Fat Chance Page 13
"I'm not even sure," I whisper. "I mean, I knew I was giving my self-worth to Rick. I knew how wrong I was to let his opinions about me have such an effect on me. I'm not sure I even realized that I was doing that with the girls at work."
"Don't you remember that it was the girls you work with, who sent you to me?"
"It was. So, what do I do now?"
"If you've slacked off from the daily quotes, start them up again. Are you still taking the antidepressant?"
"I have definitely slacked off the quotes, but I'm still taking my meds. I thought about stopping them lately, but I haven't. What else can I do? I'm just so sick of feeling like this, and feeling so vulnerable all the time. It's like I have a target on my forehead or something."
"Just keep doing what you know is right," Mac answers, trying to check his watch without being obvious. "Use the strategies that we've worked on. Listen to the music, sink into yourself some. Find your own power, and form your own opinions of your worth."
"Okay," I say, nodding my head. "You have an appointment soon, right?"
He looks sheepish for a second, but I've been seeing him so long that we've almost developed a sort of friendship, so he tells the truth. "Kind of."
"Well, let me scoot out of here then, and I'll see you at my next regular, okay?" He smiles and I gather my purse to leave, walking to the door of his little sanctuary alone. Turning back, I can see the worker in him, the therapist who loves his patients. He's walked to his desk and is digging out a file, checking the batteries in his recorder.
"Dr.Caswell?" I ask, my hand frozen on the doorknob.
He looks up. "Yes?"
"Thank you," I say, turning to go.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It's amazing how much your perspective can change in a short time. Since my last appointment with Dr. Caswell, I haven't been having as much trouble with my personal view of myself. Not at work, anyway. I'm good at my job, and have finally been invited into the management program. Being thin is not a requirement for my job, so long as I can do the job well. Not to mention, how good it felt to be called up in front of the company at the meeting last week, and watching the shock settle on Claire's face.
That's right, sweetheart. You might be thin, but it doesn't make you better than me. Your man wants me for my new confidence, and I just got the job you've been gunning for.
Taking my certificate of promotion from the owner of the company, I step back to allow another woman room. We leave the stage, and as I pass Claire and her friend Kayla, I blow them a kiss and keep walking.
***
"Come on, you guys, I've told it four times!" I argue, holding my hands up in front of me. I can't stop laughing, though I'm embarrassed. When I told Renee about the confrontation with Claire and Kayla, I'd just been catching her up on how I was doing, but she said she was so proud she had to tell the girls.
It's four thirty in the afternoon, and I'm in the middle of a crowded table at Renee's favorite Italian place; the girls from the yoga class surround me, and we're waiting for our dinners to arrive. Most of the girls are already drinking something fruity and alcoholic, but my splurge for the evening is a basic cherry soda.
"Just one more time," Casey laughs, sipping her apple martini. "I can use this, next time I want to punch someone. You know, I'm such a physical person; I need to learn to use my words, like I tell my kids."
"Here, here," Alicia says, raising her own martini. "When you figure out how to make that work, let me know!"
A ripple of laughter goes around the table, and then Renee turns to me, raising her own glass, a lemon-scented Long Island iced tea. "Thanks for coming out with us after class, you guys, to help me celebrate my baby sister." The women around me lift their drinks and make random toasts of pride.
Through my weeks in the yoga class, they've all watched me grow, not only in physical ability, but also in personal strength. At one time or another, they've all pulled me aside to comment on my more positive outlook, and if I had to choose any group of women to celebrate my work promotion with, it'd be this group.
Our food arrives, and as we dig in, Rose looks over at me, gesturing with a forked ravioli. "I really admire the changes you've made, Cass," she says, "you just remind me so much of myself, but in a whole new way. And I know you let your body get to you, but let me tell you something I don't tell a lot of people. I didn't used to be this small."
I find this hard to believe, since Rose is the goddess who runs the yoga studio. She's a bit taller than I am, slim and firm, with round breasts and muscular legs. Her waist is narrow and her hips curve the way I wish mine did.
Rose's sister Candace reaches over and places a supportive hand on her arm. They exchange a look, and Rose goes on, "When I started yoga, I was really overweight," she begins.
"I had just lost my husband, and I was just terribly depressed. So I just started with one pose a day, and when it became a habit, I added another, and another. Eventually, I was doing routines, taking classes, and then I was teaching. Now that I have the studio, I don't know what I'd have done without it. And it's not some fitness guru crap, just that I found peace in something, you know? And after a while, weight was falling off, and other parts of my life changed too. Not until yoga gave me confidence, though."
"That's like me, with running," Stephanie says, perking up. She pushes her plate aside and leans a little closer to me. "I wasn't very small either, but when I started running, I lost a little weight. More importantly, I kind of found myself. I think we all have this thing in life, that we're built into, something that feeds our souls, you know?"
Candace laughs. "Yeah, you go on, with that running. I'll stick right to my stool in the painting studio."
Personally, I can't express how much peace I've found, right here at this table, surrounded by women who care about who I am. They aren't offended if my heels don't touch the floor yet in a downward dog, and they don't care what size my yoga pants are.
Still, if Stephanie is right, I'm still missing something. I don't have that thing she talked about, that thing that feeds me from within. Yoga helps me to ground myself, and therapy helps me to understand myself; being accepted into this group so openly helps me learn to accept myself. But I'm still lacking that thing that fills me with inner peace, the way Candace is filled with peace when she's alone with a canvas and a brush, the way Rose is filled with peace when she's worked her body to a new limit.
The way Drew is filled with peace when he's on the back of a horse, smiling back at me without the weight of grief in his eyes.
We chatter on through dinner, but in my mind, I'm keeping a running list of possible hobbies, things that I can try. I know I'm no artist, so that's out. I'm never going to be obsessive about yoga, like Rose, though I do like the emotional high of reaching a new milestone in my abilities. I'm not going to achieve my sense of inner peace from bouncing around on horseback, much as I enjoy it.
There is one thing, though, that sticks out to me, one little part of the conversation that feels like it fits. I've always wanted to run. I've always wanted to be one of those people who can get lost in their own little world, GPS strapped to their arms, music flowing into their hearts from the ear buds they wear. I've always been too afraid to try it, unable to move my focus away from the parts of my body that might still be moving, long after I've stopped running.
After dinner, I pull Stephanie aside, and we walk together to our cars. "Tell me about running," I say to her, readjusting my purse on my shoulder.
"Running? What do you want to know?"
"Well, like, if someone were interested in giving it a shot?" I ask. I feel incredibly self-aware; my hips are wobbly under my yoga pants and I can feel my breasts move as I walk. Her body behaves itself, taut and well trained.
"You want to try it?" she asks, stopping to look at me. I try, but I can't seem to meet her eyes.
"It's simple," she says, beginning to walk again. I fall into step with her, and she chatters on, giving me time t
o recover myself.
"You want to start out just walking. Work your way into a jog, and see what your body says to you. If it feels good, keep going a while, then walk some more. Before long, your body just tells you to run, and you give it shot. Now, Cass, I'm not a trainer, so maybe I'm doing it all wrong. All I know is that it feels good for me, it works for me. You know?"
"I think I'm gonna maybe try it," I say nervously. Stephanie gives me her number, telling me to call if I have any questions, or if I just want to talk. Smiling, I get into my car and watch to make sure she is fine in hers. We wave, and I drive off.
It is still early. I could try it.
Driving up to my apartment building, I find that I really do want to try jogging. There's that part of me that's afraid, though; I know that if I go upstairs, even to drop my phone and purse in the apartment, that little insecure part of me will stop me from coming back out.
Well alright, then.
I shove my phone into my purse, wishing I had pockets, and stuff my purse into the trunk of my car. Keeping my keys in my hand because I have nowhere else to put them, I set off down my street at a brisk walk.
Before long, I'm jogging lightly, and if I can force myself to ignore my wildly bouncing breasts, I'm actually having a good time. I'm thinking any old man could run faster than I am right now, and for once, I just don't care. My ponytail is bouncing with my breasts, and I feel free, with the light evening breeze in my face and cars rushing.
It doesn't even occur to me that the people in those cars might be laughing, or insulting, or talking about my body. I feel young and alive, my feet pounding along as I pump my arms. Right now, really and truly, I'm just having fun.
It doesn't last long though; my knees heat up with the motion and my calves start to burn, so I slow to a walk and turn back for home. All in all, it was a good first try, and I will do it again.
I grab my purse from the trunk and walk up the stairs to my apartment, smiling. I can feel my blood coursing through me, and I think maybe, just maybe, I've found my thing. Dropping my purse on the couch and locking the door to my apartment, I head for the bathroom, stripping for a shower, and as I approach the bathtub, I catch a glimpse of my rosy face in the mirror.
Yes, I will be doing that again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
"Should we be talking about this?" I ask, turning my head to look into Drew's eyes. He's already watching me; his gaze is sure and steady, the green of his eyes flecked with little bits of brown.
"You don't need to," he says, taking my hand in his. We've been lying here chatting for a while, just looking into the clouds. We've walked the park together, and we've stopped for corn dogs; now we're just resting in the middle of the open soccer field.
"I need to talk about it though, and I've spoken to Dr. Caswell, too. He's discharging me from therapy next week, and he says the most important part of healing, is owning what sent me there, living honestly with it. And since we've been dating a while now, I think it's something I should tell you, and there's never going to a right moment, so ..." he trails off, waiting.
I sit up and turn to look down into his face. Taking his hand in both of mine, I nod, giving him permission to tell me his story.
"I've been in therapy for a while now," he says, with a sigh. "Because I killed someone."
Struggling not to drop his hand in shock, I remind myself that he is a cop, and that in his line of work, violence is simply part of his lifestyle. There is a reason that police officers are issued weapons, and I remind myself of that, too, thinking of how crushed I'd be if something happened to him.
"Okay," I say, taking a breath to steady myself. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
"I think I have to. I really like being with you, and I can't stay in this relationship without being honest about where I've been," he answers, and I feel a flicker of guilt for not telling him everything about Rick, for glossing over Rick as if he isn't a problem for me.
"I appreciate that," I say, lowering my eyes to his hand in my lap, held between my hands.
"It was on the job. My partner, Nick, and I were called to a domestic dispute, and the poor wife had been beaten half to death. The husband kept screaming that she couldn't leave him and that he'd caught her cheating for the last time, stuff like that. Nick was with the husband, trying to keep him in line and get him to calm down, and I was with the wife, trying to get her story before the paramedics hauled her out. I was so focused on her, trying to get everything she could tell me. She looked awful; her face was a mess, and they thought she had broken ribs, and ..." his breath hitches, his voice trails away, and he turns his face back to the sky.
I wait, trying to give him space to get himself together, afraid that if I speak, I'll break the moment and he won't tell me the rest. Stroking his fingers, I look out over the field, watching a puppy chase a toddler toward the playground.
"They had a child, too," he whispers, having followed my gaze to the golden-haired boy, still running with his floppy-eared puppy. "Their baby was with the wife's mother that night."
"I was stupid, Cass; I followed the paramedics out the door with the wife, and then I heard Nick shout for me. I was too late for him; the husband had rushed him, stabbing him. He's okay now, though. But me?" A tear slips from the corner of his eye, slowly making a trail toward his temple and disappearing into his dark hair. I wonder now, if the gray in his hair was there, before this story became part of his life.
"I'm a mess," he says.
"But I thought you said Nick is okay."
"The husband, he had Nick on the living room floor when I went running back in, and all I could see was blood. Nick's blood was already pooling in the floor." His fingers have tightened on mine, and I wiggle my hand some, reminding him of where he is. He relaxes, and his eyes meet mine again, before he continues.
"He looked up when I came in, and then he rushed me. All I could think was that the medics were gone with the wife; I'd sent them on because she was in pretty bad shape. There was no time to call for anyone; he was coming at me, and the knife was still dripping blood, and Nick was moaning, and I just -- I just --"
His voice is gone again, his breath is ragged, and his face is rapidly turning red; his effort to keep himself together couldn't be more obvious. My heart breaks for him, and I tug his hand, urging him up. He throws his arm around me, and his hand buries itself in my hair as I stroke his back.
"I killed him. I killed him," he whispers into my hair. He's not crying, but it is painfully clear to me, how hard it was for him to tell me this.
"You saved yourself, and probably your partner," I tell him, leaning back to look into his face. He won't meet my eyes, so I place my hands on his face and guide our foreheads together, holding him until he looks at me.
"You did what had to be done, Drew. He'd have killed both of you."
"The wife died, too," he says, sadly. "And that little girl is without parents. She's growing up in a tug-of-war, caught between her parents' parents. She's not a beloved child anymore; she's a prize to be won. Because I killed her father."
"No," I argue. "You know that's not true, Drew. That little girl is living her destiny, because her father would be in prison for murdering his wife, not to mention you and Nick. He wouldn't have been there for her anyway."
"That's what Caswell says. We've argued over it, me blaming myself, and him coming back at me. I've never met anyone like him," Drew says, and his respect for Dr. Caswell is evident in his tone. "One time, he stood right up in that little office, and while I screamed at him, he screamed right back at me. He tried so hard to make me stop carrying it, to help me unpack the baggage and let it go."
I smile, because I have been in similar situations with Dr. Caswell, where I argue that I'm worthless and he argues that I'm lovely.
"But how can I walk through life unscathed, with the blood of another man on my hands?" he holds out the hands in question, and his misery is so heavy he literally seems to have grown shorter.
Taking his hands again, I do my best to reassure him. "Drew. You know he's right. It feels wrong, I know, walking around and having to carry it with you. But you made a choice that day between a man who beat his wife to death, and your partner. It's a good versus evil situation, Drew, and you have to believe that good won out. You may not see yourself as a super-hero anymore, but I know you see it in Nick, and you did what you had to do to save his life."
He nods his head, helpless to argue with that.
"You are not a murderer," I say, and he flinches against the word, preparing to argue with me. Taking my hand from his, I quickly press two fingertips to his mouth, and I rush on. "You are a cop, it's your job to defend your brothers, and you did your job. Would Nick have done it for you?"
"He has," he whispers, his lips moving against my fingers. I move them, because thinking of his lips moving on my body is entirely inappropriate, though I am helpless to stop the thoughts, now that they've started.