of love with me.”

“Oh, Melanie. I’m so sorry.”

I wipe my cheeks. “Carey, what am I going to do?”

“You’re going to suffer what you have to suffer and know that at the other end you are going to be better and stronger and ultimately happier as a result. I know it probably doesn’t feel that way now. But think about it. Would you really rather be with someone who was so deceitful, who couldn’t even discuss his concerns with you? You didn’t just wake up one day thin, honey. You worked really hard for a really long time and it never occurred to him to have a conversation with you about how your changing body was affecting him? He never considered getting some counseling to see if it wasn’t something you guys could work through? He just found someone else and bailed on you? You deserve so much better than that, and I know that deep down, you know it.”

“I know.” But I don’t. Not really.

“It’s going to suck for a while, but then it won’t. That much I know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“I should probably put some clothes on if Kai is coming over.”

“Want to put me on speakerphone?”

“No. Thanks though. I’m not going to do myself a mischief, I’m just going to put on my sweats and throw my hair in a ponytail. I’ll be fine. Kai will be here soon.”

“Okay, I’ll call in a bit to check in on you.”

“Thanks, Carey.”

“Chin up, kiddo. You’ll get through it.”

“Sure. Talk to you later.”

“Okay, bye, sweetie.”

I put down the phone and trudge upstairs. I look at the rumpled bed, where not even an hour ago I lay slipping into waking next to my husband, who loved me and was my soul mate and playmate and partner in all things, not at all aware that everything was about to change forever.

 

 

“Okay, Mel, let’s start with something good,” Carey says. “What happened this week that was really great?”

I have to think about this for a moment. “Well, the store showed a small profit this week. . . .”

“Wow, that’s like three weeks in a row, right?”

“Yeah. Not anything huge, but my accountant says that all we need is a trend. If I can do three more consecutive weeks in the black, we should be able to project the rest of the year’s income. You know, since this is the slow season.”

“Why slow?” Carey asks.

“Well, it’s February. The New Year’s resolutions to eat healthy and exercise have worn off, it’s four degrees below zero, and everyone wants comfort food. Chicago in February is no time to run a healthy take-out establishment. No one wants to get out of their cars to pick up a decent good-for-you meal, they want stick-to-your-ribs fare and they want it delivered.” I’m babbling.

“Well, then, I’m even more proud of you that you’re doing so well in such a tough time.” Carey is unflaggingly supportive. She’s so much more than a nutritional counselor; she is like my life guru, friend, and therapist all rolled into one bundle of positive energy, and I’d never have gotten through the last three months without her. “But I’d like to hear about something good for you personally, not related to the business. Did
you
have anything good this week?”