Sarai Walker - Dietland

In my bedroom, I removed Alicia’s clothes from the closet, the dresses that didn’t fit me and never would. I called Sana and asked if she might need clothes for the girls at the clinic when it opened. I explained that the outfits weren’t likely to be the girls’ style, but they would work for job interviews and court appearances. She was enthusiastic, so I packed the clothes in the two black suitcases that were stored under my bed and arranged for a courier to pick them up and deliver them to Calliope House.

The clothes I used to wear every day were in piles on the floor and stuffed into the dresser. I put them in the trash. Over the next several days, I slept in my old bed and awoke each morning to continue sorting through my belongings, going through my books and mementos, my whole life in New York. I discovered empty bottles of Y——, as well as piles of Waist Watchers literature and copies of Daisy Chain. Most of that went into the recycling bin. The copy of Adventures in Dietland that Leeta had given to me went into the box of things I would always keep, with my family photo albums and souvenirs.

As I continued sorting my things and packing, I would go out to withdraw cash from the bank. I considered visiting the café while I was out, but Carmen was still on maternity leave and she was the only part of it that I missed.

Movers came to collect my furniture and boxes and take them to a storage unit in Queens, where I’d leave them while I was living at Calliope House. Then the apartment was empty, except for the bedroom where my cousin Jeremy’s boxes were stored. I called him in Cairo to let him know that I was moving out of his apartment. I offered to continue paying rent until a new tenant moved in, but he told me not to worry. With me moving, he said it was likely he would sell. I understood that he would have sold years before if not for me, and I was grateful for the time he had allowed me to live in a nice place, one that I wouldn’t have otherwise been able to afford. The apartment on Swann Street had made the other difficulties in my life easier to bear.

On my way out, I took one last look around. The apartment was smaller than I remembered it, in the way that everything looks smaller after you’ve left it behind.

The next morning, I awoke in the buttery light of my bedroom back at Calliope House and realized that it wasn’t simply another day. It was the tenth of October, the day my weight-loss surgery had been scheduled to take place. Lying in bed, I instinctively placed my hand on my bare belly and ran my fingers over the terrain—soft to the touch despite the lines and crevices. I was grateful for what was missing: the violent eruption of an incision. Beneath the expanse of flesh, my stomach was nestled among my other organs, healthy and whole, not stapled and clamped shut. I knew I had Leeta to thank for leading me to Verena and the others, for this morning spent snug in my bed, not under the blazing lights and masked faces of an operating room.

The money I’d been withdrawing from the bank for Leeta was in a neat stack in my bottom dresser drawer, but she would need much more than that. I knew Julia would contact me soon; at any moment I’d receive a frantic email or phone call and she’d demand to know if I was going to help fund Leeta’s escape. Until that moment came, I would put it out of my mind. What I wanted now was to celebrate how far I’d come.

I decided to throw a party, with food and lots to drink. The previous weeks had been intense for all of us—the women had their work, I had my personal struggles, and through it all was Jennifer. We continued to refer to Soledad and the attacks by this single name, its origins not yet clear. Jennifer had made up seem like down, had left us all spinning and dizzy, had set the world on fire, and she was still out there.

I climbed out of bed and headed out to shop for groceries and booze. In the afternoon, I baked a three-layer chocolate ganache cake and prepared vegetable curry and rice for the main course, the perfect warming meal for an October evening. I didn’t bother to tell the others we were having a celebration. It didn’t need to be a formal occasion; I would let it bloom before their eyes.

As the curry and rice simmered on the stove, I cleared the stolen lingerie out of my bedroom closet and carried it downstairs in two plastic bags. In the tiny backyard, Verena kept her gardening tools in a tall metal drum, which I emptied onto the ground. I dumped charcoal into the drum, drenched it with lighter fluid, and set it ablaze. When the fire was glowing and flames shot out the top, I opened one of the bags and pulled out a few thongs and padded bras, dropping them into the drum, which made the fire pop. I’d always known the underwear would serve a purpose—it had just taken me a while to discover what it was.

When it was time for dinner, I was joined by Verena, Marlowe with baby Huck, Rubí, and Sana. We ate curry and rice in the kitchen, followed by cake. I was pleased that I no longer needed voluminous amounts of food to feel satisfied. I was learning to listen to my body’s hunger cues and desires, which helped me know when I needed to eat, and what, and how much. Rubí said my metabolism was ruined from years of dieting and it would take time to heal and get back in touch with my natural rhythms. I would never restrict myself again or do math before eating. I would give my body what it needed and wanted—nothing more, nothing less.

After dinner we carried our drinks outside to where the fire was burning; the drum was positioned in the middle of the concrete slab that was our yard, ringed by trees bright with autumn gold. I kept the fire going, but everyone was eager to help. “Let me,” said Sana, dropping a lilac negligee into the flames, and then a pair of striped boy shorts. We watched them sizzle.

“This lingerie is from Bonerville, right?” said Marlowe. I told her it was and she asked why I had two bags full of it.

“Long story,” Sana said, directing the conversation elsewhere.

We were running out of drinks, so Rubí went inside to mix another pitcher of mojitos. She brought it outside and refilled our cups. The backyard was only a small patch, but we were all crammed together, drinking, watching the fire, and, inevitably, talking about Jennifer. It was the festive atmosphere I’d wanted, but then I saw through the kitchen window that Julia had arrived. She sliced the cake and ate some of it with her fingers. I excused myself to go inside, closing the door behind me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. The last time I’d seen her was in the café bathroom. At the sight of her, I imagined my wrists in handcuffs.

Julia moved around the table, stuffing her mouth with curry and rice. “Have you made a decision?” she whispered.

“I’m not sure yet. I need more time anyway. I can’t withdraw too much money from the bank at once. It’ll arouse suspicion.”

“So you have access to money?” she asked with frantic hopefulness.

I nodded and Julia closed her eyes. “Thank God,” she said. “I need it on Friday. I’ll come by at noon. I can’t wait any longer than that.” Friday was two days away.

“I told you, I’m not sure. I want to know more about Leeta.”

“Shhhh,” Julia said. “For crying out loud, do not say that name.” She peered at the women outside. Through the glass, Marlowe waved. Julia didn’t bother to wave back. “Did I mention this is a matter of life and death? I’m not bullshitting.” Her acrylic nail tips were chipped, as if she’d been biting them. “You have no idea what I’m going through.”

“Because you won’t tell me.”

She ignored me, focused completely on the food, an animalistic glint in her eyes. I missed the vulnerable Julia from the café bathroom, but assumed that version was rarely let out of its restraints. She piled her plate high, then composed herself before opening the door to go outside. “Let’s try to act normal,” she said over her shoulder.