150 Pounds Part 16

She punched him in the arm. "I'm serious," she said, but she was smiling now.

"Look, Shosh. Your whole blog ... its purpose is to make chubby chicks feel good about themselves, right? Give them self-esteem, all that good stuff? Be yourself, healthy at any size, isn't that your motto?"

"Right," she said, picking up a circular pillow (a gift from Emily) that had the words I HEART APPLES sewn on it. She hugged it to her chest.

"So? Can't you continue to do that? You're not going to lose your audience if you're honest with them."

"Greg, you don't know my readers. Some of them get mad if I even mention that I like whole wheat bread. They think I'm going outside of the rules of Fat and Fabulous and dieting, or watching what I eat. If they find out I've lost weight, my career is over."

He wasn't going to be easily put off. "Since when are you someone who pays attention to rules? Besides, aren't there always extremists in the blogosphere? Didn't you tell me that once?"

"s.h.i.t." She blew hot air out through her mouth, pushing a thick lock of auburn hair from her forehead. "I did say that, didn't I?"

"From what I can tell from reading your blog, which I do once in a blue moon, is that a woman's main goal is to be true to herself. If you've dropped some pounds because you got this farm and you've turned it into a beautiful thing, a real working orchard, shouldn't you tell your readers about it? Your real fans will still respect you. They're not going to stop reading all of a sudden just because you've lost weight. You can still help them feel good about themselves through your positive att.i.tude, Shosh. People just like talking to you, or reading your posts. Your job is to make them feel good, and you can do that at any weight."

Shoshana was taken aback.

"Wow. Who would have thought you'd give this, like, beautiful feminist speech? My Greggie, the biggest misogynist on the East Coast!"

She didn't say it, but it was also out of character for him not to talk about himself for so long. But she realized he was right. She'd been hiding from her readers. It was all too convenient to set up others to blog for her while she was fixing up the farm and shedding weight. It was time to reclaim Fat and Fabulous. And, as Greg had so eloquently pointed out, surely by America's standards she was still fat. The idea cheered her up. She closed her eyes and leaned forward to give him a hug.

Suddenly she felt a wet warmth on her mouth, followed by a tickling brush of lip hair.

"What the h.e.l.l?" She jumped up from the couch.

"What? You wanted me to kiss you! You were totally moving toward me!" Greg had jumped back, and was cowering on the couch as she smacked him with a nearby copy of Us Weekly Andrea had left on the coffee table. "Stop hitting me! What is the big deal? I've, like, seen you naked a bazillion times before."

"That was in high school! Oh, my G.o.d. It was the mustache. The mustache is turning you into a crazy p.o.r.n star! Besides, you only want to make out with me because I'm skinny now."

"Shosh, you're not exactly skinny."

"Well, whatever. Shut up, Greg. Besides, you know it's true."

He gave her a brooding look. "I really did think you wanted me to kiss you."

They looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then they fell off and rolled around on the new carpet.

"p.o.r.n ... 'stache..." was all she could get out.

"Thought you wanted ... me to kiss you..." Greg said, hiccuping.

"Let's shake on never doing that again," Shoshana said, putting out her hand for him to take.

"Okay. Promise," Greg said.

"Pinkie swear, just to be safe."

"Shoshana, we're not five years old."

"Just do it!"

"Okay, okay." So they did, linking their smallest fingers, making the shape of the letter W with their pinkies.

She sat up on the floor. "Seriously, though, what's with that fuzz on your lip? It looks like the pubic hair of a twelve-year-old boy."

Greg bristled, picking up his brown leather overnight bag. "The new girl I'm seeing from my gym asked me to grow it. She likes men with facial hair."

Shoshana giggled. "Okay, whatever you say, David Ha.s.selhoff."

"He's more famous for having a lot of chest hair."

This made Shoshana giggle even harder. "Thank you for educating me on the finer points of the Hoff. Want some lunch? Get you settled upstairs? Then I want to hear all about this new girlfriend. First of all, does she eat dessert?"

They spent the day eating fresh food from the local farmers' market, then strolling around the hills surrounding the farm with Sinatra in tow.

She'd saved the best part of the farm for last. Joe Murphy had paid to replace the rotting fence surrounding the orchard. She swung the gate closed behind her. Sunlight beamed across their faces, and Greg popped the collar of of his polo shirt, his eyes wide.

"This is ... this is unbelievable."

She beamed. The apple trees were now just the right height, the branches perfectly horizontal. (She'd cut off all the "suckers" that grew the wrong way.) The apples were the size of golf b.a.l.l.s now. Healthy, dark oval-shaped green leaves had formed on the branches. She'd gotten rid of all signs of apple scab, and as long as they didn't have too much rain this summer, she'd have a fully working orchard ready for picking in September. A small gray rabbit hopped behind one of the nearby trees. Greg reached his hand out to pull a branch close to his face, inspecting the tree as though it were one of his legal briefs.

"At one point in the fifties Mimi grew ten different varieties of apples," Shoshana said proudly.

"How many will you have?" Greg asked, picking up a leaf that had fallen, twirling it in his fingers like helicopter wings.

"Three!" she said, beaming, reaching out to rub one of the tree trunks like a proud mother patting her infant. "We were able to save almost all the trees for McIntosh, Winesaps, and Red Delicious. Some trees were too old, and the fruit they'd produce would be too small. So we cut them down, then removed their roots, and used the wood for firewood. We've got seventy-five trees here."

"We?" Greg asked.

Shoshana laughed. "Everyone's been so amazingly involved. Joe Murphy down the road, Greta, my mom, Emily, all four crazy girls I live with, you encouraging me on the phone ... This isn't my orchard. It belongs to everyone. I think that's what Mimi had in mind when she gave it to me."

Having lived in her house for three months, Shoshana felt she was communicating with the essential Miminess. Even more important, with her father.

"I can't believe I didn't visit for years," Shoshana said, tearing up. "We were always playing here as kids, but in recent years Mimi had Alzheimer's so bad ... just my mom came. I should have been here," she said, a tear spilling onto her cheek.

"Hey. Mimi knew you loved her. You always talked about her. Shosh, you're the kind of person everyone feels loved by." He hugged her, which was funny because she was an inch taller than him, so she was able to rest her head on his shoulder.

"You're not going to try and kiss me again, are you?" she asked, wiping her eyes.

"I don't want to get my a.s.s beat, no." He smiled. "Hey, did you ever go on that date?"

"What date?"

"The guy with the funny name you told me about ages ago. Lowc.o.c.k, something like that? The nose, ear, and throat doctor from JDate?"

"I completely forgot about him," Shoshana said. She'd been so busy getting the orchard together, she'd forgotten about the e-mail she'd received months ago. He'd had a cute profile picture, too.

"Maybe I'll e-mail him back," she said finally.

"You should. He'd be lucky to go out with you," Greg said.

She smiled at him.

The rabbit peeked out from one of the apple trees, hopped around, then ducked beneath the white fence and took off, its body a blob of gray paint against the green hills.

"This sure ain't Hoboken," Greg said. They once again opened the latch for the fence, and walked back to the house through the tall gra.s.s. (She kept it on the long side. She couldn't get Christina's World out of her head, and didn't want short, suburbs-type gra.s.s. She didn't want a lawn. She wanted fields, and she ran her hand along the top of the gra.s.s as they walked. It tickled her palm.) "No. It's the opposite. But I love it," Shoshana said. "I haven't figured out exactly what my plan is yet. I'm keeping my room in the 'Boken for now, and I'm back there once a week or so. Emily and my mom are threatening to move here."

"Do you have a business plan for the orchard yet?" A distant car's motor purred as it drove over the hills into town.

"Not really. I just figured I'd sell pies, and let people pick their own apples. I found all these cute wooden baskets in the shed out back that would be perfect."

They'd reached the doorway and he fingered the pineapple knocker. "You know, I do contracts for a living. I can set you up as a real business with a tax ID, like we did for the blog."

"That would be awesome! You'd really do that?"

"Of course. You should set things up properly if you're going to make any money."

"I know. I'm such a s.p.a.ce cadet when it comes to business. But you're right. Thanks so much, Greggie!"

"After Jane's wedding we'll pick a date and I'll come out here with the forms."

"I love it when you speak lawyer to me, baby," she said in a deep, s.e.xy voice that made them both laugh. They walked into the house and sat in the kitchen, talking the afternoon away. She'd baked a spinach quiche the day before and they each had a slice.

That evening they walked to the mansion for dinner with Joe Murphy and Greta. Joe had a chest cold. "A cold in the summer, ah, fockin' h.e.l.l," he'd said when they rang the doorbell and Greta ushered them in. The hallway smelled like a combination of yummy cooking and ... pee.

"P-Hen had a little accident on the rug," Greta said. Her white hair was tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck. "Why this crazy man insists on keeping a bird indoors is anyone's guess."

"She doesn't complain about my drinking!" Joe Murphy bellowed from his seat in the dining room.

Shoshana rolled her eyes. "They fight because they love," she whispered to Greg, who looked intrigued.

Dinner was a delicious combo of mussles in spicy broth, white bean and tomato soup, and an a.s.sortment of different kinds of meat and vegetable empanadas. "These were my mother's recipes," Greta said, her black eyes shining over the candlelight.

"I thought yer mother was wicked and beat you with a hickory stick," Joe Murphy said. He took sips from his silver flask whenever Greta went into the kitchen to bring out a dish.

"Yes, she did, but that was all she knew," Greta said. She ducked Shoshana under the chin gently. "She did the best she could with no money." She turned to Joe. "It would have done you some good."

"Greg, have you ever paid someone who yells at ya constantly?" Joe Murphy asked. He was feeding Patrick O'Leary sc.r.a.ps of food under the table.

Greg laughed and took a sip of his wine. "Yes, my a.s.sistant."

"Women!" He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, exasperated.

"I'll toast to that," Greg said, tipping his winegla.s.s to Joe.

Greta rolled her eyes, collecting their plates. "You can't live without us," she said. "You shriveled old prune." She placed one on top of the other, the sound of knives sc.r.a.ping against porcelain filling the great room. There were cherubs painted on the ceiling, and Shoshana spent time looking up at each one. P-Hen gave a great screech from the other room.

Joe was feeling tired, but he stayed up long enough to talk Greg into smoking a cigar with him (despite Greta's warnings about his blackened lungs). So the women sat on the back porch, watching night come over the fields.

"This sky is so different from Hoboken's," Shoshana said. They'd brought their winegla.s.ses with them. They were big goblets, with red, blue, and green stones embedded in the silver stems. "You can see so many stars."

Greta smiled. "Your father said something exactly like that to me once. He missed the farm once he moved to Summit. He loved the house he bought with your mom because that was home, and then, well, you two gorgeous girls came along, but he enjoyed painting the sky out here."

"I love it that you remember so many things about my dad," Shoshana said.

Greta was quiet for a few minutes.

"Georgina, Bob, and Mimi were my family. Their souls still reside here, in this special place. I miss all three of them so dearly. I came here from Ecuador and didn't know a soul. They never treated me like a, what do you call it? Hired help? Even now, that crusty old man in there has set up a stipend with his bank for me after he goes. Though that won't be for a long time, if I have anything to do with it."

Shoshana smiled. Joe was pretty old. No matter how much Greta bugged him about his drinking and smoking, time was running out. But that didn't mean you didn't try to cheat death and take care of the people you loved, in the best way you knew how.

She tilted back her head, warm with wine and company, and again looked up. She wished she knew how to tell planets from stars. Didn't one blink?

She wasn't sure what dress to wear to Jane's wedding tomorrow (though she'd recently bought a new cotton striped number from Target, not in the plus size section!), but it was okay to decide at the last minute. Life was led at a slower pace in the country. Splitting her time between Hoboken and here, her mother and sister and friends coming to live part-time with her, the antic.i.p.ation of the harvest in the fall, informing her readers about her weight loss ... It would all come together. The small apples that now lay sleeping on their boughs would soon become large and ripe. She didn't have to have life figured out to enjoy it.

Skinny Chick.

Dear Skinny Chick Readers:.

I'm sorry I haven't written for so long, I've been dealing with a lot in my personal life. Not quite sure I'm ready to blog about it yet, but more on that to come soon.

The site has been getting a ton of comments about a certain women's fashion magazine editor. I don't even need to write her name because you all know whom I am talking about. She had a somewhat harsh viewpoint on obese people being allowed on television, and she wrote a column admitting she would be grossed out if she had to watch two fat characters on television kiss one another, like on Mike & Molly.

She then went on to claim she had many "plump friends," and was not a "fatist," or someone who was anti-fat. One Skinny Chick commenter said: "Right On! It's about time someone let the cat out of the bag. Watching fat people on TV grosses me out, too."

However, the main tone of comments on Skinny Chick were that the editor's comments took things a little too far. I have to say I agree. To be honest, I've come to the realization that I may have been a bit too judgmental in the past when it came to absolutes about weight.

I still think a person is generally happier and will live longer the better shape she is in, but there are always those scary extremes of anorexia and bulimia. Women have been cruel to one another forever, and comments like hers perpetuate that. Skinny Chick has never been about cruelty; rather, its core message is feeling your best, eating the right food, and getting the most out of your workouts.

Before you say I've sold out, I will always rally against obesity, but my posts going forward will be on a lighter note. A more uplifting one.

With that said, my heart goes out to the editor because, as you know, dear readers, my goal is to inspire, not bring down young women. I can be a bit of a b.i.t.c.h sometimes, too, but I'm working on it.

Warmly, Alexis.

Alexis hadn't driven in the three years since she'd left Greenwich, so it felt strange to be behind the wheel of the rental car. The idea of visiting her parents sent shivers of nervousness down her spine as she steadied her hands on the wheel and 95 North sped by outside her windshield in a blur of asphalt and trees.

She had a small, raised ball of a belly that made the seat belt somewhat uncomfortable; she had to keep squirming around and changing position, something she imagined the baby inside her was doing in sync with her movements. When Billy was having a particularly hard day, they'd lie in bed together and she would read aloud to him from What to Expect When You're Expecting. This month, they learned the baby could begin to hear outside voices and low tones, so Billy would put his head on her stomach and hum Dolly Parton songs in a deep voice that made Alexis laugh. Last week after a round of "9 to 5," he'd looked up, his eyes tired, black fuzzy spots of hair coming in around his scalp, his cheekbones sharp like knives, and said: "You have to call Noah, Alexis. You have to tell him you kept the baby. He asks about you every day and he has a right to know."

She hadn't responded. Instead, she walked to the living room window, and oh, how ironic, there was Noah pulling down the metal grate that covered the Off the River Ale House window at night. His silhouette, so familiar to her now with his wild curly hair, tall, strong build, and big hands ... he always looked sad to Alexis, his shoulders slumped, and knowing she was the cause of his hurt only made things harder. Every day that went by, their fight loomed in the black velvet back part of her brain, seeping into every interaction, every inflection in her voice, every thought streaming through her brain. That moment when she'd flung angry words at Noah three months ago in the bathroom seemed ridiculous now, but she was too stubborn to admit it. She'd never fallen in love before and it terrified her. Billy told her he'd named a sandwich at the restaurant after her, "The Alexis," and the thought made her happy, like he'd been thinking about her, too.

Alexis blinked and gripped the wheel. She adjusted the strap of the seat belt again and sighed, remembering the horrible words she'd used, the anger she'd felt when Noah called Skinny Chick "crazy." Really, he was calling her crazy, right? She was Skinny Chick. Or at least she had been. She let out a bitter chuckle that sounded more like a bark as she flipped on her turn signal and entered her neighborhood. No one would call her skinny now. She'd gained forty-five pounds, and was nearly five months pregnant. The baby was due in January.

She had mixed feelings about keeping the baby. On the whole she was glad; she hadn't seen herself as a mother, at least not one who kissed skinned knees and packed school lunches, but in the last few weeks, seeing Billy so frail, she wanted to push death out of her house and welcome life with open arms.

She made an appointment a week after the argument with Noah for an abortion at a hospital on the Upper East Side. It was scheduled for nine a.m., and she was told not to eat anything the night before, which was hard because these days her appet.i.te was so strong she often ate two dinners. She'd worn an absurd outfit, a raincoat with a large black hood she'd pulled over her face, and huge sungla.s.ses, as if somehow she could crawl inside herself and hide. As if the paparazzi, or maybe her father, would be waiting outside her apartment building shouting, "Selfish b.i.t.c.h!"

Billy had been at a doctor's appointment, and didn't know she was going through with the abortion. She'd planned it that way, knowing he would try and talk her out of it, as he had been doing since she'd told him the news. Two blocks from the hospital she sat down on a street bench, hit with a wave of nausea. She'd looked up, and lo and behold, there was a coffee shop named Miracle Cafe, and she'd laughed out loud at the irony. Because wasn't her pregnancy a small miracle?