I’m not hiding.
I swear, I’m not.
I’ve just locked myself in the bathroom for purely normal reasons because I am a normal person.
I’m not crying. You’re crying. Idiot.
I can hear loud humming thrum of the party through the door. The muffled noise of hundreds of voices, dozens of conversations. There are so many people here, endless clawing throngs of bodies and hands and voices that are nearly unintelligible in the din of the crowd.
I’m not crying.
Sure my mascara is smeared in dark lines down my face and my cheeks are red, but that’s just because it is so hot. The rooms are warm and damp from so much breath from so many bodies. It’s the middle of summer for God’s sake! My thighs are so sweaty from rubbing together in the crushing mass, constricted by the tight nylon spanx that cut off circulation to my lower body. The tight straps of my bra dig deep red gouges into my soft flesh. So much constriction. So much friction and heart. I can hardly bear it.
Now the spanx lie in a crumpled head beneath my feet as I sit on the toilet lid, trying to pull myself together. My stomach bulges free of restriction, fat oozing over my lap as I take deep, shuddering breaths. I pinch the extra inches with my fingers, feeling that familiar visceral hatred spread over me.
God, I hate myself.
I hate being fat.
I hate being fat more than anything.
I want to curl into a ball and disappear. Not that I can really curl into a ball anymore. The extra pounds on my hips and stomach make that impossible. Really, I just want to disappear. Just dissolve into so much dust. It would be better that way.
I’ve always hated the way I looked, of course. Even when I was fifty pounds lighter, I would stick my finger down my throat after each meal because I hated the subtle curve of my belly and the jiggling flesh on my arms. All I wanted was to be beautiful like my tall, thin mother with her toned arms and narrow waist. All I wanted was to wear her tight formal dresses that made her look like a movie star. All I wanted was to be beautiful, because that was the point of being alive if you weren’t pretty. I never got that thin, of course. I could never walk into a room and not hate every inch of my disgusting body. Instead, I got fatter and fatter as my life collapsed in on me. What I would give to be bulimic again… but I don’t really do that much anymore. I don’t do much of anything. My full time job right now is living in a state of silent desperation as I wish for a terminal disease to put me out of my misery. My part-time job is being a student. It’s fun.
There’s a sharp rapping on the door and I flinch. Goddamn it. I’ve lingered too long. Bathroom time has been an important aspect of any social event. My tradition now is to have a good cry in the bathroom at every gathering and soiree. Not that I’ve been crying, of course. I haven’t.
“Give me a sec!” I cry towards the door as I wipe off the smeared makeup.
I know all the bathrooms in all the houses of all my so-called friends and associates. I’m quite the connoisseur at this point. This particular bathroom and I are quite well acquainted. It belongs to Mrs. Melanie Knight, the head of our church party planning committee, and it is the height of taste. It has grey marble tiles and antique wall paper, suitable for the powder room of a fashionable multi-millionaire. She calls it the powder room because bathroom is too vulgar. It has a vintage beach theme, with seashell-shaped soap and decorative towels with her monogrammed initials hand-embroiled in baby blue thread. The towels are purely decorative of course. Using them for such a plebeian act as wiping one’s hands is quite unimaginable. Instead, Mrs. Knight has set out a small pile of paper squares on the edge of the sink. They are thick plied of course. She is an excellent host after all. That is why there are so many engagements at her house.
This particular engagement party, one of over ten I’ve attended in the last six months, belongs to Azariah McKinley and Sabrina Herringford. Azariah has not actually proposed yet, and Sabrina is feigning the appearance that she does not know the random Sunday night party is being thrown in her honor. She’ll act surprised, no doubt, pressing her magnificently manicured hands to her face in a performance of shock. They’re always perfectly surprised. She’ll say yes, of course. It says so on the ring-shaped cookies in the kitchen and we all know that no one disobeys the words on a cookie. Saying no is apparently not a danger in the world of surprise engagement galas, especially in the circles of fancy evangelical Christians.
There’s the rapping on my chamber door once more. This time it’s more insistent.
“Just give me a sec!” I yell, much more anxious annoyance in my voice.
I struggle to pull up my spanx over my sweat slick body. It’s quite the battle, hiking tight nylon over sticky rolls of fat, but I breathlessly manage it with an unladylike level of grunting and whispered swears. I finally look at my reflection in the gold gilt mirror. I make a face. There’s not much helping this disaster. My thin brown hair hangs limply in the ghost of ringlets slaughtered long ago by the combined effects of heat and humidity. It’s old woman hair cut in a mom-ish lob that highlights the fact that I’m past my prime. I’m twenty-one. An old maid. No bevy suitors looking here. Might as well throw in the towel and accept my future of dying alone and being eaten by my twenty cats.
I grimace as my eyes spot a pink stain on the neckline of my sundress. It’s probably rosé. I’ve been drinking a lot of that fancy punch tonight and I won’t deny being a little buzzed. My head is swimming a little. I really went to town on that punch, but sometimes drinking makes it easier to cope with all the smiling faces and joy that I’m forced to endure.
The knocking on the door has turned to pounding. With one last deep sigh, I unlock the door and end the long siege. A little boy of about eight stands in front of me, holding his crotch and dancing up and down.
“The bathroom’s all yours,” I say.
“What were you even doing in there!?” the boy snaps in agony.
“Building a bomb,” I retort.
The boy pushes past me and slams the door. I am left to face the endless noise of the party. It’s so crowded. Hundreds of people have been packed in the foyer and ancillary rooms. Mrs. Knight’s antebellum mansion is large and well designed for entertaining, but this is a big event even by Knight’s standards. Everyone knows Sabrina Herringford. She’s Mrs. Knight’s niece. She is beloved. She is a light. She is an angel.
I was at her birthday party a few weeks ago. It was at this very house, a tea party for all the young women in our youth group, all her dearest friends. I have never had a meaningful conversation with Sabrina Herringford in my entire life, but somehow, through the power of inclusivity, I was lumped in with her most intimate circle of a hundred girls in her age bracket.
I painted her a pot for her birthday. It was some scene of a spring pond in impressionist style with acrylic paint. I still had paint smears on the insides of my elbows and under my ragged fingernails. I planted sweet-smelling sage in the little pot. I love the smell, that rich, astringent odor, slightly cedar-y and warm. It reminds me of my father in the kitchen, when he’d send me outside to pick herbs from our garden. He would take the leaves from my small, pudgy hands and he would show me how he massaged the chicken with herbs and spices before he’d roast it. He would demonstrate how he stuffed the bundles of sage and thyme and lemon into the cavity of the chicken, so the flavor would permeate the meat, and then he would let me do it. While the chicken roasted, I would press my hands against the window of the oven and watch the tender flesh brown and crisp, while the rich aroma of herbs filled the house.
My dad said cooking was an act of creating art. Art was love, something to share with others to bring them joy. Cooking was love because you poured your heart into into the act, and it could bring others joy. My father welcomed everyone at our table. Friends, neighbors, coworkers who had no families. My mother sometimes complained about all the small parties, all the guests who were the wrong sort of people. She wanted him to be more active in the church, to perhaps use his gift of cooking to cater events for the shepherds and bring us more praise. But dad didn’t want that. Over the years he went to church less and less, claiming his health, but really it was because he felt like he didn’t fit in there.
He’s dead now. He’s been dead for four years.
When I planted the sage in my painted pot, I felt tears burst over my cheeks unbidden. I didn’t know why I was crying. It was the smell, maybe. The smell of sage and the memories of a man I loved more than the whole wide world. A man who had wasted away in a hospital bed from heart disease, refusing to see the pastor. My father had died an avowed atheist. My mother told me afterwards, through sobs, that I wouldn’t see him in heaven because he wasn’t a believer. If my father, this kind, creative, unbearably beautiful human being was in Hell… Well, that’s when I stopped believing in God, I think. That’s when I began to eat to deaden my unbearable pain.
I held the pot in my trembling hands as I walked up the long driveway lined with cars of the Knight mansion, that smell pervading my senses. I joined a crowd of girls holding richly wrapped packages under their arms, giggling and murmuring things to themselves, whispering of things I didn’t know about and shared events I wasn’t privy to. I walked in the house behind them, feeling that oh-so-familiar anxiety seep into my blood, making my limbs shiver and my mouth become dry.
They all dressed the same. They dressed different from me. They all wore light colors, cream and pastels, flowing and breezy in delicate lace, long hair hanging in voluminous curls around their slender waists. It was all natural fabrics, all soft and deliciously girlish. Even the adult women wore the lacy ruffles and gauzy blouses. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my dark colors, somehow overly formal, tight and restrictive, designed to be slimming… designed to fade into the background. My hair was up in a too-tight twist, worn high for practical reasons because I hated how slick the back of my neck would get as I sweat profusely in the crowded rooms.
And there was Sabrina, in the center of the room, a glorious princess holding court as her subjects paid homage to her magnificence. She was exquisitely beautiful, wasn’t she? She was small and ever so slender, her lovely collarbone and long neck exposed by the off-shoulder cut of her brilliant white sundress. Her golden hair, so thick and wavy, brushed the top of her hips like a mermaid. She was the ideal girl. When she smiled, oh when she smiled, the room seemed warm and vibrant.
I stood in her receiving line, feeling awkward with my unwrapped pot. It seemed so dirty, so vulgar compared to the clean gift baskets and elegant bags of the other girls. I watched the girl ahead of me, dark haired and slim as a model, squeal in joy as she rushed to embrace Sabrina, the two tittering as the princess was presented with a set of expensive creams from France that apparently contained diamond dust.
The dark-haired girl was still chattering with Sabrina when my turn came. The two clasped hands and did not even look at me. I didn’t know what to say. My heart was pounding fast with intense terror making me unable to even open my mouth. I didn’t know whether I should simply place the pot at her feet and run away or wait for her to notice me standing in front of her.
Finally, I managed to find my voice. “H-hi Sabrina,” I croaked, tightening my grip around the circumference of the pot. “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
Sabrina glanced over. “Oh, I didn’t even see you!” She turned and hugged me awkwardly, which was hard because of the plant between us. She smiled broadly, “Thank you so much for coming to my little shindig! It is really such a pleasure to see you…” her words seemed to falter a bit as she searched for my name, “Diane?”
“It’s Dorcas actually,” I said with a self-effacing smile. “It’s easy to remember because it’s so awful.”
“Of course! Dorcas! That’s a lovely name!” said Sabrina joyously, patting my arm. She seemed at loss for words. The dark-haired girl was itching to return to her conversation.
“This is for you,” I said, holding out the pot.
“Oh! How kind of you!” Sabrina said as she took it rather awkwardly. She examined the pot for a moment, her lovely brow furrowing slightly, “How pretty! You’re so crafty!”
“It’s nice and rustic,” the dark-haired girl chimed in, her eyes held a disapproving gesture. “Is it a kind of flower?”
“It’s sage,” I said softly, pointing to the plant, “It’s really good for cooking.” My voice faltered a bit but I remembered some fact my father once told me, “In Victorian times, it represented wisdom and immortality.”
“Wow!” chuckled Sabrina, tilting her head, her smile tightening imperceptibly, “That’s such an interesting fact. Thank you, Dorcas!” She passed the pot over to the dark haired girl, who set it unceremoniously in the back of Sabrina’s pile of gifts.
The girl turned back to Sabrina and her eyes widened with horror. “Bree! Your dress!” she cried, all too loud.
Sabrina looked frantically down at her pure white dress and saw to her despair that a dark line of dirt had appeared on her stomach where she had held the pot close to her. All the color must have drained from my skin.
“Oh no!” I said quickly, looking around frantically, “I’m so sorry, Sabrina! Can I get a wet towel or something!”
“I’ve got some wet wipes,” said the dark-haired girl derisively as she dug through her purse.
I watched numbly as the dark-haired girl scrubbed at Sabrina’s dress, the dirt fading to a grimy pale color that was less noticeable but still visible.
“You’ll probably have to dry clean it!” said the dark-haired girl bitterly.
“I am so sorry, Sabrina. I promise I’ll pay if it needs to go to the cleaners” I pleaded.
Sabrina smiled blithely. “It’s no problem at all! I’m sure the stain will come right out tonight! Thank you, Dorcas. The pot is absolutely lovely. I love it so much!” she said. There was a practiced warmth in her voice, but there was also a sharp annoyance in her eyes. I was an intruder, some ugly thing that Sabrina had found on her shoe.
I shrank back, feeling my cheeks heat up. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
“It’s fine! Enjoy the party!” Sabrina chirped dismissively, her eyes moving to her next supplicant.
I backed away and soon the crowd hid me from the contemptuous eyes of Sabrina and her friend. In my daze of embarrassment, I found myself backing into the conversation grouping of Mrs. Melanie Knight and her gaggle of women friends. All were expensively attired in designer clothes. They were ageless blondes, beautiful wives of church leaders and business men. Mrs. Knight looked me up and down before smiling broadly.
“You’re Judy Gebb’s daughter, right?” Mrs. Knight said, recognizing my features.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied quickly, trying to remember the lines my mother taught me to say when I ran into the hostess at a party, “Thank you so much for opening up your beautiful home. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Oh, aren’t you a sweetheart!” Mrs. Knight cooed, patting my cheek affectionately, “Do, I don’t need anything, honey! How is school going! I’ve heard you’re quite the scholar!”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m graduating a year early,” I said, looking down demurely.
“Isn’t that just fine!” Mrs. Knight proclaimed, “What a smart girl! What are you planning to do after college?”
“Well, I’m hoping to go on to law school,” I replied, my eyes darting between Mrs. Knight and the other women. “I’m taking the LSAT in September.” I didn’t add that it was my father who had encouraged me to pursue that field.
“Law school!” declared one of the women, in a bit of a snide tone, “That’s quite ambitious, isn’t it.”
“My daughter, Mindy, thought about law,” another of the women chimed in, “But I told her that since she was getting married it would be better to go into a less demanding field.”
“A wife needs time to support her husband!” said the first woman cheerfully. “A woman can’t exactly do that if she’s working eighty hours a week in some dreadful law firm. It’s not good for the family.”
“Especially when children come,” said the second woman, “For the life of me, I can’t imagine how these career women can be willing to sacrifice the chance to see their babies grow up. For what? An extra paycheck?”
“Some families need an extra income,” interjected Mrs. Knight quietly.
“Not if a girl marries the right man!” continued the first woman, “I would be absolutely appalled if my son let his wife work. A wife’s place is at home. It’s his job to support his family.”
“That’s quite traditionalist of you, Molly,” said Mrs. Knight with a teasing tone, “When Greg was first getting his business started, I worked three jobs even with the kids so we could make ends meet.”
“But that’s not careerist, Melanie,” Molly retorted, “You weren’t going out like some radical feminist trying to wear the pants. You did it for your family, not yourself. And after Greg got his act together, he let you stay home.”
“Quite right,” said Mrs. Knight with a wistful laugh, “I wouldn’t sacrifice those moments as a homemaker for anything.”
“How long is law school?” the second woman asked, her attention suddenly turning back to the topic at hand.
“Just three years,” I replied, feeling increasingly awkward.
The second woman shook her head. “That’s not terrible. Don’t you plan on getting married, though? That would make it very hard.”
My face must have reddened like a tomato. I was barely able to stammer out some words, “Well, I don’t know… I’d like to…”
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” inquired Mrs. Knight, raising her eyebrows, “I thought you were dating someone.”
“No…” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
The women giggled. “How old are you?” asked the woman named Molly.
“Twenty-one,” I replied.
“Twenty-one and you’ve never had a boyfriend?” said the second woman with a noticeable snort. “Hasn’t any boy been interested in you?”
“Not really,” I said quietly, my nails digging into the cuticles of my fingers as I held my hands behind my back.
There was a boy once… Long ago. I don’t say his name though. What a riot that would cause in this crowd…
“That’s quite alright, darling,” said Mrs. Knight with a sympathetic nod, “You still have time to find someone.”
“It might be good to lower your standards a bit,” said Molly a little snidely, “So many nice boys get rejected by girls who think they’re too good for them.”
“I’m sure that’s not her problem,” chided the second woman insinuatingly, looking over my overweight body. “Perhaps God doesn’t want her to get married. The apostle Paul once said celibacy is a very valuable gift for a servant in His house. Not everyone is destined to have a spouse and a family. It gives them more time for serving and taking care of the widows and orphans and whatnot.”
“Sometimes that’s better for the less attractive girls,” replied Molly, into her cup. “They won’t have to worry about leading their brothers-in-Christ astray with lustful thoughts.”
“Dorcas is such a good girl,” said Mrs. Knight, slipping her arm around my shoulders, “I’m sure she will be happy with whatever God gives her as long as she remains virtuous.”
“Is it true that your Sabrina is saving her first kiss for her wedding day?” asked the second woman, changing the subject.
“Oh yes! Sabrina wants to be completely pure when she gets married. They’ve only even held hands,” said Mrs. Knight, a note of pride in her voice, “Her boyfriend, you know her boyfriend, Azariah, he’s been completely respectful about it. He’s saving his first kiss too. Both of them will be completely pure in the eyes of God when they get married.”
“So they will be getting married,” said Molly, raising her brow in excitement.
“It’s in the works!” said Mrs. Knight, tapping her nose.
“I’m so happy Sabrina is choosing to remain pure,” said the second woman. “So many girls these days throw their bodies away on boys who will never be their husbands. I know it’s such a kiss, but it is so much more righteous I think to save one’s whole body for one’s husband. That’s what I did.”
“See, girls like you must have so much less temptation to sully your purity,” said Molly, directing her eyes to me. “There’s so much less enticement.”
I nodded slightly, feeling a strange sense of dislocation, like I didn’t even exist anymore. I felt like I was underwater, that I wasn’t even part of the world anymore. I backed away from the women, muttering apologies.
“It’s a shame what happened to her father.” I heard one of the women murmur as I turned the corner.
“Apostates can’t be helped,” the other replied just within earshot. “He’ll see the God he so vehemently denied, though.”
"All those so-called atheists will," whispered Mrs. Knight.
I fled, feeling tears burn in my eyes. I felt so detached from reality. I’m sure I spent a solid hour hiding in Mrs. Knight’s bathroom. The sobs came then, and they were silent and shuddering. In that moment I just wanted these walls to burn. I would raze this place to the ground and let all those grinning faces melt in the fire. I would burn with them and we could all live in the Hell that they put my dead father in. Then I laid on the cold tile floor, feeling so incredibly empty. What was the point of any of this? Even though I hated them all so desperately, there was nowhere else to go. I was trapped and there was no respite.
Tonight feels like that, here at Sabrina Herringford’s surprise engagement. My stomach churns with the familiar shame and anxiety. My mouth hurts from the pretend smile I paste on my face like an uncomfortable mask. I have to keep smiling. I have to keep moving from room to room like I am on a very important mission. The worst thing in the world is to be caught standing alone, a dying fish flopping and gasping outside the established pools of conversation. I have to keep moving, even though my feel ache from the pain of my high heels. I have to look happy, then no one would know how pathetic I really am.
I find the punch bowl again. I dip the silver embossed ladle into the ruby liquid, catching some floating orange slices and bobbing raspberries. I take a long swig, tasting the sharp bourbon in the back of my throat. It is warm and comforting. I drain my plastic cup and take another ladleful, then another. I like how alcohol makes me feel all fuzzy and limp, like a ragdoll made of felted cloth. The anxiety is washed with warm whiskey, becoming lost in the haze. I shouldn’t drink so much… I still have to drive home, after all. But as I wander through the party nursing my spiked punch, I feel less conspicuous. I care so much less when I’m tipsy. All these pretty girls and their handsome boyfriends and husbands can go to hell for all I care. I can sink into forgetfulness for just a moment.
I focus on my walk, following the lines of the wood floors Indian style, one foot over another. If I was drunk, could I do this? I follow the boards with expert care, tiptoeing. I find myself by the back door. I escape onto the patio, feeling the night air splash over my face with a lovely breeze. It is so pretty outside. You can see the stars glittering on a blue velvet sky. The Knights have an ornamental English garden in their backyard. That has to be the fanciest thing I’ve ever seen.
I wander out into the dark, into the maze of hedges and ornamental plants. How different is this from the painted pots on my porch, so wild and tangled. Everything here is trimmed to perfection, not a flaw exposed in the straight patterns of plant-life. I feel like my head is spinning. I find a brick wall that seeps with shadows, a perfect hiding place. There will be no peeing partygoers here. I slump against the wall, letting the darkness cover me like the warmest blanket. I think of my father and the time before it all became hard. I look up into the sky and think of him pointing out the constellations to me. Dad could name them all so easily but I could never read them. The stars above seem as inscrutable as ever. To my bleary eyes, they are a sea of random dots with no order however imaginary.
I want to sleep. I want to close my eyes and sleep forever. Maybe in dreams I’ll see him again…
I let my lids fall. I hear the choir of crickets chirping. It is never silent is it? I let myself drown in the noise of night. I can hear the breeze rustle the trees, the subtle rustling of the grass. In the far off distance, there is the sound of the party, but that is far away. I am safe here and it cannot touch me. The patterns of sound become a gentle lullaby, carrying me away into the safety of their embrace. For a moment I am not me anymore and I am not here. For a moment I am free.
Then something breaks the spell. The sound of steps, quick running steps. My heart pounds and my eyes flick open. Someone is coming. I panic. No, no, no, no. This is bad. I have no explanation for what to say if I’m caught here. I’m doing nothing wrong but that means nothing. I’d prefer to be caught committing some crime than have to brutally spell out the truth, that I’m an awkward loser hiding from a party.
I hear the steps coming closer. I get to my feet. At least now this stranger won’t catch me sitting down. My pulse is frantic. I decide to slink further into the darkness. Maybe they won’t see me if I stay very still.
And then, I see a figure running into the garden, a young man in a suit, breathless and frantic, looking like a man possessed. My heart stops with a sudden seizure. I want to die. It is the prospective fiancé himself. It is Azariah Elias McKinley.
Oh fuck.
If that phrase is too vulgar, I apologize. A good Christian girl shouldn't even know the word "fuck" much less say it. But I cannot think of a phrase more applicable to a situation like this. Azariah McKinley wasn’t nothing to me. In fact, I am responsible for the mild sullying of Mr. McKinley’s purported purity.
I kissed Azariah McKinley. I was his first and he was mine.
It wasn’t just any old kiss, either. No chaste little peck for us. It was a full blown passionate kiss with tongue included. I de-virginized poor Azariah’s mouth and I’m not even sorry. This was back in the old days, back when the sinkhole had eaten the McKinley family house and the the whole seven of them had lived with us for nearly a year, back when my dad was still alive. I had been fifteen and just fully developing into some semblance of womanhood. He was sixteen, a lanky boy with beautiful blue eyes and broad shoulders that promised to be strong one day soon.
His mother had told my mother to make sure I was wearing a camisole because she caught her son looking down my shirt. I was ashamed of that then, of the fact that my body was growing curvier and people would look at me differently. But I liked the way Azariah looked at me. I liked to look at him too. You would probably think that we were very wicked. Good Christian children don’t look at each other that way.
I remember we had hiked up into the mountains behind my house, looking for the shack where his brother swore an old hermit had chased him away with a shotgun. We didn’t really believe him, but Az wanted to investigate and I wanted to be with Az. In the endless maze of tall trees, bursting with fall foliage, we searched for the purported shack, finding nothing. Then I asked Az if he ever thought about marrying somebody. He said he never wanted to get married. I said I’d only marry someone if I was in love like no one was ever in love before. Az joked I’d probably die an old maid then. I told him that I wanted to be kissed at least once in my life if that was the case. As the sunlight filtered through the red autumn leaves, I asked him to kiss me.
And he did.
It was awkward at first, full of the usual nose bumping and discomfort. But then he kissed me a second time and it wasn’t awkward at all. It felt like the most natural thing in the universe. In a moment of instinct, I opened my mouth and slipped my tongue against his and he held me tighter and we might have gone the full nine yards if we hadn’t heard an old man scream at us to stop our necking and get off his property. Azariah and I screamed and ran all the way home. Our cheeks were flushed and red as we stumbled through the creek and into my backyard.
We didn’t talk about that moment ever again. Nothing ever came of it. He never became my boyfriend and he didn’t really look at me afterwards. A week later, his family moved into their new house and my time with the McKinleys was over. I didn’t see much of him after that. We moved in different circles, I guess. Then my dad got sick… and after that it didn’t matter anymore.
As I saw Azariah panting in the garden, a wave of exaltation swept over me. I had gotten something little Miss Perfect Sabrina would never get. I got Azariah’s first kiss.
(to be continued....)
Submitted August 04, 2018 at 12:48AM by magdeleina https://ift.tt/2LYlwVW
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