Weight Control in a Future Age
by Michael HulmeThey're narrowing the lanes a little more; it's nothing personal, just the latest council directive. Pretty soon, Lisa won't be able to walk them without scraping her thighs against the walls. It's bad enough now when strangers give her the stare, like she's some kind of walking disease. She's so close now, just three stone over target, and Nurse McSheffrey says if Lisa can just get to one stone three over, she'll put in a word and see if they can't send Ronnie home early. If it meant they'd send her beautiful boy home, Lisa would drop the weight like that - she'd take all her fit leave from work at once and they'd have to drag her off the treadmill, haul her out of the sauna. If only it was so easy. If it were so easy, she wouldn't be walking the lanes, twitchy like a thief, heading down to Tina's.
Ronnie's out at the island camp. In his last letter, he told Lisa how he'd been playing rugby, how he came seventeenth in the cross country run, how he weighed 41.39 kilograms and had lost the third most weight out of them all, and how his friend Dan had lost 12.83 kilograms and how the nurses brought out the amount of weight he'd lost in fat and made them all handle it to see how disgusting it was. They've given him new clothes and everything, let him choose them as a special treat. Lisa can't read his letters without picturing him the day they took him - calmly, professionally - while she pleaded and screamed, and Ronnie chewed the sleeve of his favorite jumper and stared at her. It was in his best interests, Lisa knew all that, but it wasn't her fault. She was doing her best, had always done her best. Peter was never there, not any more, and she never fed Ronnie anything she wouldn't have eaten herself; but none of that was enough to swing the scrape-haired nurse at the clinic.
A week after they took him, Lisa took the bus to the coast. There was nobody around, so she peeled off her shapeless jumper, rolled the legs of her jeans up above her knees, and waded into the sea. She could just see the island, the grey hazy lump shimmering against a watery sky. That's where Ronnie was. She let the water lap at her, watched the wheeling seagulls. She could have kept walking; nobody would stop her. She might have made a footnote on page nine of the paper. One more fatty suicide.
But she's chosen to fight. She's going to get him home, and that's something the skinny sneering women, the chestless women on exercise bikes looking down at her from every other rooftop gym, don't realise. They never had kids, most likely, they don't know how damn hard it is to get the weight off, keep it off. She's trying, really. They can whisper "fatty," or "fat pig," or "fat bitch" or "fat cow" all they like. The packs of kids can shout it, heads can turn, and she's damned if she's going to care. Some days when a mouthy little bastard starts up, she could wrap a big hand around their neck and choke them. How can their mothers not teach them respect? To say "Listen kid, it's tough, okay? Have a little compassion. Shut it." But this is it - Lisa's going to get one last hit, one last last hit - and then she's gone, out of there.
She hurries past the gyms, the street treadmills, head down, seeing skinny legs, the sandals, open-toed shoes - and she turns into the courtyard and down into the cellar bar where the old, gummy couple are still playing what looks like the same game of chess. It's quiet tonight, maybe on account of the bust on the north side last night, maybe because fitness hour starts in ten minutes. The barman nods at Lisa, and she nods back. She orders the usual mineral water and hands him forty; he slides the change to her, and under the last ten is the small key. She doesn't look around, but she knows nobody's wise to her - Tina's seems to be the only secret people can be trusted to keep. She drinks the water, heads for the bathroom, and when she's sure there's nobody in there, she unlocks the door and heads down into the basement. She blinks madly to adjust to the candles; a gentle coughing echoes up the stone stairwell.
She gives twenty to the skinny guard by the handrinse at the door; he smiles a good evening and points through the scattering of people to her usual table in the far corner. Bald Ted's in again. Poor Bald Ted. Four stone over, two strikes on his record, and he still claims he's trying. No kids, though. He has nothing to lose, not really. Just one more fat body carted off to the North island. Lisa keeps seeing flashes of Ronnie, head shaved, his cheeks sagging inward, his jumper hanging limp off his body like a ghost. Her heart is speeding. She sits down opposite Ted, smiles, and rolls her sleeves up. "Christ, Ted, I need this today."
Ted looks up without smiling. "Alice? I thought you quit?"
True, she did - the last time was going to be her last; but today was a bitch, and Lisa's been clean all month, almost - but even so, she feels suddenly hot, unsure. Her words come in a rush. "This is the last time, Ted, I swear it. Ronnie's coming home next month, see? The nurse practically promised me. Another few pounds and Ronnie's coming home."
Ted gives Lisa the look he's been giving her for the last few weeks, where he arches an eyebrow, then looks away. Lisa feels compelled to say something else, so she asks, a little too quickly, "have you seen Beth?"
"Beth?" Ted looks at the ceiling and breathes out. "She went for the pills."
Lisa shakes her head. Something aches at her temples. "God, no. Jesus."
Lisa's thought about the amphetamine diet; she's held the little blue pills in her hand with the neat tiny Œ50‚ punched into each one by a machine somewhere in a big spotless chrome factory. But she's afraid of the diet, of what it can do; she's seen the husks of middle-aged women stumble into the clinic with drum-tight skin and bony smiles - they smile too much, now they're normal, but the other normals smile right back regardless like the rotten teeth they spy are badges of honor. Perhaps it was a cost worth bearing. She'd be guaranteed to get Ronnie back. Beth's got two kids on the island she hasn't seen for years. Lisa's sure that's why.
But she's been so good this month, so good - she must be on target for the monthly weigh-in, and the blood test will show up clean because it always shows up clean - that's why Lisa uses Tina's. She's a smart cookie, that one. Smart cookie. that's the only thing Ted's ever said which made Lisa laugh.
A woman in a hood brings the doughnuts over. Ted tells how, earlier, some random man finished eating and tried to light a cigarette, how Stan the guard snatched it out of his mouth and snapped it in two. "Good on Stan and all," he says. "We'll get more of that sort here now they closed that other place. No class, some people."
"They should be out catching criminals," Lisa says, saliva welling under her tongue.
"No shit. So, here goes." Ted takes a bite, wipes the beads of sugar from his lips and exhales loudly. "Listen, I hope you get your kid back. Must be rough. Maybe I should knock someone up - might give me some motivation, you know?"
Poor Ted. He'll never beat the third strike. Lisa sees his weighty body being herded onto the boat. She picks up the doughnut, careful not to shake off the sugar. Part of the pleasure is in holding it, feeling the weight, eyeing the others around the tables, some leaning forward and pushing them into their mouths fast as they can, others breaking a piece at a time, sucking each finger in between the little mouthfuls. Lisa's always been a wolfer, keen to get it into her mouth and down the hatch before the door crashes open and she's dragged out, handcuffed - but today, she takes her time. Ted's already done by the time Lisa breaks the skin and takes a strand of the dough. He smiles, blows a sugary kiss and heads for the handrinse and the exit. Lisa wonders if she'll see him again, but right now she doesn't want to think about anything.
Lisa's going to take her time because, God help her, this is going to be the last time. The doughnut is still warm - the soft yellow dough on the inside is so good - but the image of Ronnie running towards her on stick legs, skinny little Ronnie in the jumper, the sleeves frayed and dangling, the body hanging off him - she can't leave him any more, she can't not see him. Lisa needs him back in her life, to bring up right; he's all there is, really. If she lost Ronnie - if she got the third strike and they farmed him out to some childless couple - if twenty years passed and he walked right by her without knowing who she was, maybe even tossed a "fat bitch" her way - none of that is worth a doughnut, not any more.
Lisa chews slowly, taking her time, feeling the lazy glow spread up, through and over. She can do it. She can take the boiled rice, the bean sprouts, the vegetables, the god-awful grains and supplements - she can do everything they prescribe if it means Ronnie's coming home. She breaks another piece off and pushes it gently into her mouth, feeling it melt on her tongue, grains of sugar against her lips like tiny kisses. She chews slowly with a wet mouth, swallows slowly and feels it slip warmly down to her belly. People are leaving, tucking their chairs away, queueing at the handrinse. Everything's beautifully slow, and she leans back and looks up at the paintings on the walls, trying to commit each one to memory to give her a dream when the coldly smiling nurse slides that first plate of grey bean sprouts in front of her. When that happens, Lisa will see the pictures and chew doggedly, determined not to waver. And when Ronnie smiles at her with his still-perfect teeth and says "It's so good to be home, Mum," the way she knows he's going to, she'll never risk another doughnut again. That's why she wants to remember the taste on her tongue tonight more than ever.
Tomorrow, Lisa's going to write Ronnie a letter telling him he'll be coming home soon. She's going to ask him what color he wants on the walls, and she's going to paint it just so. She's going to unpack all the toys he left behind, make the bed with brand new sheets, buy him a new bike. He can teach her the exercises he's learned, help her shrink to her target weight, meaning she'll get her health benefit money back and can give up work. She can make meals together, the two of them, he can show her what to buy, how to prepare it. She'll start finding her clothes hanging off her, and people will smile and nod and say good morning again, hi, and they'll ask how she is, and everything will be right again. When Ronnie comes home, everything will be the way it used to be. Lisa will never come here again. She's never been so sure about anything. God, it's going to be so good when Ronnie comes home.
She wipes her mouth and queues for the handrinse. "See you next time," the guard says as Lisa passes him. She smiles back. I doubt it, she thinks, still snug in the glow. This is absolutely the last time. Promise.
©Michael Hulme
Michael lives and works in Norwich, UK, and is the editor of Norwich-based creative writing magazine nr1. He has a diploma in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia. His work has been published and broadcast by the BBC, performed on stage, and his stories have appeared online and in various literary magazines including Ink Pot, 7th Quark, Aesthetica and Defenestration. In September 2005, he won a British Arts Council development award for new writers. He's currently pretending to be thinking about giving up the day job, maybe.