Sarai Walker - Dietland

At the table by the door I signed the register and collected the weekly recipes, moving quickly so I could leave before the meeting began. I had been a Waist Watcher for years and didn’t need to attend the meetings; if I never attended another one I would still be able to recite the tenets of the program on my deathbed.

There were only women at these morning meetings, and most of them were slightly older than me, with babies or toddlers they bounced on their laps. They were doughy from past pregnancies, but not big. Around them I felt much larger, as well as much younger. I was more like one of Kitty’s teenage girls compared to them, even though I was almost thirty. When I was around women who had grown-up lives, the kind of life I thought I should have, I felt suspended in time, like an animal floating in a jar of formaldehyde.

I made my way back up the stairs and put the recipes, which were printed on thick card stock, into my laptop bag. At home I had a collection of more than a thousand Waist Watchers recipes, which I arranged by snacks, main courses, desserts, and so on. After I cooked a dish, I rated it on the back with a star. Five stars was the best.

I tried to be a good Waist Watcher, but it was difficult. I would start off each day with the right breakfast and snacks, but sometimes I would grow so hungry that my hands would shake and I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Then I’d eat something bad. I couldn’t stand hunger. Hunger is what death must feel like.

Given my failure at dieting, my plan was to trade Waist Watchers for weight-loss surgery. The surgery was scheduled for October, little more than four months away. I was excited about it, but also terrified at the thought of having my internal organs cut up and rearranged and of the possible complications that might follow. The surgery would make my stomach the size of a walnut; afterward I’d only be able to eat spoonfuls of food each day for the rest of my life. That was the horrible part, but the miraculous part was that I would lose between ten and twenty pounds a month. In one year it would be possible to lose more than two hundred pounds, but I wouldn’t go that far. I wanted to weigh 125 pounds, and then I would be happy. Waist Watchers could never give me that. I’d been devoted to the program for years and I was bigger than ever.

When I exited the dark church, blinking into the sunshine, I expected to see the girl leaning against the tree, but she wasn’t there. I hurried across the street so I didn’t have to pass in front of the health club windows, where the smug spinners could have gawked at me.

Since I hadn’t seen the girl that day, I assumed I had scared her away, but when I arrived at the café she was there. Rather than follow me, she had begun to precede me. Perhaps she could claim that I was following her.

As I passed her table, she chewed the cap of her ballpoint pen, feigning thought. I ignored her, heaving my laptop bag up onto my usual table. With her nearby it was going to be difficult to concentrate on my work, but I logged into my account and downloaded the new messages, then opened the first one:

From: LuLu6

To: DaisyChain

Subject: step brother

Dear Kitty,

I’m 14 and a half. I hope u can help me. My mom got married last year to this guy Larry. My real dad is dead. Larry has two sons they are my step brothers Evan and Troy. I’m rilly scarred and I don’t know what to do. So many times I have woke up in the middle of the nite and Troy is in my room watching me sleeping. When he sees me awake he leaves. He’s 19. I think maybe he touches me but I don’t know. One time he came in to the bathroom when I was taking a shower naked and he saw me. He said he likes my boobs. I told my mom and she says I’m making this up so she will get divorced from Larry (cuz I hate him). What should I do?

Luv,

LuAnne from Ohio

LuAnne was my first girl of the day, so I wasn’t yet working at the height of my powers. I stared out the window to avoid the anxiety brought by the blinking cursor and started my response in my head. Dear LuAnne, I’m sorry your mother doesn’t believe you. Your mother shouldn’t be allowed to call herself a mother. The mothers of Kitty’s readers often chose men over their daughters, the desire for romance overwhelming the need to protect their child. I was tempted to respond to LuAnne by asking for her telephone number so I could call her mother and tell her that she was a horrible person. I’m glad you came to me for help, LuAnne. Contact your school guidance counselor immediately. He or she will be able to help you with your problem. No, that wouldn’t do. LuAnne deserved better than to be passed off like a baton.

With the strange girl in my peripheral vision, like a tiny bug, I placed my hands on the keyboard and began to type, channeling Kitty’s voice:

From: DaisyChain

To: LuLu6

Subject: Re: step brother

Dear LuAnne,

I’m *very* upset that your mom doesn’t believe you. I believe you! I would definitely lock your door before going to bed at night. If your door doesn’t have a lock, then put a chair or a piece of furniture in front of it. Pile books or other heavy items on top of the furniture. If Troy still gets into your room, scream as loud as you can when you see him. It wouldn’t hurt to keep a baseball bat or other such weapon with you at night. Do you have a cell phone? If so, call 911 in an emergency like this.

The next thing I want you to do is tell a trusted adult (your best friend’s mom or your favorite teacher) what’s going on and she will be able to help you with your problem. If you can’t find someone like this to help you, you will need to contact the police. Do you know where the police station is in your town? You could go there and explain what’s happening to one of the officers. Ask to speak to a woman.

I’m glad you reached out to me, LuAnne. I’m sending you courage through this email.

Love,

Kitty xo

I read through my response and sent it off. I would try not to think of LuAnne again, of her bedroom door with the chair in front of it, of her stepbrother slipping under the covers with her and sentencing her to a lifetime of therapy or worse. I needed to put her out of my mind, and the Internet was convenient in that way—people could be deleted, switched off. I responded to each girl only once, and if she wrote again, I usually ignored her; with the volume of messages I received each day, I didn’t have time to become a pen pal. To survive my job I needed the callousness of an emergency room doctor.

Next.

There were hundreds of messages in my inbox. Before continuing on, I wanted to order my lunch, the usual low-fat hummus and sprouts on oatmeal bread (300), but the girl was standing at the counter, paying for her fruit smoothie. Carmen served her without knowing there was an invisible tether connecting the girl to me; wherever I went, so went she.

Carmen’s café looked like a 1950s kitchen, with walls painted turquoise, and vintage jadeite teacups on display. The front of it was entirely glass, presenting a view of Violet Avenue that was a moving tableau of people and cars. Carmen needed extra help occasionally and I would work behind the counter or bake for her, arriving before dawn to make cupcakes and banana bread. Despite the temptations, I loved to bake, but I didn’t allow myself to do it often.

I met Carmen in college, and although we were merely acquaintances then, we connected again in New York. She allowed me to use the café as an office. We were friends, since our relationship extended beyond the café to phone calls and occasional outings, but with Carmen pregnant, I couldn’t help but worry that things were going to change.

The girl returned to her table with the smoothie and sat down. She didn’t write in her notebook, which sat unopened in front of her. Instead, she twisted the silver rings she wore on each of her fingers, moving from one finger to the next, looking bored. I had bored her.