She Sins at Midnight (30 page)

J
illy hung her head over the toilet and strained to listen to what her husband was telling her. It sounded something like, “And that’s when I found Jack sticking pins into the condoms…” But he couldn’t possibly be saying that, could he? Was it really possible that she didn’t have the flu and that she was pregnant, again? Jilly closed her eyes and said a brief prayer that Bill was just yanking her chain. But on the off chance that he wasn’t, a terrible thought hit her. She shared that box of condoms with Lila, Jessica and Cynthia!

J
essica and Oscar sat out on her patio and stared at the stars. Oscar smiled contentedly and asked for the fiftieth time, “Really, a baby?”

Jessica never got tired of answering him, “That’s right. We’re going to have a baby.”

Oscar blinked back tears and held Jessica’s hand, “I’m so glad that we decided to live here after the wedding.”

Jessica replied, “Me too, Oscar, me too. Now that Creigh and Lila have decided to move into his mother’s house all we have to do is convince Cynthia to accept Barry’s proposal.”

Oscar laughed, “Something tells me that we don’t have anything to worry about there.” Then he squeezed Jessica’s hand and asked for the fifty first time, “Really, a baby?”

C
ynthia realized that she was going to have to hurry up and make up her mind about what to do with Barry. After all she had just started a new job and she hadn’t even shown up to the office once. She briefly toyed with the idea of a long distance romance but she knew from experience those rarely worked out. If only the decision could be made for her.

Cynthia felt a wave of nausea overpower her. She lay down on the couch and thought about what she’d eaten recently and briefly wondered if the shrimp from lunch might have been off. As soon as she was better she’d call Barry to see if he was feeling a little peeked too.

F
our months after the class reunion, Melinda still hadn’t found an A-list agent to represent her. She shuffled around her Hollywood Hills home for weeks trying to figure out how to climb her way back to the top. Ever since the exposé in “The Tell All Tattler,” she discovered that she couldn’t even sleep her way there as she had recently been named in no fewer than twelve divorces, the result being total abandonment by the Hollywood establishment.

The only people who wanted to hire her was a clothing company that specialized in rubber fashions called Rub-Her-Ware. In her hey day, Melinda would have laughed at the offer but now she knew that she had to do everything possible to stay in the public eye. She personally knew at least six celebrities who resorted to doing appearances on QVC. Two of them actually made movies again. Of course the other four were still hawking their handbags and face cream on infomercials.

With her game plan in line, Melinda zipped up the front of her hot pink tube top, fluffed her hair in the mirror and walked out her front door. On the way to film her first commercial, she dreamt of the day when she’d be in a position to finally even the score with those bitches in Illinois.

Julius and Vivian lay on a blanket, picnicking under a shade tree at Hedgeworth Manor. A sturdy little boy with chubby thighs tottered toward them babbling, “Mama…Dada…” He ran straight at them when the Viscount scooped him up in a big hug.

Once their little heir tired himself out and fell asleep, Vivian smiled over at her husband and sighed, “Oh Julius, I’ve never been so content in my whole life.”

Julius leaned over to his wife and gave her a lingering kiss before commenting, “You’ve made my whole world complete. I couldn’t imagine being happier than I am right at this moment.”

“Really,” Vivian asked and then playfully added, “I could imagine you being a little happier.”

“How so, wife?”

“Well, my love, you’ve always said that you wanted a sweet little girl with her mama’s temperament.”

With a huge grin on his face, Julius asked, “Do you mean?” When Vivian nodded, he continued, “Oh my love, when?”

She smiled and answered, “Colin should have his sister in another five months.”

“Oh Vivie…” Julius swept his wife into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. He whispered, “Once our little girl comes, I only want six more.”

“A BUNION?” I shriek.

“It would appear so.” answers Dr. Foster, the podiatrist referred by my HMO.

“Aren’t bunions something that old people get?”

“Yes,” he replies. “That’s normally the case, but not always. Bunions grow after years of walking incorrectly, or in some instances, not wearing the proper shoes.”

Still perplexed, I ask, “What am I doing with one then? I’m only thirty-four.”

He says that by the atypical location of my bunion, he can deduce that I have the tendency to walk on the outsides of my feet. He explains that while some people walk on the insides of their feet, giving them a knock-kneed appearance, others, like myself, rotate their feet outward; causing a waddle, if you will. I have a look of horror on my face when he says the word “waddle.” I have never been accused of such a disgusting thing in my life. But before I can form a coherent response, he continues, “The extra…weight (and I’m sure he pauses to emphasize the word) that the outside of the foot is forced to endure by walking that way eventually causes it to grow an extra padding to help support the …load.” Am I wrong or does he pause again when he says that word?

Playing dumb, I ask, “And I’m getting one so young, why?”

Clearing his throat, Dr. Foster answers, “Well, a lot of it has to do with genetics and the structure of your foot.” Then adds, “And a lot of it has to do with the extra weight (pause and meaningful look) you’re placing on it.”

I am so aghast by this whole conversation that I finally confess, “I have just lost forty pounds.” Which is a total lie by the way. In actuality I have just gained two. But I simply can’t bear the humiliation of him calling me fat, or what I perceive as him calling me fat.

The doctor smiles and declares my previous poundage did not help the inflammation at all and announces it may have contributed to my bunion. He checks his chart and declares, “I see you’re a hundred and seventy pounds. At one fifty, you should be feeling a lot better.”

“But I’m 5’11,” I explain.

“Yes?”

“I’m big boned!”

He looks at me closely and says, “Actually, you’re not.” Picking up my wrist, he concludes, “I would say medium, which means one hundred and fifty pounds would be ideal.” Of course the photo of the emaciated woman on his desk should have tipped me off as to what this guy considers ideal. She is wearing a swimsuit with no boobs or butt to fill it out and painfully sharp collar bones. She bears a striking resemblance to an Auschwitz survivor.

All I can think is that I haven’t been one-hundred-and fifty-pounds since high school. There is simply no way I can lose twenty pounds. I want to tell him he has no idea how much I deprive myself to weigh one seventy. In order to actually lose weight, I’d only be able to ingest rice cakes and Metamucil. But I don’t say this because he’d think I’m weak and unmotivated and he’d be right, too. Plus, I just bragged that I lost a record forty pounds, so he already assumes I am capable of losing weight, which of course would be the truth if it weren’t such an out-and-out lie.

The doctor writes a prescription for a special shoe insert that will help tip my foot into the correct walking position and then leaves, giving me privacy to cover my naked, misshapen appendage. As I put my sock back on I decide I am not going to go on a diet. I’m happy or happyish with the way I look and that’s all there is to it. When I leave the room, Dr. Foster tells me to come back in two months so he can recheck my bunion. In my head I respond, “Yeah right, buddy. Take a good look, this is the last time you’re ever going to see me or my growth.” I plan on wearing my shoe insert and never again speaking of my hideous deformity.

The true cruelty of this whole bunion fiasco is that I am the one in my family with pretty feet. I have three sisters and we are all a year apart. Tell me that doesn’t make for a crazy upbringing. At any rate, the year we were all in high school at the same time, my sisters and I were sitting on my bed having a nice familial chat, which was a rare occurrence as I’m sure you know girls that age are abominable as a whole. But put them under the same roof fighting over bathroom time, make-up and let’s not forget the all-important telephone. It was an ungodly ordeal to say the least.

My sisters, to my undying disgust, are all gorgeous and talented. Renée, the oldest one of the group is the unparalleled beauty of the family. Lest you think I’m exaggerating and she’s not really all that
and
a bag of chips, let me ask if the name Renée Finnegan means anything to you? Yes, that’s right, “The” Renée Finnegan, the gorgeous Midwestern girl that won the coveted Cover Girl contract when she was only seventeen, fresh out of high school. Try surviving two whole years at Pipsy High with people asking, “You’re Renée’s sister? Really?” The tone of incredulity was more than I could bear.

Next is Ginger. She’s the brain. But please, before you picture an unfortunate looking nerd with braces and braids, I should tell you that she is only marginally less gorgeous than Renée. She was also the recipient of a Rhodes scholarship, which funded her degree in the History of Renaissance Art, which she acquired at Oxford. Yes, Oxford, not the shoes, not the cloth, but the actual university in England.

The youngest of our quartet is Muffy, born Margaret Fay, but abbreviated to Muffy when at the tender age of two she couldn’t pronounce Margaret Fay and began referring to herself as one might a forty-two-year old socialite. Muffy is the jock. She plays tennis and even enjoyed a run on the pro-circuit before a knee injury forced her to retire. She did however play Wimbledon three years in a row, and while never actually winning, the experience allows her to start sentences with, “Yes, well when I played Wimbledon…” And make pronouncements like, “There’s nothing like the courts at Wimbledon in the fall.” Muffy is now the tennis pro at The Langley Country Club. Her husband Tom is the men’s tennis pro, insuring they are the tannest, most fit couple on the entire planet. They’re perfection is enough to make you barf.

I am the third child in my family, christened Miriam May Finnegan which against my express consent got shortened to Mimi. For years I demanded, “It’s Miriam, call me Miriam!” No one listened, as is the way in my family.

While sitting on my white quilted bedspread from JCPenneys, my sisters, in a moment of domestic harmony, decided we were all quite extraordinary. Renée was deemed the beautiful one, Ginger, the smart one, and Muffy, the athletic one. With those proclamations made, they appeared to be ready to switch topics when I demanded to know, “What am I?”

It’s not that my sisters didn’t love me. I don’t think they thought I was troll-like or stupid, it’s just compared to them, I didn’t have any quality that outshone any one of theirs. So after much thoughtful consideration and examination, like a prized heifer at the state fair Renée announced, “You have the prettiest feet.” Ginger and Muffy readily agreed.

Listen, I know you’re thinking “prettiest feet” isn’t something I should brag about. But in my family, I would have been thrilled to have the prettiest anything, and I am. They could have just as easily said I had the most blackheads, or the worst split ends. But they didn’t, they awarded me prettiest feet and I was proud of it. Until now. Now I have a bunion.

As I sit in front of my car in front of the Chesterton Medical Center, I become undone by the horror of having lost my identity in my family. “Who will I be now?” I wonder. Oh wait, I know, I’ll be the spinster, or the one without naturally blonde hair, my true color hovering somewhere between bacon grease and baby poop. Hey wait, I know, I’ll be the one who needs to lose twenty pounds!

I turn on the ignition in my Honda and hop on the freeway heading for the Mercer Street exit. Yet somehow, I miss my turnoff and I’ve hit Randolph before I know it. With a will of its own, my car takes the exit and drives itself to the Burger City a half mile down the road. I demand, “What did you do that for? This is no way to lose twenty pounds.” Not that I had agreed to do any such thing. But, I wasn’t looking to gain weight either.

Typically, my car doesn’t answer back, a fact for which I am eternally grateful. It simply makes its wishes known by transporting me to destinations of its choosing; Burger City, The Yummy Freeze, Dairy Queen, Pizza Hut. I’ve actually thought about trading it in, in hopes of upgrading to a car that likes to go to the gym and health food stores. But, no, this is my car and as a faithful person by nature, I realize I should do what it’s telling me.

As the window automatically unrolls and the car accelerates to the take-out speaker, I hear the disembodied voice of a teenager say, “Welcome to Burger City. What can I get you today?”

Someone, who is surely not me answers, “I’d like a double cheeseburger with grilled onions, two orders of fries and a root beer, large.”

He asks, “Will that be all?”

Still not sure who’s doing the answering, I hear someone sounding remarkably like me say, “I’d like an extra bun too.”

“What do you mean an extra bun?” He squeaks “You mean with no burger on it or anything?”

“That’s right.” He informs me that he’ll have to charge me for a whole other burger even though I just want the bun. I tell him that’s no problem and agree to pay $1.75 for it. I’m not sure what causes me to order the extra bread but I think it boils down to my need for carbohydrates. I have either been on The South Beach Diet or Atkins for the better part of two years and I’ve become desperate for empty calorie, high glycemic index white bread.

You may be wondering how I could have been high protein dieting for two years and still need to lose twenty pounds. The truth is that I cheat, a lot. For two weeks I jump start the diet with the serious deprivation they encourage and then by week three when you’re allowed to start slowly adding carbs back into your life, I become the wildebeest of cheaters. They suggest you start with an apple or a quarter of a baked sweet potato. I start with an apple pie and three orders of French fries. I have been losing and gaining the same thirteen pounds for the last twenty-four months.