Teenage Waistland (8 page)

“It’s okay. It’ll all be okay. You so need to de-Shroud,” Char is saying as my fingers twirl the hair in my ponytail into knots in the Park Avenue Bariatrics waiting room.

“I’m going to vomit.”

“Stop. It’s three-twenty-five already. Betsy and my mom will be finished any minute. You have to get your act together. Get back into that psyched-up state. C’mon.” I nod glumly and dig through my bag for a comb and another Jujube bear.

“She shouldn’t have blown you off. You’re so right. But—”

“Shhh,” I say. “Everyone can hear you.”

Char lowers her voice. “Look. She promised to stay awake and wait for your call. You told her about her allergies, right?”

I freeze.

“Quick, call her now,” Char whispers loudly enough for the receptionist on the other side of the glass partition to hear, and then we’re huddled over my phone listening to it ring and go to the answering machine.

“Mom!” I plead. “Please get up. Dr. Glass and I will be calling soon. You have allergies, okay? That’s why you’re not here.
Allergies
. Please remember. And please pick up when we call.”

There’s a worried expression on Char’s face when I snap my phone shut, but she stows it away quickly. “This can still work, East. It really can. Just stay cool. Your mom has allergies, that’s it. Nothing terrible. Just play it the way we planned.”

I shake my head. “Even if Dr. Glass will do the interview by phone, my mother’ll be zoned out. How can she convince anyone I have a supportive family environment?”
Supportive family environment
. Just that phrase has my eyes filling up again.

Char leans over and rubs my arm. “The interview isn’t a big deal. Betsy talks about the postsurgery eating and exercise program and asks some general questions. That’s it. Your mom can so handle it. And if she sounds zoned, you’ll tell Betsy it’s the allergy medication. We need to get this right. Right?”

We
. Char and me. That’s the only
we
I can count on. “Right,” I whisper as the receptionist calls out my name. I take a deep breath. “Right,” I say again as I stand up. Even though my knees feel like they’ll buckle.

Crystal squeezes my shoulder as we pass each other in the narrow hallway to Dr. Glass’s office, but her smile is tight and her eyes a little glassy, and any panic that Char managed to soothe in the waiting room is back.

“How are you, East?” Dr. Glass says warmly as she opens her door.

“Great. Very well,” I chirp, but immediately recognize how fake my cheerfulness sounds. My vocal cords just can’t hit those “la-la happy” keys the way Char’s can.

“Your mom?” Dr. Glass says, glancing down the empty hallway as I step into her office.

“Um, actually, she’s not coming. She tried to—she really wanted to—she, uh, she just felt too awful.” I push myself to
move toward the two chairs set up in front of her desk even though Dr. Glass is still standing by the open door.
Stick to the plan
.

“Oh, your mom’s ill?” Dr. Glass says. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

I shrug involuntarily while I’m shaking my head and visualize Char whacking me for it. “Just allergies. My mom gets them bad this time of year. She didn’t realize she wasn’t up to it until this afternoon, and well, um, I didn’t want to cancel last minute.”

“Oh, not a problem,” Dr. Glass says as she walks to her desk and flips open her appointment book. “When do you think she’ll be able to come in? Or, better—just have her call and reschedule.…”

I feel my mac and cheese lunch rising, along with a fresh wave of terror, and I slump into a chair. What about not being able to forecast pollen levels? But I hear Char in my head again.
We need to get this right. We
. I take a deep breath. “Dr. Glass—”

“Betsy,” she says.

“Betsy, please—is there any way that we, um, that we can do the interviews with my mom over the phone? She’s just—it’s her allergies. It’s hard to say when they’ll strike, so I don’t know.…” My voice trails off. Dr. Glass closes her appointment book and walks over to shut the door.

I glance down at my chewed-up nails as Betsy takes the empty chair next to me. She folds her hands in her lap and looks into my eyes.

“My mom feels awful today,” I say again.
That
isn’t a lie. She does feel awful.
Too awful to get out of bed
.

“I like to meet with the patient and at least one parent
together because parental involvement is key. As I mentioned in our last session, your mom’s support is critical, especially since it’s just the two of you.”

“I know. And my mom is totally on board with me doing this,” I nearly stammer. Right. Support has always been a one-way street on Forty-one Green Lane. My throat is swelling like I’m the one having an allergic reaction. Betsy is nice and I’ve just lied right to her face. Literally two feet from her face.

“East?” Betsy cocks her head slightly—the same way she did when she first brought up Dad’s death in the last session. “What happened? Was he ill?” she’d asked. I had just nodded. Like Char said, suicide equals mental
illness
. My answer wasn’t really false.

“Yes?” I finish yanking the cuticle off my thumb and close my fingers around it to hide the blood.

Betsy takes a deep breath. “Your brother isn’t living at home, and with your dad passed on and no other close relatives nearby, your mom isn’t
part
of your family support system. She’s
it
.”

I nod.

“There’s a strong correlation between family support and patient outcomes—I can’t emphasize this enough. This isn’t an easy journey for anyone, let alone someone dealing with a terrible loss.”

Make that plural
, I’m thinking, but I just nod and dig my fingers into my leg.

“Love never dies,” Betsy says softly, placing her hand on my knee. I stick my nails in deeper.
Oh, but it does
.

“I’m fine,” I say loudly and Betsy removes her hand. “My mom and I discussed everything. She’s going to help me.
Every step of the way.” I attempt a smile for emphasis—my jaw is so sore from all the teeth clenching, though, I have no idea what it came out like.

Betsy sits silently for a moment and then gets up and walks around to the far side of her desk. “Okay, why don’t we call her and see if she’s feeling well enough to talk. This contact number on your application?”

Right. I suppress a laugh. That’s my cell phone. “Let me give you the number to the phone that rings in her room, since she’s probably still in bed. Not feeling well and all,” I say. I give Betsy our home number and she taps the buttons.

“It’s ringing,” Betsy says. But her smile begins to fade.

“No answer?” I say. Betsy shakes her head.
Six rings
, she mouths.
Seven
. When she reaches what I figure must be the ninth ring, she makes a “yikes” face and hangs up.

“We get a lot of telemarketers,” I say. “Let me just call her quickly from my phone so that she recognizes the number.”
Telemarketers
, right. Char
is
a big influence. What if white lies are a gateway drug?

“Hold off—I hit redial,” Betsy says. “It’s ringing again.” When she glances in the direction of my nails digging into my thigh, she hits the speakerphone button. “Don’t worry—we’ll reach her.”

“Hello?” Mom finally answers but it sounds like “huh-low,” like she’s already sedated.
Please have listened to my phone message
.

“Mrs. Itou?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is Dr. Betsy Glass calling from Park Avenue Bariatrics. I have East with me.”

“Hi, Mom,” I say with a ridiculous amount of cheer.
“You’re on speakerphone, so turn off the TV or we won’t hear you.” I laugh. It sounds more forced than if I were really being forced to laugh.

“Oh, East. You’re in the city already?”

“Yes, Mom. Char picked me up almost three hours ago. You must have dozed off.”

“Char?” she says dully. I laugh heartily.

“Funny, Mom. Crystal drove. I explained to Dr. Glass you weren’t feeling well enough to come in, and she was kind enough to do this interview on the telephone.”

“I hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Itou,” Betsy interjects.

“Oh. I see. I’m on speakerphone. Yes, better. Thank you,” Mom sputters from her haze. I’m terrified that Betsy will ask her what day of the week it is.

“I’d like to discuss some of the postsurgery lifestyle changes with both of you, and then, Mrs. Itou, you and I can reschedule our parent interview for here, in my office. When you’re feeling better, of course,” Betsy adds. My mind races. Sure, they’ll set up an appointment, but Mom won’t show up again, and then my chances for getting into this trial will go from slim to none.

“Well—” Mom starts, but I cut her off.

“Maybe Dr. Glass would be willing to have the private interview with you on the phone
today
after I leave so that my application won’t get held up.”

There’s a moment of silence on both ends of the phone, and then Betsy finally says, “Mrs. Itou, we usually don’t conduct parent interviews on the telephone. And typically parents like to meet the team their children will be working with. But if you think your allergies might prevent you from coming in within the next couple of weeks and you can talk
on the phone today, I do have this time carved out for you.…” For a second, I imagine Char whooping and high-fiving that I’ve miraculously managed to pull off the whole “phone interview with Mom” plan. But Betsy’s tapping her pen against her arm and she’s looking at the ceiling. She smells something.

“Let me sit up,” Mom says. There’s a sound of bedcovers rustling and something shattering on the floor. She clears her throat. “It would be easier if we could do this on the phone. East says it’s not surgery. No cutting, but there’s anesthesia.”

“Well, that’s not entirely correct, but I can review the medical details with you after East leaves,” Betsy says. “Right now I’d like to discuss the support East will need before, during, and after the procedure if she’s accepted into the trial.”

My mom starts sneezing.

“God bless you,” Dr. Glass says.
God, thank you
, I think.

“Thank you,” Mom finally says. “You were saying?”

“East told me it’s been just the two of you for—”

“Almost four years now,” I jump in.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Itou.”

When my mom doesn’t respond, Betsy looks at me. All I can think is,
Please do not ask about Dad
.

“I don’t mean to bring up a difficult subject. I just need to get a clearer picture of whether East is a good candidate for our trial.”

“East is a good girl. She does everything she’s told.” I try not to cringe. Betsy’s pen is tapping against her arm faster now.

“I was explaining to East that you are her most important support partner and there will be a lot to manage. She
will have an exercise program and a very limited diet, especially in the beginning,” Betsy says.

Silence on the other end of the phone.

“East, did you explain to your mom how she’ll want to keep trigger foods out of the house and how your diet will consist of liquids and pureed and soft foods for a full six weeks after the surgery?”

“Yes. And Mom also read through the paperwork very closely,” I say, praying my mother will come back with a coherent response.

“The company we, er, order groceries from has a large selection of baby foods,” Mom finally says.

“Mom,
we’re
going to cook healthy at home,” I say with faux enthusiasm. This is the closest I can come to giving Betsy the impression that Mom and I are psyched for all the time we’ll be spending together trying out low-calorie recipes without losing it.

“Do you cook a lot, Mrs. Itou?” My mother is painfully silent. Is she cooking up a good lie for Betsy, or did she just fall asleep?

“Not—uh, sometimes.” Mom sort of croaks this out after a few long moments, and I feel the old anger rising.
Never. The correct answer is
never, I’m thinking.
But thank you for at least not saying it
.

“Mrs. Itou,” Betsy says, “if East gets the Lap-Band, it will dramatically change her lifestyle. Her ability to consume solid foods will be greatly curtailed, so it is imperative for her continued growth and development that the calories she does consume come from high-quality protein and fresh fruits and vegetables. Foods containing processed sugar and flour, rice, potatoes, and pasta are off-limits. They have minimal
nutritional value and are high in calories. She’ll need to keep a food diary, and even after the first few months, she won’t be eating more than a few ounces of food per meal.”

“East is a good girl. She will do—” My mom interrupts herself with a loud yawn. I imagine Char shrieking,
Whisper it’s her medication!
But it’s like I’m in one of those nightmares where I try to cry out for help but can’t make a sound.

“Mrs. Itou, I think I may have caught you at a bad time,” Betsy says with a frown. “I appreciate you taking the call and I certainly hope you feel better. East, do you want to say goodbye to your mom?”

“I’ll call you from the car,” I mumble into the speakerphone. Betsy abruptly disconnects the call and starts scribbling away on a sheet in my paperwork folder.
Catatonic mother
, she’s probably writing. I’ve got to get to Mom before Betsy does and plead with her to at least try to sound a little interested.