Slim Chance

Before I could insist we do just that, Greta returned with another old woman in tow, both of them carrying as many dresses as their osteoporotic arms could handle. They hung them up on a rack.

“Thank you, Ingrid. That will be all. Now Evelyn, let’s get you into this foundation garment,” she said, extending something gray.

“I will not wear that.”

“It’ll help with your tummy,” Greta said, shaking it at me.

“Can’t she try the dresses on without it?” my mother asked. Finally.

“Well, I suppose so. But with your bust you’re definitely going to need something. I figured you’re around a size fourteen or sixteen.”

“I am definitely NOT a size sixteen! I’m not even a fourteen!”

“Hush, Evelyn, people will hear you,” Mom whispered loudly. I could hear muffled laughter coming from the dressing rooms on either side of us. Poor twin-setters. They were probably having trouble finding dresses small enough.

“Let’s not get bogged down by a number. Wedding dresses are made small. Most brides have to buy a size larger than they normally wear. That’s why they make most samples in a size eight,” Greta reassured me.

“How horrible. Imagine how all those poor size sixes must feel.”

“How ’bout we try this one, first,” she said, freeing a dress from its plastic bag. “I thought this one would suit you because of the sweetheart neckline—it will draw attention up to your face. And you have such a pretty face.”

It was hideous. The exact antithesis of every wedding gown I’d clipped out, dreamed about. Instead of thin, elegant spaghetti straps there were puffy, stiff sleeves dotted with rhinestone-studded rosettes. Instead of a smooth, sleek bodice there was a wide trunk covered in the tackiest sort of lace-and-pearl appliqués. Instead of an elegant A-line skirt, there was a shiny satin tablecloth covering so many crinolines that it stuck out at right angles from the waist. And it was stark white, almost fluorescent (Bridal Guide, Fall: “Why Off-White Is Right-On”).

Perfect. I’d show them. “Mom, I’d like to surprise you, if you don’t mind. Let me try it on, and then we’ll call you in.”

She seemed to like that idea, and obligingly trotted out of the room. Alone with Greta, I took off my clothes and let her help me into the dress.

The first time you see yourself in a wedding gown is supposed to be an experience you never forget. We’ve all heard those stories about the brides who buy the first dress they try on because they can’t get that heavenly, haunting first image of themselves out of their minds, and nothing else can compare. You’re supposed to feel like a goddess, a virgin and a model all rolled into one. But what I saw in the mirror was beyond horrible, beyond my wildest nightmare—a blur of bulges and rhinestones and flounces and fabric. A pregnant white hippopotamus, with sausage links for arms and shiny balloons for breasts. In the mirror, I could see Greta’s pointy face light up in a twisted yellow smile. She clasped her hands together and sucked in her breath.

“You see? I told you! I do have a knack for this!” she shrieked. “Mrs. Mays, Mrs. Mays! Come in and see!”

Mom pushed the door open and froze. Now she would see how wrong she was to make me do this, how evil Greta was, how horrid I looked, how ashamed I was.

“Oh, Evelyn,” she breathed, her bottom lip trembling. Tears welled up in her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

At that moment, I made three very serious vows—to never go wedding dress shopping with my mother again, to lose more than forty pounds, and to go home and smack Bruce for making me go through all of this. If he hadn’t proposed, I would never have been publicly humiliated in so many different ways in so little time.

A few days after her little tantrum, Bertie finally got over her selfishness and came through with the wedding plans. Through a grand concession of my own—agreeing to give up my dream of a June wedding—we were booked in for August 18 at the posh Fairfield Inn on the Connecticut shore. It was absolutely perfect—a grand, white, colonial-style mansion with an elegant ballroom and a newly renovated Bridal Suite (Bridal Guide, Winter: “Finding the Perfect Venue: Five Features You Can’t Live Without”). Bertie’s friend Cookie had two of her daughters’ weddings there, so it passed the snob test, too. It had been reserved, of course, but by a brilliant stroke of luck, Bertie popped in on the very day when one Mrs. Pimbleton-Smythe called to cancel her daughter Sukey’s wedding, due to the unfortunate suicide of the groom-to-be.

Even Bruce liked the place when we popped in for a look, and whistled when he saw the four-poster bed.

“So this is where it’s all gonna happen,” he whispered into my ear while Bertie discussed the merits of veal versus roast beef with the event manager. “After all these years, you’ll finally be unable to resist my charms.”

“Yeah right,” I snorted. “I don’t know how we’ve waited so long. Oh, wait—weren’t those your charms I succumbed to on our first date?”

He snickered, and Bertie shot me a mean look. “Yes, Brucie dear,” I said loudly. “This is where we’ll spend the most romantic night of our lives. The only thing that could possibly make it any more perfect would be knowing that our guests had thoroughly enjoyed the milk-fed veal in the mushroom-cream sauce.”

The event manager raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement.

Despite a few minor glitches, Bertie and I were getting on remarkably well. Thanks to her years on the Palm Beach charity ball circuit, she’s the type of person you really want on your side if you’re planning something big—she acts fast, she has good taste and she won’t take no for an answer (unlike Mom, whom I was very happy to leave out of the entire process). Bruce, on the other hand, wasn’t dealing well with his mother at all—and we’d barely been engaged three weeks. He almost lost it when he heard she wanted to have 150 people at the engagement party (tentatively scheduled for January 20), and threatened not to show if she invited more than ninety.

Mercifully, Bruce and I were to be spared most of the remaining meetings with florists and photographers, although we felt it was important to step in and approve any final decision, in case we wanted to veto something. But I have to hand it to Bertie; she knows how to get things done. She indiscreetly prodded the event manager at the inn into telling her exactly who else Mrs. Pimbleton-Smythe had hired for her daughter’s ill-fated nuptials, and then booked them immediately.

Although it was shaping up to be the event of the season, I have a feeling poor Sukey Pimbleton-Smythe would not have wanted to be a guest at our wedding. By all rights, it should have been hers, were it not for a few handfuls of Xanax and a very fine bottle of cognac.

5

The morning after Thanksgiving, I swore to Bruce that I didn’t want to see our families in the same room again until the wedding. And quite possibly, not even then.

“Your mother was a shrew,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “While you and your dad were watching football, she was lecturing my mom about the importance of buying a new dress for our engagement party. You didn’t hear her. She was cruel. Christ! Did you use the last Sweet’n Low?”

“I’ve never tried that stuff in my life. Just use sugar. It won’t kill you.”

“Are you trying to sabotage me?” I growled as I jealously eyed Bruce’s bagel.

“Evie, get a grip. It’s not a reason to be upset. This is not a big deal.”

“Oh, so you’re saying it’s okay for your mother to treat mine like she’s an embarrassment? It’s obvious she’s worried what her friends will think if my mom wears a ratty old dress. Like she’s the help, or something.” For all his intellectual wisdom, Bruce has a surprisingly limited understanding of the subtleties of class politics.

“No, I’m saying it’s okay to use sugar instead of aspartame for once in your life. And you’re putting cream in your coffee, for God’s sake. You think a teaspoon of sugar’s going to make a difference?”

“If you’d bought milk like you were supposed to—”

“That’s enough, Evie,” he snapped, slamming his Harry Potter book down on the table. “I’m not going to sit here and be your punching bag. If you’re upset about last night or your diet or whatever, we can talk about it, but I’m not going to let you insult me for no reason.”

“First of all, I’m not on a diet. It’s a lifestyle change. And as far as your mother’s concerned, if you’d been there to hear what she was saying, you wouldn’t have stood for it. I didn’t know what to do. She knows my mom can’t afford to buy fancy clothes and she was deliberately making her feel bad in front of everyone. Why do you think Claire came in to watch with you? You think she likes football? She probably had to leave the table before she said something horrible to your mother and ruined the entire dinner.”

“Well, you did a pretty good job of that yourself when you asked Rosita to sit down and join us. You think that helps? All you did was make everyone uncomfortable as hell, especially Rosita!”

“It’s just that dinner was already served, and there was nothing left for her to do, so I don’t understand why she has to eat alone in the kitchen when there’s plenty of room at the table for her. God, she’s been living in your house for like twenty years!”

I could feel the tears welling up. Maybe everyone was right—I think I do freak out when I can’t eat what I want to. Because I was honestly ready to fling myself into traffic, for absolutely no reason at all. And it had only been about eighteen hours since my last piece of cake.

Bruce sighed. “Evie, my mother just thought it would be nice to have a Thanksgiving with our families together. She’s really making an effort.” What a saint. “Both my parents want to get to know your mother and Claire better, so I don’t think it’s fair of you to try and make a big thing out of this. If she was snobby or bitchy or whatever it’s just how she is and you’re all going to have to accept it.”

“All? All? So it’s you against us, now, is it? The upstanding Fulbrights vs. the Italo-American Clampetts? And tell me, how should I comfort my mother? She looked like she wanted to die all night. I was the one who was embarrassed. And you should be, too.” The tears were flowing now, and I was nearly hysterical, but Bruce wasn’t biting. And why should he? I was being utterly ridiculous.

“Puhlease! You make it sound like your mother is some poor helpless soul who can’t defend herself. She drives you crazy ninety-nine percent of the time and now she can do no wrong. And you expect me to feel like it’s all my fault.” He paused for effect. “I’m sorry if you were that embarrassed by my family, Evie. I had no idea you hated them all that much. But you know what? You’re right. I was embarrassed—by YOU!”

He waited a few seconds for me to say something, but I just sat there and cried. Then he stormed out of the kitchen. He turned the stereo on loud in the living room. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everyone was supposed to get along. Mom and Bertie should have been the best of friends by now, and Bruce and I should be picking out our china pattern. But all we were doing was fighting all the time. All of us.

Bruce’s dad even got into the act last night when Bertie suggested he be the one to tell half of their friends why they wouldn’t be invited to the engagement party.

“But Bruce doesn’t want a lot of people there, Daddy,” sister Wendy said sweetly.

“This is the first I’m hearing of this,” he said with uncharacteristic irritation. “Do you actually expect me to tell James and Cookie that they won’t be invited? We were invited to their grandson’s christening just this summer!”

“No, not James and Cookie, dear,” said Bertie, rolling her eyes. “They’ll be invited. But I don’t think there’ll be room for Phyllis and Harvey or Judy and Norman.”

Bruce Sr. was shaking his head. “I won’t do it. I just won’t. We’ve known them for twenty-five years. And what about Barry and Lynne?”

“Oh, there’s definitely no room for any work friends, Daddy,” said Brooke, looking up from her cuticles.

It was all a big nightmare. On the way home, after we dropped Mom off at her place, Claire started in with her usual advice.

“It’s gonna get a lot worse from here on in, kids. If you want to keep your sanity, you’re going to have to take hold of yourselves. Don’t let other people’s expectations get in the way. Engagement’s supposed to be a happy time, an exciting time.”

“But as you can see, Bruce’s parents are nearly impossible,” I pointed out between clenched teeth. Bruce sat silently in the back seat.

“Lillian’s no treat herself,” Claire said sharply. “Bruce, I’m just glad your mother had the foresight not to offer her another drink.”

“She wasn’t drunk,” I protested. “She was just nervous.”

Bruce snorted. I guess he finds it funny when I defend my mother, since I spend most of the time complaining about her. But just because she’s a bit of a lush or maybe not as sophisticated as some doesn’t give anyone else but me the right to judge her.

“Well,” I said, “I guess I’d drink too if I knew certain people would be judging everything I said and did for six hours straight. And what the hell was all that about Bertie’s charity work? And how she’s so happy and grateful that she didn’t have to work a real job, and how important it is to be there when your kids come home from school. What a witch!”

“Uh, Evie? I’m still here, remember?” Bruce grumbled as Claire pulled up in front of our place.

I suppose I was being a bit of a hypocrite about this—criticizing one’s mother should be the domain of blood relatives alone. But in-laws must form some sort of exception, shouldn’t they? Especially when they’re so wicked.

“Come now, Evie. Take it down a notch,” Claire said seriously.

“Sorry,” I said. “But it’s not like she doesn’t know Mom worked when I was growing up. And that she still works. Like there’s something wrong with working! She knows working isn’t a choice for some women. Some women just have to work!”

“Your mother did the best she could, Evie. For the hundreth time, you know she never meant to leave you out on the stoop that day. She had no way of knowing Mrs. DeFazio wouldn’t show up that aft—”

“I know that! I’m not talking about that!”

“Come, now—you’re getting hysterical,” Claire said, patting my hand.

“Would you mind if I come home with you tonight, Claire?” Bruce asked, managing to make me angrier than I already was.

She laughed loudly. “Brucie dear, you know there’s always a bed for you at my place. You’re a pleasure—a real pleasure. Evie, I wish I could say the same for you.” Bruce snickered.

Claire wiped the corners of her eyes and sighed. “But I’m afraid you’re on your own tonight, Bruce. You two go inside, talk it out. That’s what separates the good marriages from the bad, you know—not the fighting, but the making up.” She paused to think for a moment, then looked at me. “We had some doozies, your grandfather and I. And don’t believe that crap about never going to bed angry. There’s nothing wrong with going to bed angry. Nothing wrong with waking up angry, either, come to think of it. That’s going to happen. So long as you can agree to disagree, you’ll be fine. Respect each other’s differences. That’s the real truth of it,” she smiled, and winked at Bruce.

I hugged her and we got out of the car. “’Bye, now!” she said cheerily as I closed the door. She turned the stereo up right away, and we could hear the muffled strains of James Taylor blaring from behind as we trudged up the steps to the front door. We turned and watched her old Lincoln float off down the street until it disappeared out of sight.

By Monday, I couldn’t do up my pants. After a brief period of abstinence Friday morning, I’d spent the whole weekend in sweats, eating leftover turkey and, when that was all gone, cranberry sauce out of the tin. If I could have called in sick, I would have, but I’d just used up my last sick day of the year the week before when Morgan needed some hand-holding at the gynocologist’s following three inconclusive home pregnancy tests. It was the second time this year she’d thought she was pregnant, but, mercifully, it was not to be. She suspects Billy’s been poking holes in the condoms, although there’s been no real evidence of any tampering.

“Maybe you should go on the Pill,” I suggested.

“Yeah, right!” She cackled, tightening the lid on her cup of pee. “Me—on the Pill. I’d be pregnant and I’d have the clap.”

“The clap? Are you kidding me? Do you really think Billy would sleep around? He doesn’t seem like the type. I mean, you know him better, but I just thought he was really into you and only you, you know?”

She raised her eyebrows and looked at me like I should know better.

“Oh,” I said, the light dawning. “Who?”

“Peter.”

“Morgan, not again,” I groaned. Peter is Morgan’s boss. He’s an absolute jerk—gorgeous, married, rich and heartless. Morgan adores him, or rather, adores being thrown down onto his big glass desk and ravaged every once in a while after everyone’s gone home.

She shrugged her shoulders unapologetically. “After a few months, the sexual tension just builds to the point where we have to release it or it’ll become obvious to everyone.”

“Couldn’t you ask for a transfer or something?”

“Why would I want to do that?” she said, throwing her long red hair back over one shoulder. “I like Mergers and Acquisitions. Besides, I didn’t spend all those years busting my ass in business school just to let a prick like Peter get in the way of what I want.”

“Well, excuse the hell out of me, Madam Maneater,” I said.

“Gimme a break, Evie. I’ve been working my way up there for three years and it’s one of the top investment banks in the city. I’m not about to throw it all away!” She slammed her bottle of pee down on the desk in front of a frightened receptionist, and plopped down on a chair between two very unhappy women who appeared to be about ten months pregnant. What a piece of work.

I pictured poor Billy, sitting at home alone poking holes in condoms by candlelight, an uneaten dinner for two laid out on the table. Innocently believing Morgan was working late, as she often does. She probably just forgot to call, he assures himself.

I suppose love really is blind. Actually, in Billy’s case, love is deaf, dumb and blind.

I wonder if Bruce would do something devious like that. The condom, I mean, not the cheating. Probably not, on both counts. The idea of having kids thrills him, I know that. Plus, the thought of condoms brings out his softer side, if you get my drift. In any case, birth control sabotage isn’t his style. The only thing Bruce might consider poking a hole in would be the theory of relativity or something lame like that. Besides, he probably charts my cycle to know exactly when I’m ovulating, anyway.

I reached into the back of the closet and pulled out the black Anne Klein II Fat Suit (Allure, December: “Five Work Essentials To Suit Every Figure”). In a state of emergency such as this, I would never get on the scale. But judging from the snugness of never-fail Fat Suit—and the lines my underwear were leaving on my hips—things had gone from bad to worse. Better skip breakfast and break out the big guns. After work today, I’ll stop by the drugstore. Annie told me that Nicole dropped ten pounds in four weeks on a combination of ginseng ampoules and chromium supplements. I haven’t seen her, and I’m sure she still looks frumpy, but ten pounds, for her, that’s something. I bet she probably took laxatives, too. There must be something at Walgreen’s that’ll work for me.

At work, I studied the calendar. Let’s see…today was Monday, November 27. That gives me about nine and a half months to go until the wedding. Or 265 days. Thank God it’s a leap year—that’s an extra day which might come in handy.

I lost five pounds in a single day once, on the cabbage soup diet. But if I wanted to buy my dress soon, there was definitely no time to mess around. Besides, my metabolism ain’t what it used to be. When I was twenty, I lost (and then gained) ten pounds six times in a single year. It was so easy—all I had to do was cut out French fries and chocolate. But I’d been doing that for two whole months, and I’d gained God knows how much. Maybe there was something wrong with me, like some sort of fat-creating disease or something. It was a hopeful thought.

Pruscilla wouldn’t be back till Monday, so all week long, I devoted myself to researching that very question on the Internet. While Thelma flitted about nervously, preparing neat piles of color-coordinated folders on Pruscilla’s desk, I diligently studied the facts. Unfortunately, the facts were as follows:

Fact #1: An underactive thyroid may be to blame. Symptoms may include weight gain, irregular periods, flaky skin, depression, weakness, constipation and a puffy face. Eureka! Maybe this was the miracle I’d been praying for all these years.

Fact #2: I do not have an underactive thyroid. Or type-two diabetes. Or undiagnosed edema of any kind. No systemic medical condition is to blame. An emergency lunchtime visit to my doctor on Wednesday confirmed these findings. Not at all worth the $120 fee to rush the results of the blood test.

Fact #3: Pregnancy causes weight gain.

Fact #4: I am not pregnant. That is, unless there has been an immaculate conception.

Fact #5: In 1991, doctors at Stanford University Medical Center removed a 303-pound tumor from the right ovary of an otherwise healthy thirty-four-year-old woman. She made a full recovery.

Fact #6: There is no such tumor in either of my ovaries, also confirmed by my doctor. I do not even have a small tumor.

Fact #7: Obsessing over one’s weight can be a sign of anorexia. Might I be teetering on the brink of losing half my body weight?

Fact #8: After completing 14 self-diagnosis questionnaires, it appears the only eating disorder I might be afflicted with is something called binge-eating disorder. Symptoms include eating until feeling painfully full, eating alone due to embarrassment, eating when not hungry, and feeling disgusted and depressed after overeating. The prognosis? Weight gain and, eventually, obesity.

By Thursday afternoon, I had reluctantly drifted away from the hopeful expectations of the medical Web sites to the more familiar depression-inducing body mass index calculators of the diet sites. There, I was forced to concede that my symptoms, although severe, were not altogether uncommon. In fact, they were quite mundane. What I did learn is that my body has betrayed me in a way as cruel as any organic disease, as ferocious as any pathological malignancy. It seems the years of yo-yo dieting have taken their toll. The culprit? A wonky metabolism. The cure? None to speak of, although one thing has been known to help other sufferers—exercise. The time of desperation was nearly upon me; the only option, painfully clear.

I would have to join a gym.

What else could I do? If I’d learned anything from my research—aside from the fact that there were also downsides to thyroid problems and massive abdominal tumors—it was that I was verging on an unhealthy attitude regarding weight loss. I would have to accept that, despite all promises to the contrary, there is no quick fix, no magical ampoule full of ginseng that would make my ass fat morph into muscle. Only hard work and a healthy outlook could prevail.

As I stared at the daunting pile of color-coded folders Thelma had gradually been depositing in my In Box, I realized that I’d done nothing all week but pray for various horrible illnesses, research the best liposuction clinics in the five boroughs, and neglect my professional responsibilities. Pathetic. How could I expect to be promoted if I can’t even bother returning an e-mail or two? Bruce was right—I was in danger of losing it. Well, not anymore.

On Friday afternoon I left early since I figured it would be my last chance for a while, with Pruscilla’s return just one short weekend away. While I’d been embroiled in online research, Thelma had spent the better part of the week pulling her hair out in Pruscilla’s office, which was by now a complete mess. The tension in the air was almost palpable, and it floated out of the office and hung over my cubby. I didn’t envy her—she’d probably be in there all weekend. But it was hard to feel sorry for her. The simplest things seemed confusing for Thelma, even deciphering Pruscilla’s handwriting proved nearly impossible for the poor woman. But it was no trouble for me. I’d gotten quite used to it, in fact, and almost looked forward to typing her long-winded reports and memos (Pruscilla’s typing is slower than her writing), since it afforded me the rare opportunity to look busy while keeping my headspace completely free. I was getting quite good at drawing it out as long as possible.