The Cinderella Pact (7 page)

In the
Sass!
women's room, I Scotch tape the rip in my pants. Then I turn on Belinda's cell phone and find there are thirty messages, including a bunch from the Charlotte Dawson Agency (CDA), the agent I finally found to represent Belinda. I am particularly alarmed because Charlotte never, ever calls.

I am so shocked to see CDA over and over that I nearly drop the phone into the toilet. Though I don't, because then the toilet would get backed up and the plumbers would pull out Belinda's cell, Lori would call Verizon and find I've been paying the phone's bills, and that would be the end of that.

It is much worse in the editorial department, where every five minutes someone is stopping by my desk to gossip.

“Did you have any idea? It's the most shocking thing that's ever happened here. I bet this bogus Belinda Apple is getting paid a pretty penny, too,” Lisa says.

Though she's my best friend at the magazine, Lisa is a bit sheltered, seeing as how she works in Books and rarely pays attention to the outside world. She is easily titillated and, therefore, great to take to any movie starring Vince Vaughn.

“Who do you think Belinda really is?” she asks.

“Probably a mole from
Star
,” suggests Joel.

Lisa gapes. “That's awful. What kind of fellow reporter would run such a scam? I'll tell you who, a person who has no respect for other people, that's who. Not to mention a person without an ounce of ethics.”

“I don't know,” I pipe up. “Maybe she couldn't get hired elsewhere and she had to fake her résumé.”

“Ridiculous.” Lisa folds her arms. “Unless she's a felon or something.”

My only wish is to go home, to pull the covers over my head, and not come out until everyone has forgotten Belinda Apple. And I'd do that, too, if I only had a car.

Which I don't. It has been towed upon order of the East Brunswick police to hell, otherwise known as a junkyard in South River. My brand-new copy of
Who Moved My Fat?
lying on the front seat, destroyed before I traveled one leg of the “exciting weight-loss journey that is”—was—“guaranteed to change my life forever.”

“That's sad,” says Lisa, as we stand in the parking lot and survey the patch of brown grass below us where my car once lay, albeit in flames. “Although, you know, maybe it's a good thing. How old was that heap?”

“Twenty-five years. It was my dad's.”

“Aww, so it had sentimental value.”

“Has,” I correct. “Has. It's still alive. Somewhere in South River.”

“Though it's probably crushed by now. I think they do that right away. You know, scrunch it down really small.”

I start to cry, the image of my Audi Fox holding all my coming-of-age memories squished into a tuna can.

“I know,” Lisa says, snapping her fingers. “That new guy in Tech Assistance could give you a lift home. He lives in Princeton. Chip.”

I put this together. “Would that be Computer Chip?”

“Know him?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Lisa frowns, not getting the joke. “Anyway, I do. He unfroze my computer last week. He's a real sweetheart. Let me see if he's still around. You stay here.” And she runs off.

When she's gone I'm left with nothing to do besides stare at the burned patch of grass on which I wish were my fantasy car, a Capri blue Mercedes SLK convertible. At $185,000 this is a luxury item I will never own, but that I crave nonetheless, in the same way that diabetics must crave Milky Ways, I think. Or that teenage boys crave Pamela Anderson.

My Mercedes SLK dream is one of my few fantasies that does not require me to become Cinderella. No man is involved, or adorable tow-headed children. There is no party to attend looking smashing in a sequined gown where I am heralded for my runaway success debut novel or a wedding with an aisle where I will walk dressed in white, a long train with the letter A embossed on it. (That Sarah Ferguson divorce really messed with my head.)

No, it's just me, my long brown hair flowing in the breeze as I shift into fifth, cruising down the Jersey Shore. I run my hands over the buttery leather—color: sand. I have no problems, no fears. No one to answer to but perhaps the collection agents on my tail, angry that I have not made one payment on the $185,000 I owe on this Mercedes SLK in Capri blue. And because it is a fantasy, for once I don't care.

Daydreaming is something I do regularly and, may I say, I do well. I have daydreamed all my life. I can't remember not daydreaming. In fourth grade I could tell you the names I had given the leaves on the tree outside our classroom window. Or the fairies and elves that lived in its roots. My grade point average hovered at a C- in fourth grade.

It is the refuge of worrywarts, daydreaming. That and mindless eating. Best done in combination for full effect.

It would be nice if Computer Chip drove a Capri blue Mercedes SLK convertible, but he doesn't. He drives a black Toyota pickup and is wearing a denim shirt rolled up to the elbows when he pulls up next to me and leans out his window.

“Need a ride?” He is not bad-looking for a geek. He has blond tousled hair and tanned skin and looks more like a surfer than a nerd who likes to hole up in his room, drooling over the latest issue of
MacWorld
. I find it refreshing to meet people who are not their stereotypes, like coming across a professional cheerleader who's a feminist. Though, to be honest, I've never met one of those. I really don't think they exist.

“You must be Computer Chip,” I say.

“Is that a joke?”

“Not a very good one, I guess.” I pull open the door and climb in, astutely observing that he is without a wedding ring and that this could be the start of a whirlwind romance thanks to my exploded car, but I have no expectations. Expectations hurt.

We go through the usual introductions and he asks me where to. I say Park Place in Princeton, if that's not too far.

“Tough day?”

“Do I look that bad?”

“Well, you're standing in the parking lot in a hot black suit on a humid June evening, kind of dazed and daydreaming and you don't seem to have a car. You tell me.” Chip talks in a slow drawl, somewhere between Texan cowboy and Californian dude, that puts a person immediately at ease.

“You wanna know the truth?” I begin. “I'm in hot water.”

“Yeah?” He leans back, revealing a pair of strong thighs under faded jeans. Friday is dress-down day in the office, but I've never dressed down that far. “So, how hot is this water?”

“Boiling. For one thing, my car caught on fire and blew up.”

“That's too bad. What was the car?”

“Audi. Fox.”

“Must be ancient.” He shifts and I take in that his arm is extremely muscled for a man who spends his hours hunched over a keyboard. Again, not that I'm judging on stereotypes or anything.

“It's twenty-five years old. It was my dad's.”

“What are you going to get to replace it?”

“I don't know.” I shrug, having not thought about it. “A Honda, I guess.”

“Sounds nice and boring.”

“There's the pot calling the kettle black. You're driving a Toyota.”

“They make good trucks.”

“Honda makes good cars.”

He squints. “I see you in something more sporty. Like maybe a BMW 325i.”

I gasp because the BMW 325i is in fact my backup fantasy car. “Yes, that would be nice, except that I'm an editor at
Sass!
, which means I can't afford a BMW 325i. I can't even afford to rotate its tires.”

“Really?” He seems confused by this.

“Besides. My dream car is a Mercedes SLK convertible in Capri blue. If I'm going to break the bank, that's my sledgehammer.”

He nods approvingly. “Now you're talking.”

“Correction. Now I'm hallucinating.”

“Come on. You only live once. What if you die tomorrow? What if your last thought as you're falling over a cliff is, I should have driven a Mercedes SLK convertible in Capri blue? By then it will be too late. Shame.” He shakes his head at the pity of it all.

This Computer Chip is dangerous. Financially dangerous. He is echoing the same voice in the back of my head that has sent me into overdraft too many times. Do you know how many overpriced lamps and stereo components and pieces of jewelry I have bought because I might die tomorrow?

“Anyway, it's beside the point,” I say, trying to be frugal. “I'm about to be canned and I can't be going out dropping two hundred grand on a car.”

“You're not going to be fired.”

“Yes, I am. I can't tell you why, but I have done something—with the best intentions, mind you—that is going to get me and my desk cleaned out faster than you can say ‘ethical standards. ' ”

“Hmm.” Chip is silent for a few minutes. “Then you might want to buy that Mercedes now, while the credit agency can confirm you still have a job.”

This, I decide, is an excellent point. I like Chip. I especially like his thighs, which I chalk up as two more good reasons to stick with the Cinderella Pact.

Chapter Seven

Suze the nutritionist holds up a poster of the human gastrointestinal system colored in a nonthreatening peachy pink.

“Gastric bypass reduces caloric intake in two ways. First, the stomach, which is normally the size of a fist, is divided and separated so that the space utilized is the size of a thumb. This limits the amount of food mass that it can hold. If a gastric bypass patient overfills the ‘pouch,' as it is called, the patient runs the risk of vomiting, or even bursting the pouch.”

Delightful, I think, scrawling the words
Pouch Bursting
and
Vomit
on the notebook Suze has provided as part of an introductory seminar: “Gastric Bypass: Miracle Answer or Helpful Tool?”

This is Deb's idea. Listening to tales of pouch bursting and vomit was the last thing Nancy and I wanted to do on a beautiful Saturday morning. But Deb practically begged us. Then she said she tried to get Paul, her husband, to come but he had to stay home with the kids, which meant she'd have to go alone and that scared her too much. When she started crying, her shoulders heaving in sobs, we agreed. Deb can get anything she wants by crying. She could be a professional tearjerker.

What surprised Nancy and me was how quickly Deb seems to have made friends with the staff of the gastric bypass center. They know her by name and even know her kids' names. Plus, it's really weird. When we checked in for the seminar, the receptionist said, “Ready for next week, Deb?” and Deb gave her a meaningful look that caused the receptionist to bow her head over the keyboard.

Something's up. Maybe Deb is throwing a surprise party for us at the gastric bypass center. Hey. You never know.

Nancy completely ignores Suze's lecture, scrolling through her BlackBerry and answering old e-mails instead. Deb, on the other hand, is riveted, her posture straight, her face beaming like a repentant prostitute at a tent revival.

“Secondly,” Suze continues, “the surgeon cuts the small intestine eighteen inches below the stomach and divides it. One branch of this surgically divided intestine is hooked up to the new pouch. This is called the gastrojejunostomy.”

“That's called butchering,” Nancy quips out of the side of her mouth.

“The other branch is attached into the intestine to complete the circuit. This is known as distal anastomosis. The lower stomach, by the way, is retained to produce enzymes. This
Y
formation of the intestines is why the procedure, developed by a Doctor Roux, is called Roux-en-Y. It reduces calorie consumption by delaying when bile and enzymes mix with newly consumed food. The miracle of this is that the food enters the lower bowel only ten minutes after eating begins.”

A chorus of “oh's,” rises from the audience, which is clearly impressed by the fast-moving, nonbilious food. Deb raises her eyebrows in wonder.

“Isn't that amazing?” she whispers. “Ten minutes.”

“Yes,” Nancy replies flatly.

Suze flips her ponytail. She looks exactly like every other nutritionist I've ever met. Trim, but not super thin. Neat. Tidy in white pants and funky blue clogs. I bet none of her sweaters pill. I bet her refrigerator coils are vacuumed dustless. She moves the pointer to a thoroughly grotesque slide of a splayed-open abdomen and doesn't even flinch at the enlarged photo of pink, squishy, slimy insides. Someone in the audience coughs. I have to look away.

“Using miniature instruments, the surgeon makes five to six slits in the abdomen to do all this. The entire procedure takes about an hour and a half to two hours. The surgeon monitors the entire procedure through a tiny video camera attached to the laparoscope, which has been inserted in one of the incisions. The image he sees is magnified one thousand times.”

A laparoscopic picture of a bloodred and pink intestinal something magnified one thousand times flashes on the screen and instead of going “ooh,” we go “ick.”

Nancy scribbles on a piece of paper and slides it to me:

GET ME OUT OF HERE BEFORE I BARF!

“However, the procedure is not without complications. One in two hundred patients dies from it, though those stats are improving every day,” says Suze, passing out a photocopied sheet that I scan with one eye closed. “Here are some warning signs to look for. Excessive bleeding or drainage from the incisions. Redness. Unusual pain or swelling in the lower intestines. Fever. Chills. Black stools. Diarrhea that is pure water.”

My stomach is turning, but I try to be mature and look interested. I try not to think about how I could be walking my cat, Otis, in the park instead, or reading a book on my back porch.