Sarai Walker - Dietland

Verena said she had no intention of writing another book, that Adventures in Dietland was her one and only. She said she wasn’t a writer, but a philanthropist, an activist. She had also trained as a therapist, but she didn’t practice anymore.

I wondered if she was analyzing me. I kept waiting for her to explain why she had invited me over. “Do you work with Julia?”

“Heavens no. Julia and I met at a conference a few years ago. She’s interested in my work and stops by the house once in a while for a chat. The last time was just a few days ago. She said that her intern—Lena, is it?”

“Leeta.” It was the first time I said her name out loud.

“Oh right, Leeta. Julia said Leeta thought we should meet, so here you are.”

“Leeta gave me a copy of your book.”

“I’m glad she did. I never turn down the chance to meet interesting women. You might say I’m a collector of women.” Her house was certainly full of women. She reached across the table and gave my hand an affectionate squeeze. It was rare that someone touched me, but both Julia and Verena had placed their hands on me.

I told Verena about how Leeta had spied on me and how Julia wanted the spreadsheet of email addresses. “What’s Julia’s story?”

“She inhabits a world of intrigue and secrets that I find exhausting. I do know that she’s working on an exposé of Austen Media, among other things. She mentioned something about hoping you could dig up dirt on Kitty.”

So that’s what Julia wanted. I wasn’t the ideal person to dig up dirt, given that I didn’t even work in the office.

“When she told me that someone like you answers Kitty’s mail, I was intrigued,” Verena said.

“Someone like me?” I knew what she meant, but I was hurt that she said it.

“People probably attack her for only having thin girls on staff and appearing in the magazine, but she can say, ‘Hey, one of my assistants is fat.’ It’s like the person who says, ‘I’m not racist, my best friend is black.’ The really sick thing is that Kitty doesn’t even want you working in that office.”

“She said it was Human Resources’ idea for me to work from home,” I said.

“Do you really think that’s true, hon?”

I stared into the small yard that was ringed with rosebushes and tall trees, hot in the face. I felt like a whale that’d washed up in Verena’s red-walled house, a grotesque creature on display. “I don’t want to look like this, you know. I hate looking this way. I don’t need to be reminded of what everyone else thinks of me.”

“They’re the ones that have the problem, not you. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

I didn’t respond, my lips pressed together tightly, curled into a frown.

Verena looked confused. “Have I said something wrong?”

“I don’t like being called fat. ”

“I see,” Verena said. “I don’t think fat is a bad thing, so I didn’t realize I had offended you. I thought we were on the same wavelength and that’s why Leeta wanted us to meet.”

“I don’t know why Leeta wanted us to meet.”

“I can see that now.” Verena apologized, but I was still upset.

“It’s easy for you to say that being big isn’t a bad thing. You don’t have to live this way.” She may have had a fat mother once, but that wasn’t the same. I told Verena that I wouldn’t be overweight for much longer, that I was having weight-loss surgery in a few months. “Dieting doesn’t work, you said so in your book. It’s time for me to do something else.”

“That’s the message you took away from my book?” If she weren’t so pale, the color would have drained from her face. “Oh, Plum, don’t do that. Don’t butcher yourself. I beg you to reconsider.”

Here we go, I thought. Another thin woman, like my mother, trying to dissuade me from the surgery. “ I’ve already made up my mind.”

“The only difference between my mother and the doctor who will perform your surgery is that my mother didn’t have a license to practice medicine. They’re all charlatans.” Rose colored her pale cheeks. She was about to say something else, then caught herself. She placed her palms flat on the kitchen table and inhaled deeply, trying to prevent further upset. I could tell she was the type of person who didn’t like to lose her cool. As I watched her, I saw the idea register on her face. The news of my surgery had tightened her features, but now her muscles were loosening. She sat up straight and asked me, “How are you going to pay for your surgery?”

I told her that my insurance was paying for part of it, but that I would owe about $7,000, which I would pay with savings and credit cards.

“What about the expenses that come after—new clothes, plastic surgery? You’ll need more surgery, you know. If you lose weight that quickly, your skin will hang off your body.”

I had already started buying the clothes, but I knew she was right about needing more surgery. I told her I would find a way to pay for it all.

“Let’s make a deal,” she said. “I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars. You were a Baptist member. You paid your dues and you paid for that horrid Baptist food. With interest, and considering pain and suffering, I’d say I owe you twenty thousand.”

I wanted to laugh, thinking she was kidding, but the serious look she was giving me said otherwise. “Twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money to you, but it’s nothing to me,” she said.

“What do I have to do?”

“I’d like for you to think seriously about the surgery. You can’t undo it later.”

“I’ve already thought about it seriously.”

“What I mean is that I want you to think about it in a different way.”

I needed a psychological evaluation before the surgery, which was a requirement of the doctor and insurance company. Verena was still a licensed therapist, despite not practicing, and suggested she could evaluate me. “We could meet several times over the next few weeks,” she said. “I’ll give you a series of tasks to help you be sure you’re making the right choice.”

“What kind of tasks?”

“Nothing too difficult. If at the end you decide to go ahead with the surgery, I’ll sign the form and give you the money. If you decide you don’t want the surgery, I’ll give you the money. Either way, you win.”

“Wouldn’t it be against the rules for a therapist to pay her patient?”

“Rules don’t interest me. Don’t think of me as a therapist anyway—think of me as Eulayla Baptist’s daughter. When you took the Baptist Oath all those years ago, you became a part of the Baptist family, remember?”

I remembered. I would have grown excited about the thought of $20,000—it was more money than I could have ever imagined anyone giving me—but it didn’t seem real. Only a few weeks before, the idea of sitting under the shadow of Eulayla Baptist’s fat jeans and talking to her infamous daughter would have been unimaginable. It was Leeta who had led me here. She had followed me around the neighborhood, but now it was as if she was leading me somewhere.

“I feel protective of former Baptists,” Verena said. “It’s a guilt thing.”

“There are masses of us out there.”

“I know, but you’re right in front of me. I’m not asking you to sign a contract in blood. You can change your mind at any time.”

I thought about the things I could do with the extra money. It would be like winning the lottery. I knew she was going to do everything possible to change my mind about the surgery, but I’d play along. “Okay, why not?”

Verena beamed. “We’ll call this the New Baptist Plan,” she said. “The original Baptist Plan failed you, but this time things will be different. The New Baptist Plan will completely transform you, I guarantee it.”