Chapter 2

Cathy

Cathy Stewart, Mrs. Michael Stewart, Mommy, slipped quietly out of bed at six-fifteen. She didn’t turn on the lights or open the drapes, so that she wouldn’t run the risk of waking her husband before seven. By then she would have the coffee made, his breakfast ready, and the children up.

In the early morning dimness she groped around for her jeans and one of Michael’s old sweat shirts that she had put on the chair beside the bed the night before. And then, careful not to make any noise, she tip-toed out into the hallway to get dressed.

First she pulled her cotton flannel nightie over her head, and then followed the reverse path with the sweat shirt, which was equally soft and worn and comfortable and hid the bulge occupying the place, where, a few short years ago, her waist had been. Then came the jeans which were neither soft nor comfortable, and which, even though they were size sixteen, did nothing to disguise the rapidly inflating condition of either her rear end or her thighs. She sighed. Everything she owned was tight on her, even the jeans that had taken her through both pregnancies.

She held her breath and sucked in her stomach as she tried to do up the zipper. It wouldn’t budge beyond the first half-inch. She tried again. No luck. She exhaled and then inhaled even more. In the end she had to resort to pulling the material on either side together and closing it inch by inch with little zipper victories, until finally the deed was done. She exhaled in relief, hoped that she would not pop the fastener at the top of the zipper, and started down the stairs.

The swish-swish of the denim made her stop halfway down. Her thighs were beating out a symphony of fat as they rubbed together. What had happened to Cathy the model, Cathy the sylph, Cathy the 110 pounds distributed sparingly over a 5'7" frame? Motherhood had happened … and peanut butter, and Oreos and candy and boredom and.… She refused to finish the thought.

In the kitchen she pulled a container of fresh orange juice out of the refrigerator—Michael insisted he would tolerate no substitutes—and poured his glass and then three smaller ones for the twins and Joey. She thought about pouring one for herself, decided that 100 calories was too much to use up on mere juice, and put the container back in the fridge.

Next she poured cereal into the children’s bowls and started to make waffles for Michael, from scratch. With the batter made and the waffle iron heating up, she turned her attention to the coffee. And then finally she made Joey’s lunch.

It was his first year of all-day school and lunch was now required. This morning it was tuna salad on whole wheat, an apple, and a Twinkie. There were a couple of spoonfuls of tuna left in the bowl so, rather than throw it out, Cathy ate it before putting the bowl into the dishwasher. Then she licked the remaining Twinkie cream off her fingers. It was now a quarter to seven. She went upstairs to wake the children and Michael.

Swish-swish down the hall. Into the twin’s room. Then into Joey’s room across the hall and swish-swish back into the master bedroom.

Michael was already awake.

“Good morning, Michael. Sleep well?” She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. He made as if he were going to pull her into bed and she laughed and resisted, but he had caught her off-balance and she collapsed on top of him. His OOOFFF! was audible. He rolled her off of him and slapped her on the behind.

“How’s my Big Mama this morning?”

“Michael, please don’t call me that. You know I don’t like it.” She tried hard to keep the edge out of her voice and rolled over until she hit the far side of the bed and then, denim creaking with the strain, she pushed herself to her feet.

“Sorry, Cathy. I guess I still think of you as pregnant. It’s only been a couple of years since the twins were born and.…”

“And I weigh more now than I did then.”

“I didn’t say that, Cath. I didn’t mean that I think you’re fat, just big. Anyway, what difference does it make? I don’t mind you that way.”

“But I do.” A sudden thump-crash from across the hall caught her attention. “Let’s drop the subject, shall we? Breakfast is ready and I can hear Joey destroying the bathroom.”

An hour later, Michael had left for the agency, the school bus had picked up Joey and his lunch, and Cathy was sitting in the kitchen looking out at the back yard. Spring was definitely on its way. The crocuses were up a couple of inches, all the snow had melted, and the daffodils along the sheltered side of the house were already tipped with yellow.

She sighed. Spring. Could summer be far behind? And summer meant only one thing. Bathing suits. She slowly sipped her coffee. It took her a long time to drink one cup, now that she took it without either cream or sugar. But black coffee had no calories, and these days the absence of calories was the definitive consideration. Today she was going to start her diet—again.

The twins, who had been busy playing quietly in their playpen, suddenly erupted into baby pandemonium. She put the coffee down.

“Jeffrey, stop that. Don’t pull Jennifer’s hair.” Jeffrey, surprised by his mother’s sudden intervention, let go of his fistful of golden curls and watched as Cathy scooped up the still-screaming Jennifer.

“There, there, Jen-Jen. It’s alright, Mommy’s here, Mommy’s here.” She rocked the little girl back and forth and the screaming abated as Jennifer nestled against her mother’s expansive bosom and her thumb found her mouth. She was satisfied and smug.

But Jeffrey, watching from the playpen, soon realized he was missing out on something. Mother-cuddles were not as frequent as he would have liked, because he had to share them, not only with his sister but with Joey too. His face began to crumple, and five seconds later he let out a wail that could be heard three houses away.

“O.K. O.K., Jeffy, I get your message. A little sibling rivalry going on here.” Cathy slipped Jennifer back into the playpen and picked up the alarmingly red-faced Jeffrey. She began her rocking motions again and a big, fat, baby tear slid down his face and onto her sweat shirt. She kissed the top of his silky blond head and held him against her.

But there was to be no peace. Jennifer, finding that her place had been usurped, began her own feminine version of Jeffrey’s wail. So Cathy scooped her up in her other arm and sat down again at the breakfast table. She placed them on her lap so that one was sitting on each cushiony thigh—at least they were good for something—and, with an arm round each tiny waist, she stared at the rapidly cooling coffee which was now out of reach.

Later that morning, while the twins were having a nap, Cathy had a good look in the mirror and decided that, fat or no fat, she had to buy something that fit. There was no point in being uncomfortable, and the jeans were seriously becoming that. She already had chafe marks on the backs of her knees and around her waist. So, the only sensible thing to do was to go shopping and find something that fit. Besides, it wasn’t forever, only until her diet kicked in. She had weighed herself twice since breakfast, and had already lost half a pound. It was only a matter of time.

Cathy gave herself another five minutes of this pep talk and then went to wake up the twins. She was going shopping.