CHAPTER TWENTY
After Diana's father died, her mother became an ice queen who immersed herself in interior design and eventually made it a career. In less than two years, Mrs. Christopher had joined one of the city's most prestigious decorating firms, which left little time for her to enjoy the home she'd so zealously recreated in her efforts to purge the place of sad memories. And so Diana was left alone a lot of the time, with no mother and no father, in a house where nothing was comforting or familiar or in any way like it used to be. When Mrs. Christopher was around, she was always busy trying to make up for her many absences, which she did through "connecting" with her daughter—or, in other words, criticizing every move Diana made in order to demonstrate her "heartfelt" concern and ability to parent effectively in spite of her time constraints. When Diana was eight, nine and ten, it was her handwriting, her dirty fingernails and her mathematical ineptitude that served as the basis for their bond. And then, once she got older and started—and never quite stopped—filling out, it was all about her weight.
At first it was, "Why don't we see if the doctor can give us the number of a good children's obesity specialist?" And then it was refusing to let Diana have ice cream when she had her tonsils removed. Even though it was all they ate in the movies and on television after such a procedure, ice cream was forbidden in the Christopher house, and was replaced by apricot and skim milk smoothies. Although this seemed like a cruel way to treat a patient, her mother continued to remind her that her thighs would be grateful later and that Diana had already weaseled one bowl of the stuff out of that damned hospital staff that had disobeyed her explicit orders to the contrary. And then it was buying a giant padlock for the refrigerator doors and refusing to give Diana the combination when she'd come home from school starving for a snack. "Go for a walk," Mrs. Christopher would say when Diana would call her at work, begging. So that's exactly what Diana would do—she'd walk right down the road to Suzy Newman's house and, together, they'd eat until they were stuffed. Then they'd lie on their backs on the living room floor and watch "Wheel of Fortune" on Suzy's big screen TV. Suzy was skinny and her parents were rich. They owned Yosie's Gourmet Deli on the corner of Ivywood and Blaine, two of the poshest streets in the wealthiest section of town. They didn't care if Suzy overate, and it didn't matter one bit to them if her poor, fatherless, fat friend down the road devoured half of their food. Diana had loved the Newmans. But they moved when she was fourteen, and she and Suzy had lost touch after that. They'd tried to stay friendly through letters, but without bingeing and Pat Sajak to keep them close every afternoon, the friendship began to seem artificial. But fortunately for Diana, Suzy's move did not deliver her back to a life of after-school hunger; for Mrs. Christopher, seeing that her brilliant locking-the-refrigerator idea had done absolutely nothing to take her daughter's weight off, had opened the doors of afternoon snacking to Diana months before the Newmans left town. But that was all adolescence.
The real fun didn't start until Diana was sixteen and no one asked her to the junior prom. From then on out, her mother tried the gentle, nagging, I'll-remind-you-every-chance-I-get-how-completely-fat-and-inadequate-you-are-but-it's-really-for-your-own-good-and-not-because-I-enjoy-putting-you-down (it's-just-that-you-keep-giving-me-reason-to) approach. "Diana, isn't that your third slice of pizza?" she would ask. "You know, now would be a good time to start losing weight for next year's prom. That's the one that really counts," she would say. "Oh, honey, imagine if you don't get asked to your senior prom. You'll regret it for the rest of your life!"
And when Diana wasn't asked: "Let's go out to dinner, Diana—you and me. It'll take your mind off of the prom. Besides, I've got a surprise for you: it's a special diet that allows you to lose weight while still dining at all of your favorite restaurants. I ordered it weeks ago to cheer you up when—I mean, in case—you weren't asked to the prom."
And when the diet didn't work: "Diana, just because you're allowed to eat all of your favorite foods, it doesn't mean you're supposed to eat them all in one sitting! You know, we really haven't had much success with any method I've tried, but that's because you have to try, too! I think it's time for an intervention, for I just simply don't know what to do with you anymore. Let's see what Dr. Mason has to say."
And when Dr. Mason gave medical confirmation to the layman's diagnosis that Diana was, indeed, overweight, it was: "Uh-uh-uh, Diana! Remember Dr. Mason's orders—no junk food. Why not have a protein shake? That way you can skip dinner, and just be done eating for the day." And then her mother would smile like she was doing a commercial for the stuff, probably figuring her enthusiasm could brainwash Diana into thinking the meal replacement powder was a treat instead of a punishment.
But nothing was worse than those terrible looks of pity that started after the big 28 hit. That was when Mrs. Christopher was struck especially hard with the reality that Diana had been living outside of the cruel social caste system of high school for ten years and still had no boyfriend. Worse yet, she was still fat—fatter even. And since she had moved out and gotten her own place a couple years earlier, Mrs. Christopher could no longer even attempt to control what went into her daughter's mouth. Except when they were at Ping's—but that was only one measly meal out of an entire week's worth of fat, calories, carbs and bad choices.
However, Diana supposed that the absolute creepiest thing about her relationship with her mother was the fact that they'd never discussed her father's death. And even more disturbing was the reason why. Ever since she was old enough to recognize fear in others, she had sensed that her mother harbored a suspicion that she'd give her life to make untrue. Diana knew that deep down her mother knew her secret. She knew that Diana had resented the ground she walked on the day Daddy left her with Mrs. Kingsly. "Let Mommy go to the seashore by herself." She knew what Diana had said. "One more story!" She knew how Diana had begged. Maybe he'll be too tired to go. Maybe he won't leave. Maybe me and Daddy can have our OWN weekend, away from Mommy. She knew what Diana had wished. Her mother knew about all of it—she knew that Diana had killed her father. And it seemed that Mrs. Christopher thought she knew something else—that in her daughter's eyes, the wrong parent had lived, that it should have been her in that explosion, and that if Diana could reverse God's order, she'd sacrifice her own mother to get her father back. But that was completely untrue. In fact, Diana was highly committed to the contrary—to preserving the life of the only parent she had left. And this meant not getting too close. For despite everything—every ounce of nagging and every obnoxious put-down—Diana loved her mother, and she didn't want to lose her.
"Can I get you another one?" The bartender's voice reeled her back into the reality of Saturday night single-hood at Scott's. Beer, sex and music—that's what Saturday nights were about, not morbid thoughts on one's mother and a past that couldn't be changed.
"You read my mind," Diana said. It was an outright lie, but it seemed to make the bartender smile. In truth, where her next drink was coming from was a suitable Saturday night concern, and one she would've already had if the good-natured, maternal sincerity of the "Put Raincoats on Your Snakes" lecture that Mrs. Bartle had inherited from her mother hadn't left Diana wondering about the relationship she shared with her own mother, a woman who'd managed to know her for thirty-two years without ever really knowing her at all. And then there was Mrs. Bartle, who had known her less than one-tenth of that time and could read her like a favorite book she'd practically memorized. But with a full beer in hand now, it was time to let go of these thoughts and concentrate on what really mattered. So where was he?
Diana had been there for over an hour and hoped that during her relapse into unhappy thoughts, that godly blond pool player from last week may have shown up. She surveyed the room, but there was no sign of him. Of course, there were other men that she could probably hit on, but why waste her energy microwaving frozen pizza when a fresh, hot and delicious one was on its way to her door? Whoops, food analogy. As a woman on the road to thinness, Diana wished not to have those anymore. She had to keep in mind that in her new life, nothing was a bowl of cherries, the whole enchilada, as easy as pie, a piece of cake or the icing on it. And men could not be compared to pizza.
She was just about to hit the ladies' room for a What-if-he-shows-up-and-I-look-like-total-crap-because-I-got-ready-hours-ago? emergency face and hair check when in walked Mr. Let's Get It On. And at that moment, all surrounding noise ceased to exist as Scott's Tavern became one with her left ventricle—the whole bar beating to the exaggerated, gong-like sound of her overexcited heart. Or maybe it was his heart—his sexy, do-me, perfect heart—commanding everything and everyone to follow its tune. For in this singular, most precious moment, theirs were the only two hearts in the world. Everyone else was just a robot, everything else just some sort of government-orchestrated illusion. Reality was her and him. And her face had grown hot enough to heat the farthest planet from the sun. But Pluto would have to wait. Diana needed to have a look in the mirror and make her move before the inevitability of last call turned her into a pumpkin. The only problem was that the most important man that had ever lived was by the pool tables now, which meant—deep breath, six pounds, shrinking thigh, don't panic—he was also right by the ladies' room.
The walk over there was hellish. Diana felt like she had a hanger in her shirt and a broom up her butt, and she wished she could be more casual, more relaxed, more like . . . well . . . him. New outfit, Malibu Pink, confident thoughts. She couldn't look at him. All she could do was disappear, behind the comforting shield of the bathroom door.
Once inside and safely out of view, Diana gave herself one hell of a pep talk, focusing entirely on positives—why she was a sex goddess, why he'd be lucky to get her, why, no matter what happened, she should be proud of herself for trying and therefore having no regrets about what could have been. She was careful to stay away from self-bashing conditionals: If you don't do this, you'll never get a boyfriend, and you'll always be a disappointment to your mother. If you don't do this, God will spit on you. If you don't do this, you will never know what love is and would have been better off in that stupid blimp with those azaleas.
As she neared the end of her emergency self-therapy session, the ladies' room door swung open, catching her completely off guard and causing her to jump back.
"Don't act so frightened, honey," said the intruder. "Doors open all the time." Diana couldn't tell if this woman was joking with her or insulting her, so she produced her best ha-ha-ha/fuck you smile, and opened the door to destiny.
Mr. Wonderful was taking his shot. Diana knew nothing about pool, but when she heard the guys commending him afterward, she knew it was time to make her mark.
"Nice shot. "Translation: I want you so bad I can't breathe. You are the sexiest man I have ever had the honor of potentially humiliating myself for. You are the sun, you are the rain. You are the wind beneath my wings. My endless love, my silver spring, my first, my last, my everything. We are the world. Why was it taking him so long to answer? Didn't he know that her entire concept of self was riding on what he said next?
"Yeah, thanks." Translation: Yeah, thanks.
Diana heard someone snicker. Were they laughing at her? She couldn't tell; they had all gone back to the game. No one was paying any attention to her at all. Maybe she hadn't made her mark. Maybe fat girls couldn't be sexy—not even with lipstick, the perfect outfit and a fully charged libido that, after a decade-and-a-half hiatus, had finally decided to wake up and chug the beer.