Sarai Walker - Dietland

“All right, I’ll bring them next time,” she said, “but I’ve told you the whole story, which is nothing much. Leeta is important to you, isn’t she?”

It seemed silly to say yes, since I didn’t really know Leeta. She knew me better than I knew her. Leeta was as mysterious to me as she was to the people seeing her face in the news, and yet as I reclined on the bed in the underground apartment, I knew that she had led me to this place. I explained this to Verena.

“I had planned to talk about the surgery today and whether you’d made any decisions about it,” Verena said. The surgery. It seemed as if my plans for it existed in the distant past, in a lifetime belonging to another woman. “But rather than us talking about that today, I think you should read this.” Verena picked up her bag from the floor and dug through it. She pulled out a red spiral-bound notebook. At first I didn’t recognize it. She handed it to me and I opened it to the first page and began to read:

may 18th: louise b. at café, typing on laptop. i think she’s doing her work for the kitty-cat. she’s been here for hours—so boring. two teen boys say something to her (what?) & laugh but she ignores them. i wish i could punch them in the face.

(she seems friendly with the owner of the café)

question: louise b. went to church this morning. why??

“Louise B.?” I asked Verena, confused.

“That was the name Leeta gave you in her notebook. Your black bob reminded her of Louise Brooks.”

Charmed by the nickname, I ran my hand over the notebook as if it were a priceless object. “Where did you get this?”

“When Julia came over yesterday, she gave it to me. She didn’t want any trace of Leeta in her office, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“You know how paranoid Julia is. She thinks the police suspect her of having secret information about Leeta. She already thinks everyone at Austen is after her, and now this.” Whatever the reason, I was glad Julia had given Verena the notebook.

Verena left me alone to read, saying she’d return again soon for another session. Only about ten pages of the notebook contained writing, a loopy scrawl in blue ballpoint. I had often seen Leeta holding the blue pen. Now I’d get to find out what she’d written with it.

may 21st: success!! today i figured out why louise b. and so many women visit that church during the week. they’re not religious fanatics—even worse, they’re waist watchers. (!!) the church rents out the meeting room in the basement. now we know louise b. is dieting (not surprising)

(jules, are you actually reading this?)

may 22nd: wondering how louise b. can afford to live in a brownstone in this section of brooklyn. (??) lots of really asshole-ish and pretentious people around here. louise b. would be better off elsewhere (in my opinion). but how does she afford it?? austen media pays shit. i don’t think she has a roommate (her name is the only one on the mailbox). she’s too square to be a drug dealer. family money? hmmm, doesn’t seem like it.

may 23rd: i’ve never seen anyone from austen media visit louise b. i don’t think you have to worry about her being friends with any of them, jules. i never see her with anyone outside the café, not ever ever ever. she’s always alone.

it’s so hot today but louise b. wears a long skirt and long-sleeved top. she never shows any skin except her hands, neck, and face. her clothes are black. she stares at the sidewalk as she walks. poor louise b. always looks like she’s on her way to a funeral.

at the café all day. boring boring. (the coffee is good though)

may 24th: she spent all day at that café. went to supermarket on the way home & i saw some of the stuff she put in her basket:

—waist watchers frozen fettucine alfredo dinner⁄shanghai-style chicken & rice⁄fish & chips

—apples

—cans of tuna

—fat-free blueberry yogurt (!)

—fat-free mayo (!)

—licorice whips (huh?)

two skinny white guys (mid-20s, facial hair) browsing in the frozen food section took a photo of louise b. from behind with their phones. they were laughing at her. she had no idea. motherfuckers.

on the way home, louise b. asked if i was following her. OOPS! better work on my technique. (i played dumb)

may 25th: ho hum ho hum. same old everything. louise b. goes to café, works on laptop, goes home. why’s she so dedicated to the kitty-cat? (the patron saint ofgirls, our lady of teenage sorrows, the queen of austen media!) louise b. should aim higher.

(jules, did i tell you the rumor that’s rampant on the 4th floor? apparently, the kitty-cat is a secret lesbian & the b-friend is just an accessory. heh. makes me think twice about her new column—“why are boys so baffling?” hardy har har.)

7:00 p.m. i’m outside louise b.’s place now. lights are on, curtains drawn. she’s not gonna budge. she never does. i’m outta here.

may 26th–28th: memorial day weekend. i sat outside for **hours** this weekend. you’re lucky i brought some good music but i’m getting tired of this jules. there’s nothing to see here. she went out for a while on saturday but that’s it. it’s such a pretty day & her curtains are drawn. if i lived this life, i would slit my wrists. louise b. is making me seriously depressed.

i know you’ve forbidden me from speaking to her but i’m going to give her a copy of your friend verena’s book. hear me out: louise b. needs a kick in the ass. watching her is like watching a caged animal at the zoo, except she doesn’t know she’s in a cage, she doesn’t see the bars. i really think i could come back here in 30 years & she would still be living this same existence—still dieting, living alone, working at a job that’s beneath her. she deserves more than this. i like her, jules. she depresses me but i like her. don’t be angry at me for giving her the book, k?

my verdict: i think you can trust her to help you spy on kitty. she might not agree to do it but ask her anyway. push her. maybe this is what she needs??

p.s. i wish she could meet your friend verena. can you make this happen, jules? pretty please?

I read through the notebook greedily, my eyes moving swiftly across each line. Leeta’s observations about me would have stung much more if I’d read them back then, but since I’d met Verena and the others, unflinching commentary about my life had become the norm.

As an observer, Leeta had gleaned a lot about me, but not the whole story. She didn’t know about the surgery, my plan for escape so that I wouldn’t be in the same place thirty years later, filled with regrets, having only lived half a life. I knew this wasn’t the kind of escape she’d envisioned for me: surgery and weight loss, the ability to blend in with the crowd. She wasn’t the blending-in type.

The margins of the notebook were decorated with doodles of butterflies and daisies and a stick figure hanging from a rope. I thought again of Leeta’s face on the screen in Times Square. It wasn’t real—it couldn’t be. I didn’t know where she was or what she’d done, but she had led me to Verena. Her notebook read like a story about me, but the next chapters were missing. She’d started the story in motion but hadn’t stuck around to record the rest of it. I turned to a blank page. I started to write about the New Baptist Plan and the underground apartment, telling my own story. I realized I had no idea how it was going to end.

In the morning, or what I pretended was morning, I showered in the mirrorless bathroom and dressed in a fresh set of clothes from my closet. I’d never gone so long without seeing myself in a mirror. I patted down my hair, wondering what it looked like.

I went to the kitchen for a glass of water and saw that someone had been there. On the table was a plate with a cinnamon roll and a cherry Danish; next to that, a bottle of orange juice, a granola bar, a banana. The room smelled pleasantly of butter and icing, but I still didn’t feel like eating. Also on the table was a file folder. I opened it to discover a cache of articles about Leeta.