8. Chapter Eight
Chapter 8
Leslie
“ Y ou want me to work here?” My jaw dropped clear to the floor as I glanced around the restaurant interior. The patron at the next table gave me a quieting stare.
“Just for a few weeks.” Dot took a sip of her ice water. “I play hostess a few days a week and help around the restaurant during the day, doing whatever’s needed. There’s no sense hiring anyone. It’s only until I recover.”
My head dropped back in frustration. I had no good reason to refuse, except the petulant I don’t wanna. I was in town for the foreseeable future with no articles to write or TV commitments. But when I agreed to come, the last place I wanted to be was stuck with Risto.
I stared her dead in the eye. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you cooked up this surgery to get us back together.”
She patted my hand across the table. “Glad you’re beginning to see things my way.”
“Dream on…” I stopped as a server appeared and dropped a white shopping bag in front of me.
“Rice, beans, and pork chops. With utensils.”
“I didn’t—”
“Thanks, dear.” Dot nodded, and the woman left. “It’s for you when I’m in the hospital. Shall we?”
She gestured toward the door, leaving me to pick up the take-out bag holding my favorite meal. Dot knew it, and so did Risto. Though suspicious as hell, I swallowed my pride—and my words. Instead of marching through the kitchen, we left via the front of the oversized house Boricua called home. With a red roof, white clapboard siding, and blue shutters—each with a single white star—it screamed Puerto Rico. Patio diners chatted merrily as we passed.
I had to stop and catch my breath, still stunned I was expected to work here with Risto on a regular basis. But the chirping birds and meticulous landscaping made my dour mood seem out of place. My aunt was having surgery and didn’t need me acting selfish. It was bad enough that I hadn’t visited in so long. The least I could do was accommodate one small favor. She bent to deadhead a few flowers.
“Your doing?” I asked.
“Yes. It makes up for losing my flowers at the old house.” Dot buried her nose in a rosebush. “It’s good to have less home to maintain, but I still miss my gardens. Lots of memories there.”
I kissed her cheek. “I miss the old place too.”
Dot made her way to a bench surrounded by pink impatiens. “Then why have you stayed away for so long? I know you’re busy, but it’s been years since you’ve been out to visit. If we didn’t come to you, we wouldn’t have seen you at all.”
This conversation was overdue, but that didn’t make it any easier.
She slid aside and patted the space beside her. I sulked over and plopped down on the bench, stretching my legs out in front of me. I wasn’t sure how far to go with my confession. She had surgery the next day, and the last thing she needed on her mind was my sticky love life.
“I’m sorry. Really, I am. I get so heads-down with work and only surface briefly in between assignments.”
“That’s not a healthy way to live.”
“I can’t say. I never think about my life like that.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. As soon as I finish one story, another scoundrel surfaces. My skin crawls at the idea of wrongdoing going unpunished. But there’s been so much downsizing in news divisions most big investigations are ignored. The work I do is desperately needed, and I have trouble saying no.”
“You’ll land in an early grave at this rate.” Dot’s eyes bored into me, forcing me to look away. Deep down I knew she was right, but was I supposed to refuse when opportunities came knocking?
“I’m up for a few big awards this year because of my series on sex trafficking in Manhattan. I also landed the permanent Saturday host spot for The Kaelen Reed Show .”
I expected elated congratulations, but Dot’s face wore a pitying expression.
What was I missing?
She, more than anyone, understood how hard it was for me to succeed in journalism. Newsrooms weren’t exactly breaking down my door when I started out. I’d pitch articles under the name Leslie Molina and rarely heard back. When Dot suggested I try using my mom’s last name, I thought she was joking. But sure enough, after I switched to Leslie Allen, my words suddenly became worth paying for. I got steady freelance jobs and hitched myself to leading news outlets, building a fearless reputation for pursuing stories most journalists ignored.
Gangs.
Organized crime.
Prostitution.
Slum landlords.
Crooked politicians, police officers, business moguls, and appointed bureaucrats.
With no man and no children, my career was my sole focus for over a decade. I was approaching the pinnacle of my profession on the largest stage. Yet Dot’s pained expression made me feel like a pathetic loser.
“Bola…” she said, using the pet name my dad’s side of the family favored. Apparently, I was so chubby as a baby they all took to calling me “ball.” My mom hated it but couldn’t get folks to stop. Drenched in so much affection, it was hard for me not to appreciate the sentiment.
“Do you work because you love it, or do you work to fill an emptiness?”
“Of course, I—”
“Think before you answer. I see you working and achieving, but are you happy? Do you ever pause long enough to find out?”
My instinctive response was I didn’t want to know. What good was learning if you were happy or not? What if I wasn’t? Learning I was miserable was worse than not knowing in my book. Sure, that was a cowardly answer for a journalist. Someone trained to dig in and uncover the truth. But my personal truth was far uglier than I’d wanted to admit.
What did she want me to say? That I was addicted to work and put it first? That stories mattered more than my safety or needs? That was all obvious. What good would come from saying it aloud?
Besides, without work, what else did I have? I had no desire to date anyone who wasn’t Risto. And Risto made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with me. Kids weren’t a huge draw, and my intermittent menstrual cycle gave me zero confidence I’d ever carry a baby if I tried. So where did this leave me?
I met Dot’s waiting stare. “Am I happy? No, I can’t say I am. But maybe not everyone is meant to be happy. Maybe people like me have to settle for being okay.”
My answer landed like lead, leaving her head shaking in disapproval. “I never thought I’d see the day… I’ve finally realized the one person you’re afraid of.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Yourself.”
I stewed in indignation as Dot drove us back to the house after doing some errands.
Me?
Afraid of myself?
How did that even compute?
So what if I wasn’t squishy like some people who wanted to dig into the dark recesses of their souls? That wasn’t my temperament. Anyway, wasn’t that narcissistic? To only worry about one’s self? The City needed a few people who put others first, true journalists who acted as instruments of public service. Our stories aimed a disinfecting light on the underbelly of New York City corruption. That got my pulse racing. When there were bad guys to chase down, who had time to be happy?
“So, what’s your next story?” Dot asked, glancing at me briefly before refocusing on the road.
“Not sure yet. I just finished my last sex-trafficking installment, a ‘where are we now?’ update. I have a few ideas, but nothing concrete has surfaced.”
She nodded, but I could tell she had something else to say.
“I’ve been on this body journey for a while. I’ve learned so much about the falsehoods of the diet industry. It might make for a good story,” she said.
Whenever someone suggested an article topic, I typically listened and stayed noncommittal. Sometimes the idea panned out, but more often, suggestions fell into two categories. Either the person felt wronged and sought justice (mostly for themselves), or they had a nagging inconvenience they wanted me to rectify.
The subways take too long after midnight. We stand around for a half hour before a train comes and then they only make local stops.
How do they choose the lights for the Empire State Building? There’s got to be a corporate fix in.
The potholes on my street broke a second axle on my car. Something has to be done.
But diets?
“Why should I investigate dieting? What’s controversial about them?”
“For starters, dieting has tentacles in every major institution, from medicine, to education, to the food industry, fashion, religion, government. Not only that, it also has roots in the subjugation of women and marginalized peoples.”
“Oh, come on…”
“Don’t take my word for it. Dig around. You’re the big-time reporter.”
I sighed and stared out the window. Few people were as wise and respected as my Aunt Dot. Yet the words flowing from her lips sounded like conspiracy theories and excuses. Ever since I was a kid, Dot had battled with her weight, trying one diet after another. Each would work for a while and she’d lose a few pounds, only to have them creep back on. That history made me wonder if this new vendetta against dieting wasn’t part of a surrender strategy. If the whole industry was a scam, didn’t that give everyone a huge reason to step off the treadmill?
Says the girl who wouldn’t recognize a treadmill if it bit her in the ass…
“I’m having one of my body group meetings this evening,” Dot said at last. “I moved it up from next week because of the surgery. Spend the afternoon doing some research on the topic. If you’re curious, sit in and listen. You might be surprised.”
I loved my aunt, but the last thing I wanted to do was to dive into a story about body positivity. It always struck me as misguided. More of a celebration of being unhealthy. I could be wrong, but I didn’t think so. Yet Aunt Dot had never once led me astray. I owed her a few hours’ time to hear her out so she could go into her surgery tomorrow with a good frame of mind.
“No promises, but I’ll give you the afternoon.”
While Dot packed an overnight bag for the hospital and set up for the meeting, I sat at the kitchen island perusing my laptop.
“What study did you want me to look up?” I asked while she fluffed her sofa cushions.
“Ancel Keys’ work at the University of Minnesota on starvation. Researchers wanted to figure out how to help people recovering from severe malnutrition after World War II. But the findings shocked everyone.”
I turned to her, more interested in the oral history than the computer screen in front of me. “Tell me about it. I’ll verify everything later.”
She shared how the 39 men who volunteered for the study were followed for three months on a normal diet, then were gradually starved over a period of six months on a 1,600 calorie meal plan.
“Wait! They starved the participants on a 1,600 calorie diet? That’s barely less than the 2,000 calories the US government recommends now.”
We exchanged stares while she allowed me to process the information. Dot never forced her ideas on anyone. She wisely presented details and let people draw their own conclusions. My astonished expression likely signaled I was ready for her to continue.
“The extreme calorie restriction led the men in the study to experience severe psychological trauma. They began thinking of food all the time and found it difficult to focus on anything else. They also became depressed, listless, lost interest in sex, and were socially withdrawn.”
Sounds like me.
“A few of the men even attempted bodily harm. After food was restored at normal levels, most subjects kept the same food-obsessive behaviors as they did when starving. They were forever fearful food would disappear again, many bingeing when food was present. Others stashed food away to hide it from others and eat alone, later.”
“How sad.”
“I agree. But that’s essentially what we do to ourselves when we diet.”
Mic drop.
There was no sense arguing.
Restricting food, then becoming mentally obsessed with food and eating?
That was the definition of a diet.
Or a lifestyle.
Our eyes met. “You’ve got my attention.”
Dot smiled. “Good.”