Sarai Walker - Dietland

“Such a show of force to find Leeta is ridiculous,” I said. “She was an intern at Austen Media. She’s not an outlaw.”

“But she is an outlaw now, that’s the problem,” Verena said. “And since there’s no other link to Jennifer, they’re going after her hard.”

Sana took the remote control from me and switched off the TV. “That’s enough for now,” she said, patting me on the head. “You Americans are supposed to start the day with Cheerios, right? Or is it Wheaties? Whatever it is, Sugar Plum, it’s not footage of men with guns.”

She was right. I picked up my plate and carried it to the sink. It was time to begin the day.

In my new routine, I spent the most time with Sana. We’d forged a connection in the underground apartment that had only grown stronger in the light of day. She knew about Alicia, the thin woman who had lived inside of me, the New Baptist Plan, and Y—— withdrawal. I knew that her face had been burned in a house fire when she was thirteen, a fire that had killed her mother. She’d come to New York to study for her master’s degree in social work ten years ago and had been here ever since, having lived at Calliope House for a year. She had recently turned thirty-three and called this her “Jesus year.” She and Verena were working together to create a clinic for at-risk adolescent girls. They hoped to open within six months, with Sana as the director.

Sana’s project was one of many ongoing at Calliope House. A lawyer was working on a class-action lawsuit against an American cosmetics company that had poisoned people with skin-lightening creams in Africa and Asia; there was a justice fund for immigrant women and children from Mexico and Central America; there was a whole team of women, in New York and in Washington, who were focused on reproductive rights, at home and abroad. Then there were the projects I was more familiar with. Marlowe was busy writing. Verena spent some of her time working with former Baptists and helping them heal, but the New Baptist Plan was the deluxe service, she’d said, and just for me. She also worked closely with Rubí on other projects related to the weight-loss industry, the campaign against Dabsitaf their current focus. I wondered if Dabsitaf would have worked on me now. My appetite seemed impossible to suppress or control. I was hungry for everything, for food and for life. It was odd to think that a pill could take that away, or that I had ever wanted it to.

Besides cooking, I didn’t have a project like Sana and the other women, but Verena didn’t mind. She gave me space. “The Plum project needs tending to,” she said, and she even gave me a salary, double what Kitty had paid me, drawn from her vast supply of dieting dollars.

In the afternoons, after the lunch rush but before afternoon snacks and dinner, I spent time in my red-walled bedroom. It was on the second floor and overlooked the street. There was a glossy white mantel framing a sealed-up fireplace and a selection of tattered flea market furniture: a wrought-iron day bed, a red wing-back chair, a desk, a chest of drawers. From the chandelier a severed Barbie head dangled—a “welcome” present from Rubí and Sana.

During my first visit to Calliope House, Verena had told me about the Catholic charity that had owned the house. In my bedroom closet, one of the teenage mothers had scratched a message into the paint: calliope was born in this room / january 1973.

Calliope House. Verena thought it was a fitting name, in honor of the young woman and the daughter she would never see again. I was glad Calliope’s room had become my room.

Most afternoons, at my desk in front of the window, I wrote in the red spiral-bound notebook. Sometimes I called my mother to talk about my new life. I had sent her a copy of Verena’s book and she was in the middle of reading it. I’d look online for news about Leeta and send emails to Carmen, to let her know how I was doing. I enjoyed this quiet time. While I loved the activity in the house, and the companionship after so many years alone, I also needed some moments to myself.

After the discussion of Julia at breakfast, I decided to email her. To my surprise, a response appeared several minutes later:

From: JuliaCole

To: PlumK

Subject: Re: Where are you???

Dear Plum,

I did not know that you called. I threw my phone in the garbage and with any luck it is in a landfill by now. Good riddance. I am sick of reporters bothering me about Leeta and so I am living “off the grid” as much as possible. I will tell you what I have told everyone else: When Leeta and I worked together, I never knew much about her personal life. I do not know where she is now.

For what it’s worth, I do not believe she is involved in criminal activity. You might not know that Leeta is quite flighty. I don’t like to speak ill of her, but this facet of her personality always exasperated me. I do not know any terrorists myself, but I imagine being a terrorist requires discipline and focus.

I am afraid I have nothing more to say about the matter. Must dash. These lipsticks will not sort themselves.

J.

P.S. I am coming to Calliope House soon. I need to ask you for a favor . . .

Those three dots at the end might as well have been written in flashing neon. The email was typical of Julia, focused as usual on what I could do for her, leaving out the most important details. Verena wouldn’t be happy to see her at Calliope House, but I was curious to know what she wanted. The last time she’d asked for a favor I’d given her 50,000 email addresses, and I still didn’t know what she’d done with them. I would resist agreeing to another favor unless she offered up more information about Leeta, which I thought she probably had. Julia owed me more. She was the one who’d dropped Leeta into my life.

I returned to writing in my red notebook, Leeta’s notebook. I had clipped a photo of her from the newspaper and pinned it to my wall. She was watching me as I wrote. Where did you go, Leeta? I scribbled in the margin. What have you done? I filled several pages with notes about my days of cooking and eating in Calliope House. When I was finished, I put the notebook in the bottom drawer of my dresser.

There was an oval mirror above the dresser. After I had been without mirrors underground, my reflection was still a novelty. I noticed the weight loss I’d experienced during the New Baptist Plan, but at the rate I was eating, the weight wouldn’t be lost for long. It would find me again, as it had always done. Despite everything I had been through, I looked about the same as I had before, but I was different in a way that couldn’t be seen. Made over.

. . . you can lick my nuts, bitch, and then get the fuck out . . .

Rise and shine.

In Calliope House, from Monday through Friday, no one slept in. At 7:30 a.m., misogynist music blasted throughout the house. The music played for exactly one minute. Verena said it was intended to remind us of our purpose at the beginning of each day.

My stomach rumbled, so I showered and dressed quickly, then went downstairs to the kitchen, intending to make French toast. I tied my apron around my waist and flicked on the television to keep me company while I worked. As I turned on the coffeepot and removed the eggs and milk from the refrigerator, I was only barely cognizant of the news report. I should have known this wasn’t an ordinary day, given that Cheryl Crane-Murphy was working the early shift.

“At least now we have a clear connection between Leeta Albridge and one of Jennifer’s crimes.”

I dropped the carton of eggs on the counter and hurried to the television. Cheryl was discussing the twelve-year-old girl, Luz, who’d been raped and then jumped in front of the train. I saw the familiar photos of the Dirty Dozen, including two of Luz’s rapists, and the crime scene in the desert. Then there was Luz’s mother, Soledad, and her subsequent press conference: “When will the violence end, Jennifer?” she asked before the world.