11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter 11
Leslie
“ D o you think Mom will be all right?” my cousin Gabby asked, hugging herself as we walked the long hospital corridor toward the family waiting room.
I stopped to hug her. “She’ll do great.”
Last we saw Aunt Dot, she was talking the ear off her anesthesiologist. Meanwhile, the nurse inserted an IV port into her arm, then flushed the line. Super-chipper since we arrived, you’d never guess Dot was about to have a major procedure.
Gabby pulled away. “I know the adrenal tumor is supposed to be benign, but what if they find something serious when it’s sent for testing?”
“Let’s get her through the surgery and deal with the next steps as they come. I’ll be here to help, even after you return from Japan.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry you had to upend your life to be here.” Gabby’s cell rang. “It’s David. I’ll take it out here in the hall.”
I walked into the waiting area to give her some privacy, surveying the other families sharing the space. An older couple whispered in Spanish as they checked the wall clock every two seconds. A blond woman with thick, curly hair bounced a sleeping infant in her arms as she nervously paced the room. The baby was zonked out and the mom probably wished she was too, given the bags under her eyes.
Poor thing.
A single fact kept me from worrying about Dot. It wasn’t yet her time. I could feel it in my bones. She’d recover and be back to her hectic life before we knew it. Trusting my instincts had saved me more times than I could count. It’s what made me a good reporter. I chased off fear at the sharp end of a pitchfork, refusing to accept any alternative. Sure, I’d probably get jabbed in the ass one day, but not today.
Craving distraction, I checked my phone and saw a text from Dad, so I called him back from my sculpted plastic chair.
“They just took her in,” I said when he answered.
“How did she seem?” Dad asked.
“Lively as always, you know her.”
Normally, he would’ve laughed in reply. That he didn’t showed the depth of his worry. “Dot said you planned to stay awhile. Thanks for being there. I wasn’t sure you’d be comfortable operating from Pennsylvania for that long.”
I wondered the same thing, but more because of the complicated situation with Risto. And my mom’s nagging. But nothing would keep me away from helping one of my favorite people in the world. Who knew? Maybe it was the overdue break I needed to reset and start something new. Which reminded me of my article topic.
“Did you ever say anything to Mom when she’d talk so negatively about Dot? About her size and all?”
He sighed. “You think I didn’t try? She did the same damn thing to me. Her constant nagging was one of the things that drove me out the door. Food is central to our culture, and she sucked the fun dry.”
Dad chuckled.
“Remember the time I made pigs’ feet when she went out of town for the weekend? She got home early from her spa trip to find the two of us standing over the pot, sucking on hooves. You were on a stool, if I recall.”
I was about eight years old and felt like a badass eating dinner straight from the stove. No plates. Just us devouring succulent meat, then scooping tender rice into our waiting mouths with oversized serving spoons. I bet Mom wanted to divorce him on the spot. She threw a fit, complaining that he was setting a terrible example for me. To his credit, he shooed her out of the kitchen and told her to chill out. She ran to the neighbor’s apartment, and we didn’t see her for hours.
“That was one of the best days of my life,” I said—and meant it. Just me and Dad doing what we wanted in the kitchen. I think we baked cookies too, eating them while dinner cooked. Backward, forbidden, and delicious.
“We did have fun. Okay, call me later and let me know how it all goes. Tell Gabby I can pass the update along to our cousins. Save her a few calls.”
I hung up, but my mind remained back with him in that kitchen. Was that when Mom went nuclear about my eating habits? I couldn’t remember when the pivot point happened. But something triggered my descent into what I was beginning to recognize as a strong aversion to food. If I dissected it, Mom’s intensity focused on not just avoiding eating but on discouraging the enjoyment of it. To her, eating was a necessary ritual to be dispensed with as quickly as possible. She hated long holiday meals with Dad’s family. We’d sit around for multiple courses, laughing and talking—but only when we left Mom home. It was impossible to enjoy myself with Mom brooding in the corner, asking why we hadn’t finished yet. A couple times Dot asked her to fold laundry, just to get her out of the room.
By contrast, when we visited Mom’s side of the family, they swept plates away so fast you were practically mid-chew when your plate disappeared. To dull my hunger, I’d wander into the kitchen on the pretense of being helpful so I could swipe a few morsels of food off serving platters.
Gabby returned and took a seat next to me. “I’m calmer now that my beloved husband talked me off the ledge. Want to grab some breakfast at the café downstairs?”
I did.
My 1:00 a.m. refrigerator raid had worn off.
We trotted downstairs, changing elevators twice and ending up on level D. Whoever designed this hospital layout must have expected visitors to have tour guides. We followed the crossed fork and spoon signs and found the end of our treasure map, a basement cafeteria with bright refrigerated cases and several steaming stations with chefs working magic. A far cry from where Risto worked these days, but I blinked away memories of him to focus on my task at hand.
Gabby handed me a tray and set off, holding one of her own. The concept of filling an entire cafeteria tray sent joy fizzing to my fingertips. Suddenly I was eight years old, standing over the pot with no rules. Actually, I had lots of rules, but what would happen if I ignored them? Leaned into the pleasure of food?
Across the space, Gabby surveyed the hot breakfast options. By any measure, she was beautiful. Her heart-shaped face had full lips and striking cheekbones. Her full body had breasts to die for, paired with curvy hips and a plump ass that had her swatting away her husband’s pinching fingers when he was near. By anyone’s standards, Gabby dressed flawlessly. In a few hours, she’d board a long flight to Japan and would likely be one of the very few plus-sized brown women strutting around the trade show floor in Tokyo.
When we were kids, our similar coloring and looks made people mistake us for sisters. As we developed into our teen years, Gabby’s body filled out as a woman’s should, while mine resembled a deflated boy. I had curvy hips, given my pear shape, but lacked the meat needed to soften my edges and cover protruding bones. How would life be for me if I let my body decide what to weigh, like they talked about at the Healthy Bodies meeting? The idea was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.
I sidled up to Gabby just as hot plates were handed to her across the stainless steel counter. She glanced at me and my empty tray, expecting nothing else. But she’d get a surprise today. As would I.
I loaded up on eggs, toast, fruit, and coffee at the self-service breakfast bar and joined my cousin—and her bulging eyes—at checkout.
“We’re together.” I handed my card to the cashier.
Once seated at a booth in the rear of the cafeteria, she couldn’t contain herself.
“What gives?” she asked before spearing a sausage link and biting off the end.
I could pretend that I had no clue what she was talking about, but Gabby and I had our own special language. We rarely miscommunicated, so there was no need to play coy about the world-shattering revelations pinging around my brain.
“I went to your mom’s meeting last night. Let’s say I’m curious to learn more.” I slipped a forkful of scrambled eggs in my mouth and let the long-forgotten egginess nurture me from within.
Were eggs always this good? I took another bite.
“Let me guess. You’re going undercover as a fat person?” She snorted a laugh, chuckling to herself as she buttered her toast.
I dropped my fork. “That’s a fantastic idea.”
“Sweetheart, I was joking.”
The thought filled me with more delight than I had a right to muster. Why not go on a food journey and see where it took me? I wouldn’t commit to becoming a specific size, but eating more than nothing could be an interesting experiment. For all I knew, my body wanted to curve and be voluptuous like Gabby’s, but I’d denied it the opportunity. My dad, aunt, and cousins had larger bodies. Why wouldn’t mine be the same?
“After last night’s meeting, it’s hard not to wonder about my relationship with food.”
“It makes sense that you’d be off-kilter, given how your mom raised you. Why would you be any different?”
“Because I’m a grown-ass woman now?”
“And?”
“I sometimes wonder how it’d feel to not be ravenous all the time. But I’ve never had the courage to find out.”
“You’re scaring me. What are you saying?” Worry clouded Gabby’s face.
I closed my eyes, unable to watch her watch me as we had this conversation.
“It’s not that I don’t like food or don’t get hungry. I’m hungry every damn minute of every day—”
“So why do you never eat?”
“I’m more afraid of eating than not eating? Mom’s wrath, combined with society’s doomsday expectations, made hunger seem like the admission ticket for staying small. From my initial article research, I’m learning there are a lot of negative health consequences to skipping meals. Ones I never considered.”
“Les, you haven’t just skipped A meal. You’ve skipped damn near every meal for years. That’s probably why you’re always so worn out, can’t keep up when walking, and have zero energy to do anything but work. Did that never occur to you?”
I sat back, taking large bites of my toast and enjoying the mouthfeel as the apricot jam worked its way around my tongue. Sweet, then tart. Interesting ...
Gabby’s question triggered more of my own. Did I avoid socializing and dating because I was just too wiped out? Did I instinctively save up what little energy I had to fuel undercover investigations? Maybe. Was I addicted to the adrenaline because it drowned out all else? The thrill erased the hollow pit in my stomach and gave me purpose.
When I became Leslie Allen, I mattered. She was an award-winning reporter who made headlines and sat on cable TV news panels. Meanwhile, Leslie Molina was a starving woman, more afraid of a breakfast buffet than a mob boss. I missed out on companionship, family, relaxing, free time. Did I avoid all these because they involved eating? Did I so fear the judgment of others that I avoided them altogether? Or was my life so full of work and accumulating accolades from strangers that I forgot what and who should be a priority?
I wasn’t sure.
Gabby’s eyes grew dewy, so I took her hand.
“I feel like I failed you, Les. I wondered about it but was too afraid to ask. I’m so sorry. I should have done something—”
“Listen to me. I’m fine, a little hungry, but okay. I’ve been this way for years. Once I get some questions answered, we’ll see where it all leads. I’ve started thinking about eating more. But either way, it’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Gabby didn’t look convinced, but she resumed her breakfast, shooting me the stink eye.
“Stop staring at me. Give me some time to dig into the industry data and health research about weight and body size. This is all new to me, but not for long. I’m a damn good reporter.”
I picked up my fork, but lost interest after a few bites. My mind was too distracted with article planning. I told Gabby I was full when she asked, rather than tell her the truth. Little Diana had whispered that I’d eaten enough.
Unlike last night, the desire to stop eating was impossible to resist.
Too many social cues flagging me to zip my lips.
Ironically, it was the same tact I’d have to take when I headed over to Risto’s restaurant later for my first fill-in shift for Dot. With all the surgery worries, I hadn’t had the bandwidth to sufficiently freak out and was making up for lost time.
I’d be stuck in the same building as Risto for hours.
His dark dreamy eyes penetrated the deepest recesses of my soul. Just thinking of them made me melt into my hospital chair.
How would I survive this?
I cared for someone who wanted nothing to do with me.
Get a grip.
His entire staff would be there working. And if it was as busy as it was at lunch yesterday, I might not have to see Risto at all. Like a good hostess, I’d stay up front and pretend I was somewhere he wasn’t.
Maybe it could work?