Skinny Read online

  SKINNY

  A Novel

  Diana Spechler

  To my Timber Creek kids, and to the grown-ups, too

  I put the Special in front of the fat man and a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup to the side.

  Thank you, he says.

  You are very welcome, I say—and a feeling comes over me.

  Believe it or not, he says, we have not always eaten like this.

  Me, I eat and I eat and I can’t gain, I say. I’d like to gain, I say.

  No, he says. If we had our choice, no. But there is no choice.

  Then he picks up his spoon and eats.

  —from “Fat” by Raymond Carver

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Part I - Before

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part II - Surrendering

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Part III - After

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  P. S.Insights, Interviews & More . . .

  About the author

  About the book

  Read on

  Also by Diana Spechler

  Credit

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part I

  Before

  CHAPTER ONE

  After I killed my father, he taught me that honesty is optional. But, of course, I’d always known that. This was why I loathed being naked—my choices were stripped away.

  It was the first day of Staff Training, forty-eight hours before I would meet Eden Bellham, and I was naked among strangers. Well, naked enough. We all whispered, “I feel so naked!” and giggled, awaiting commiseration, because who wants to be the Most Naked Person, to let her body blab her secrets? We stood in bathing suits and flip-flops. We were goose bumps sheathed in towels. We were vulnerable knees, scars with stories, fading bruises, February flesh. We were yellow-tinged toenails, awkward tattoos, scratched mosquito bites, suspicious moles. We were shamefully unshaven. We were birthmarks meant for lovers. We were eyes stealing glances. We were eyes pretending not to steal glances.

  Lewis was calling my name.

  We were gathered in the politely dim student lounge, which Lewis called the canteen. I separated from the group that was clustered around a bar with no stools, no bottles, no bartender, and walked to the middle of the lounge, where Lewis stood with the nurse, an obese woman with silver hair who had told us to call her Nurse, whose shiny beige leggings carried her cellulite like tight sacks of oatmeal. Nurse was holding a noose of tape measure around the nutritionist’s neck.

  As I approached, Lewis watched me watch him. The picture of him on the Camp Carolina website, a head and shoulders shot, had depicted a much thinner man. In fact, his face was relatively thin—saggy at the neck, but narrow; clean-shaven; punctuated by wire-rimmed glasses and a gray helmet of hair with a widow’s peak so perfect, his forehead was shaped like the top of a heart. It was the middle of his body that betrayed him, like the hoop inside a clown suit.

  “Gray Lachmann.” He swept an arm across his body and bowed. “Gray from New York City.”

  “Such a sad name,” Nurse said, clucking her tongue. She shook her head and her chins flapped. “Come here, honey.” For an alarming moment, I looked at her outstretched arms and thought that she wanted to hug me, to ease the ache of my lackluster name. But then she let the tape measure unfurl from her hand. “Let’s see what you add up to.”

  Nurse wrapped the tape measure around each of my arms, my waist, my hips. She whispered, “These leggings give me a wedgie.” She scribbled something on a clipboard.

  I let my towel fall to the floor, stepped out of my flip-flops, and stood against a wall. My bathing suit was a brown one-piece, as discreet as a loin cloth. I tried to remember more naked moments, but even the night I’d lost my virginity, I’d been wearing a sweatshirt and also had been spectacularly drunk. No, this was the moment. This was it. No one had ever been more naked than this.

  “I grew up in New York,” Lewis said, aiming his camera at me. I smiled into the flash. “In my heart, I’ll always be a New Yorker.” I envisioned him running to catch a taxi, his balloon belly bouncing, his silver whistle knocking against his chest. “I used to eat at Luigi’s. In the Theater District? Back when I was a binge eater.” Lewis chuckled. “They have eggplant parm as big as your head. It’s worth going.” He motioned for me to step on the scale at his feet. “Just for the eggplant. It falls over the edges of the plate . . . How tall are you?”

  “Five four.”

  I watched him punch numbers into a handheld device attached to the scale by a long wire. “You’re hardly fat at all,” he diagnosed, and for some reason, I remembered my father stealing fries from my plate, poking them into his mouth, saying, “You and your mother with your French fry aversions. Look what you make me do.” Then to whoever else was in earshot: “And they wonder why I’m fat, these women.”

  “Are you going to commit to the diet?” Lewis asked.

  I knelt to grab my towel. When I stood, I laughed. “I’m afraid of commitment.” My laughter rang false, pinging off the walls like a pinball. I thought of my boyfriend, Mikey, saying, “Leave funny to me, Gray.”

  “Are you going to—” Lewis scrunched his brow, as if trying to remember something he’d read. “Are you going to surrender to my program?”

  I could have answered him honestly: I didn’t
fancy myself the surrendering kind. I recoiled to think of abandoning control, of being caught under the arms and dragged someplace to rest. But the problem with the truth was that inside it lay another truth, and inside that another truth, like those wooden Russian nesting dolls. So instead I asked, “The diet the kids are doing?” I pulled my towel tight around my chest, letting my stomach muscles relax just a bit. I said cheerfully, “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

  In the past year, I had grown dependent on platitudes: That’s neither here nor there. Qué será será. People always agreed. They sighed and nodded their heads and said, “That’s for damn sure.” If there was one thing they knew how to spot, it was wisdom.

  “That’s what I always say.” Lewis rubbed his belly sagely. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mostly, I was not a dishonest person. I had never shoplifted or copied answers on a test. Back in New York, when I felt like breaking plans, I told friends, “I’m staying in tonight,” instead of doing what most people did, which was pretend to have a catastrophic disease. And I had been with Mikey for five years without cheating, ever since I met him outside Big Apple Comedy Club.

  I was different then, fifteen pounds lighter, a girl with a father, a girl with a stupid office job. And I was so militantly in love with New York City, I once spent a Sunday on the double-decker tourist bus. Mikey was different then, too—a “new jack,” fresh out of the box, selling tickets for his own shows in the street.

  I noticed him before he noticed me. I was walking aimlessly through the West Village, alone, because I loved Manhattan and its infinite channels. A guy in a red Big Apple Comedy Club T-shirt stood blocking the sidewalk. He was remarkably large, but not large like my father. My father was the fattest person I knew. I’d seen fatter people—on television, and in the Guinness Book of World Records, like the man who could get through a doorway only if he was buttered; and in person, too, but they were usually confined to wheelchairs.

  By contrast, my father was active. He was no triathlete, but he cannonballed into swimming pools; and at weddings, he did the twist so low, his knees would crack audibly. When he waltzed my mother around the living room, she vanished—tiny and insignificant—against his great belly, his sweating round head, his mammoth hands. This guy in the street wasn’t fat; he was a relatively healthy-looking giant. And his presence was more assailable than my father’s. He looked overgrown—a vegetable that should have been picked and was now too ripe.

  “You like stand-up comedy?” he asked me. It was what he was asking everyone. He sounded distracted. I couldn’t possibly have appreciated the weight of his question. Had he asked me something more direct, like, “Would you like me to change the course of your life?” I would have whacked him with my purse, shouted, “No!” and run.

  But I said, “I love stand-up comedy.” I could see in his brown eyes that he knew how to flirt. That was all it was: I wanted to be flirted with. I wanted to pat his wild black hair. I was twenty-two and I didn’t know anything.

  In those first months with Mikey, I always ran the last few blocks to his apartment because I couldn’t get to him quickly enough. I spent hours in Saint Mark’s Bookshop, poring over books he had mentioned—books about Taoism and Steve Martin and disasters that might end the world.

  In the years that followed, I was a faithful girlfriend, guilty of only the most minor transgressions: a kiss in the back of a comedy club, for example, a few months before I left for camp. Mikey was onstage when it happened, the spotlight in his eyes. He was doing a bit he’d been working out for weeks—a joke about his girlfriend’s father dying. It wasn’t funny yet. Sometimes jokes took months to smooth out. This one still had wrinkles.

  I was sitting beside an older comic who had just been on Conan O’Brien and always wore a fedora onstage; a guy full of a bravado particular to men with above-average access to sex. He leaned into me and tipped his hat. He whispered, “If you don’t mind my saying so, your boyfriend’s a douche.”

  I whispered, “I mind your saying so,” but when he pressed his mouth to mine, I let him. I was sick of Mikey’s dead father joke.

  And there were those months of correspondence with my high school crush. We exchanged e-mails day after day, spilling words into each other like bodily fluids, until he finally proposed a visit and I had to admit that I lived with my boyfriend. For weeks after that, my heart pounded whenever I checked my e-mail, but my in-box stayed sadly empty of him.

  And there were many men in many bars—Can I buy you a drink? So what’s your story?—men in suits and loosened ties, exhausted bankers sipping single malts; men from whom I would slip away while they checked the score or flagged the bartender; men who touched my necklaces, their knuckles brushing my collarbones. I loved tired men with needy hands.

  And who’s to say Mikey was the perfect boyfriend? I knew how things went in the comedy clubs. After shows, girls stood outside smoking and fixing their bangs, or they ordered vodka sodas and lingered at their tables. They told Mikey, “You were so funny.” They thought they’d found the key to happiness—a boyfriend who could make them laugh. They said, “I loved your joke about traffic. I loved your joke about the president. I loved when you said that thing to that person in the audience about his ugly sweater.” They got up close to him and thrust out their chests. They smoothed their shiny hair over their hopeful shoulders.

  But none of that matters. I know that. I do. What Mikey might have or might not have done—that doesn’t matter at all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  What mattered was this: Before my father died, I spent most of my life dieting, spent most days knowing, at every moment, how many calories I had thus far consumed. As a child, I sat through school days distracted, squeezing my stomach beneath the desk, counting calories in my head as the clock hands made their circles. I did sit-ups instead of homework, my feet trapped beneath the couch.

  Each day, I ate my way to sixteen hundred, then stopped, brushed my teeth, and silently recited my dieting mantra in a firm voice unlike my own, the voice of a referee: “You’re done.”

  Before my father died, my answer to, “Would you like to see the dessert menu?” was always, unequivocally “No.” I avoided croissants. I avoided white pasta. If I craved pasta, I imagined a loaf of Wonder Bread smothered in tomato sauce, thought, empty carbs, nutritional zero, and pictured my stomach rising like dough. I rarely missed a day at the gym. Every couple of months, I’d lose control, eat three slices of pizza, binge on peanut M&M’s; but the next day, I’d be right back at it—counting, measuring, lacing up my sneakers.

  And then my father died and I inherited his hunger.

  At first, I was confused, so I believed what I was told. “Such a stressful time,” people said, touching my hair, rubbing slow circles on my back. I believed them that stress was pulling me loose from myself, making me drift up and hover above things, so that all of life looked surreal. It was stress that made me detach enough to eat and eat without stopping.

  Shivah felt like an amateur production of an absurd play. My mother and I, like set designers, covered the mirrors with linens. My uncles left their faces unshaven, as if the drama teacher had told them, “In this scene, you must appear grief-stricken.” And then there were the actors with bit parts—the chorus, the townspeople, the shopkeepers. The people came in droves. The people loved my father. The people came with food as though they planned to resurrect him.

  So there were things to bite into: the edges of casseroles—burnt, black, crumbly, scraped from the glass with spatulas. The sweet insides of blintzes. The cool thickness of cream cheese, a pillowy bite from a bagel, the light smokiness of lox. As I chewed, I let my eyelids drop, like curtains over an unpleasant scene.

  Each time I found my plate empty, I wanted one more thing. Perhaps a piece of pie would fill me. When it didn’t, I appealed to the spinach and artichoke dip. Once I’d finished that off, I realized I’d been misguided all day; all I needed, in fact, was
a dish of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Even when the nausea came, I kept scrounging for the food that would save me.

  Then someone made my mother a sandwich. She whispered to me, “I can’t taste a thing, Gray. It’s sawdust.”

  Her words weren’t out of character. She often waved away food: “It’s not worth the calories!” “Who needs pastries?” “I’m stuffed; I couldn’t possibly.” This was the woman who had taught me to weigh my vegetables on an antique food scale.

  But in the wake of my father’s death, I wondered: In what, if not food, was she finding relief? How was she managing these days, these minutes, if not by sinking her teeth into things, filling her stomach, and then waiting, exhausted, as digestion made space for more?

  “I feel like Dad,” I told her, as I wolfed a warm slice of cake, covering my mouth with my fingers, ashamed of my feverish chewing.

  “Honey,” she said, watching me, “if cake’s going to get you through this, then go ahead. Eat cake.” But the crinkling of her forehead said otherwise. We were not cake-eating women.

  This was how my father had chosen to haunt his daughter.

  Not by appearing to me in my dreams. Not by brushing the back of my hand with invisible, ghostly fingers. Not by speaking through silence to me, or smiting my enemies, or slamming doors, or making framed family pictures fall mysteriously from shelves and shatter. My vengeful father, in the afterlife, stole my self-control.

  The people kept explaining: “Death makes people hungry. Funerals make people hungry.” So during shivah, we feasted together—a social, manic, boisterous binge. And then they said the dumbest things:

  “We’re celebrating his life!”

  “He would just love this!”

  “I can picture Alan now. Can’t you see him laughing at us?”