Conversations With the Fat Girl (6 page)

most of it.? ?Oh, that sounds... practical.?I couldn't imagine anything

more sterile and haunting. ?It must have looked weird when you walked

in, you know. . . us in different beds?? ?No, I ... uh, was a little

preoccupied. I didn't even think

twice about it.?

Lie.

41 Conversations with the Fat Girl 35

We never spoke about it again. I sensed Olivia was having a hard time

with the arrangement as well, It was the ultimate in Adam not making

room for her in his life. She wasn't even allowed to share his bed. The

phone rings, snapping me out of my reverie. ?Hey there, Bobo,?Kate says.

My sister has instinctively saved me once again. ?Hey there, Fatty,? I

say, clutching another stack of fun party photos I will feverishly flip

through cursing, crying, and regretting. We have this lifelong family

game where one of us is fat, Fatty, and the other Bobo, which means

?stupid.? The point is to decide which one you are. So if you get called

Bobo, then you must respond by referring to the other as Fatty. I have

never minded being called Bobo, but full-fledged Fistfights have broken

out when I was called Fatty. ?Whatcha doin'??She senses something is

wrong in the universe. ?Nothin' much,?I say as I relive every blue-neon

mushroom moment. ?Then are you free to take Emily and Bella down to

Buster for ice cream while I go drop some papers off with the scout

leader?? ?Where's Vincent??

42

36 Liza Palmer ?Vincent had to finish up some work today, but he'll

probably be home before me. We could really use the help.? I can feel

Kate on the edge. She is teetering. The next words out of her mouth are

going to be forget it. . . never mind then dial tone; or forget it, I'll

ask Mom. Then the race is on to call Mom and tell her your side of the

story first. It's never about watching my nieces or, as I call them, the

girlies. I just can't imagine making myself presentable right now. I

promised myself I would not get out of my favorite outfit all day If I

could just walk around in this gray men's tank top and these black

terry-cloth pants, I would be the luckiest woman alive. I have been

planning around this outfit for days now. With this phone call, I will

have to put on a bra and panties. ?Just let me get washed up. I start

putting the lids on the shoe boxes. ?Don't say it like that 11 even buy

the ice cream.?Kate's voice is smooth. ?Damn right you will, and double

scoops, little missy,?I huff. I stuff the shoe boxes back into the

cabinet and the contents back into my subconscious. I climb into the

shower and look forward to seeing my nieces. Kate lives minutes away

from Mom in a house she and Vincent bought almost a year ago. Sitting in

front of Kate's house, all washed and wearing pants with a button, I

curse my sister. Emily and Bella, who have the hearing of bats, run out

to greet me. Emily wears her hair short this month. At eight years old,

she has the kind of courage about her appearance that most women never

attain. She's blessed with flawless olive skin, feathery green eyes, and

perfect, thick brown hair; it's getting harder and harder for me to

remember the day Kate first brought her home from the hospital. Bella

looks like she's right out of Central Casting for the

43 Conversations with the Fat Girl 37 Little Rascals. Her alabaster skin

is dotted with dirt, snot, and whatever else she's been rolling around

in that day Her wavy brown hair is cut in a short bob while her newly

self-cut bangs show off her huge sky-blue eyes. Her knees have permanent

Band-Aids, and she always wears her favorite red cowboy boots I gave her

for Christmas. ?Hey, crazies,?I say ?No, you're crazy,?Emily says. ?What

you do??Bella's voice somehow never evolved past that of a raspy

seventy-year-old smoker. I always feel I should make it a double when I

talk to her. ?Well, I was going to go to Buster's and thought that maybe

your mom wanted to come with me. Can you guys hang here for a while? I

say, beeping my car's alarm on. ?You came to get us, crazy, let me get

my backpack.?Emily skips inside with my cleverness floating behind her.

Kate comes from the house with her wallet, a sheet of paper, and Bella's

kid car seat. Kate and I look exactly opposite from each other. Where I

am pushing six feet, she is barely five feet tall. Where I have dark

brown hair and brown eyes, Kate has white-blond hair and ice-blue eyes.

I tend to have issues about my weight, yet Kate stays at a perfect size

2 no matter what the world throws at her. Pregnancy? She takes yoga and

prenatal classes. Second pregnancy? Now she's teaching the yoga class

and is at the top of the phone tree in her prenatal class. There is

something about our appearance that ties us together enough so people

can tell we're sisters, but it's nothing you can put your finger on.

Kate and I have taken this physical oppositeness and run with it in our

personal choices. Kate is a wife and mother, while I have been forcibly

single for what looks like it might be a good fifty more years. Kate

revels in being a wife and mother and is confident and forward; I have a

44

Liza Palmer

bachelor's in art history and a master's in museum studies but I work at

a coffeehouse making minimum wage. I allow myself to daydream about a

career, but haven't mustered the guts to start applying again. 1 just

find myself gazing at my unframed diplomas like they should go out and

wrangle us a job. ?I knew you came for us, too, Maggie,?Bella concedes.

?We all knew,?Kate whispers. Bella climbs into the back, sticking her

little pink panties in my face as 1 fasten her into her kid car seat. We

wait for Emily, who needs many accessories to join us this afternoon. I

see she now has a new necklace and a fabulous charm bracelet dangling

from her tiny wrist as she exits the house. Bella looks on enviously,

but she's cradling her Molly American Girl doll and looks somewhat

pacified. ?Here.? Kate passes me a sheet of paper downloaded off the

Internet as Emily settles in her seat. 'What's this??I flip the paper so

it's right-side up. ?Just read it.?Kate squeezes past me and helps Emily

into her seat belt. I fix my eyes on the paper. The Getty Conservation

Institute works internationally 10 advance conservation and to enhance

and encourage the preservation and understanding of the visual arts in

all of their dimensions-objects, collections, architecture, and sites.

The Getty Museum has an active internship program. Twelve-month

internships are offered in several of the Museum's conservation

departments. The internship program is organized and administered by the

Museum's education department. ?What do you think??Kate raises herself

out of the backseat. It's those damn diplomas' fault.

45

39

?What do you mean? What am I supposed to think??I feel ambushed. This

whole ice cream trip is just a con to hand me this piece of paper. ?I

just thought ... you know. . . it sounds amazing and it's been a while

since you last sent out resumes, right??Kate says. ?Yeah, I guess.?I

feel like crying. I don't know where the emotions are coming from. I

secretly know I'm living half a life at Joe's. But I get to stare at

Domenic two or three times a week and I get to have this dream. The

dream is: I'm in the basement of the Louvre. There I am in the center of

the room, Walkman on, wearing a basic white T-shirt, a charcoal cashmere

sweater, and worn-in jeans-barefoot of course-restoring the David. It

apparently fell over in some freak disaster and they have called me in

because of my ?international reputation.? The curator nervously

questions how the sculpture is as I answer him in fluent French. He

breathes easy and says he is forever indebted. The door is left open,

and I faintly hear someone else enter. It is Domenic, He is dressed in

pajama bottoms and an aged Cal sweatshirt. He is holding a steaming mug

of Earl Grey tea (my favorite) and his novel that was once at our

bedside. He sets the tea at my feet and gently kisses me before settling

in with his novel for the night. But the only reason the dream lives is

because I haven't sent my résuméout. If I send my résumé out or make a

call on any job openings, the dream will die and be replaced with the

reality that I'm not good enough. ?I called,?Kate says. I am quiet.

?They've got this Marcus Aurelius sculpture. AD ninety- five.?Kate looks

away I breathe in and try to control my emotions in front of the

girlies. I stare at her. ?And what else? Are they paying people? Are

they accepting applications? Or do they just want you to apply so they

can reject you? Huh??I try to watch my sailor mouth in front of the

girlies.

46 40 Liza Palmer ?Oh, sweetie. Yes, they're paying-pretty nicely if I

do say so myself. And yes, they're accepting applications this

summer.?Kate is calm. ?Oh.? Shit. I feel a tear roll down my face. Kate

wipes it away. It's as if the numbness subsides and all the emotion and

hope I've tried so hard to push down and ignore just erupt. ?Just take

it. I wrote the lady's name on the back. She's waiting for your call.

The sculpture is being disassembled now, but they'll need a gap filler

and an in-painter by fall.?I flip the paper over. In Kate's perfect

Catholic Nun writing is the name Beverly Urban and a phone number. Kate

has written in parentheses that this is her direct line. I fold the

paper and shove it in my pocket. The pants are tight, and the inner

workings of the pocket are revolting against any new contents.

Frustrated, I pull the now balled-up paper out of my ?pocket.? Kate

sighs. I walk around the car as indignantly as I can and throw the paper

on the passenger seat as I pull out of Kate's driveway ?Who's Marc's

Face and Tell Us?? Bella asks. I throw the car into drive and head down

Kate's perfect suburban street explaining to a six- and eight-year-old

about the life of a Roman emperor. Once at Buster's in South Pasadena,

Emily orders Daiquiri Ice, pronouncing it Da-kweeri Ice, while Bella

orders Pink. I order my usual Cappuccino and Chocolate in a dish with a

cone as a hat. That way you can crumble. It's an art. ?I'm moving,?I say

across the ice cream parlor table. ?Where??Bella asks. ?I'm not sure. I

need to find a new home. For me and Solo,?I say

47

Conversations with the Fat Girl 41 ?You don't know where you're going to

go??Emily asks. ?No,?I say ?Will you live with Grammy and Papa Russell??

Emily asks. ?Will I what??I stutter, almost choking on crumbled bits of

cone. ?Grammy and Papa Russell have a house,?Bella says, with Pink ice

cream now on her forehead. ?Yes, but Grammy and Papa Russell don't want

their twenty-seven-year-old daughter living with them,?I say, stabbing

at my ice cream. ?Why not? It would be like a sleepover. Bella and I

slept over one night when Mommy and Daddy went to Fran San Sisco, and

Grammy made up two beds for us with pillowcases she got special for

us,?Emily says, lifting her napkin to her mouth. ?She could do that for

you,?Bella adds, Pink ice cream now everywhere. I try to find some

reason that would make sense to Emily and Bella why a grown woman

shouldn't live with her parents. Besides the obvious rant that I'm

repeating in my mind about not being a loser, being independent, having

a life, and being too old for this . . . I have big plans. Don't I?

I hear myself saying it. I don't think I really believed it until right

now.

48

Channeling Mae West

I begin the process of looking for a new place by circling FOR RENT ads

1 might have a shot at. It's only six days until the bulldozer crumples

my life and belongings in one afternoon. The balled-up paper Kate gave

me about the Getty internship now rests on my kitchen counter. I find

myself staring at it. I fold it and unfold it but never open it to

reveal Ms. Beverly Urban and her fancy direct line. ?Hi, I'm calling

about the ad??I say ?Yeah??the voice responds. ?The one-bedroom on

Michigan Avenue?? ?Yeah.? ?Could ... could. . . do you think you could

maybe tell me a little something about it?? ?It's one bedroom. Seven

fifty a month. Utilities included.? ?1 have a dog.? ?Oh, God, no ... no

dogs.?And then dial tone. It's as if I had said. Well, I've been known

to spray in the corners of my dwellings as a sort of territorial

thing-do you mind? Looking into the half-packed kitchen, I rub my forehead

49 Conversations with the Fat Girl 43

until it feels good. I have to pack this entire house. Alone. One object

at a time. This is going to take a while. Maybe I'll grab some dinner

and then take Solo for a walk. It is common practice during my dog walks

that I openly talk to myself. I figure no one really cares or notices,

and if they do I can act like I'm talking to the dog, because that would