Posted by Menagerie on June 29, 2004 at 05:26:21:
EAT! EAT!
Christine sighed, grabbed another buttered roll, stuffed it into her mouth.
This had become her life. No socializing, no friends, no job. Just stay home, and eat, eat, eat.
It made Mom happy. Mom had always been on her. “Eat! Eat!” she’d shout. “You’re so skinny! You need to fatten up! Eat!”
And Mom would cry, because Christine would pick at the salad and then leave, go out with her friends. The boys wouldn’t want her to fatten up; she was skinny, and they liked it, liked to be able to feel their way up her ribs to her breasts, down her bony shoulders, wrap their arms around her skinny body. They were so big, and she was so little.
Then came everything, everything at once. Mom found out she was pregnant just about the same time she threw Dad out of the house, the drunken bum. Sometimes he sent them money, usually not. Once she had Jamie, Mom had to get right out and work, work a couple of jobs, to keep food on the table. Of course, Jamie was just a baby, and Christine didn’t eat much…not yet.
Christine was two years out of high school, and couldn’t keep a job; Mom couldn’t understand why, didn’t know where Christine was going at night, why when she’d try to call her at the latest job, she’d find out Christine had already quit. Finally, sick of it, Mom told her, “If you’re going to stay in this house, young lady, you need to work for your keep. I’m shelling out $100 a week for child care, and you’re running the streets—you can stay here, watch your brother, help me make ends meet.”
It worked for a while. Mom would get home, dragging after ten hours at the department store, and Christine would grab her purse and the keys and go. Mom would be yelling after her, “Have something to eat, first! You’re just skin and bones! Where are you going? Eat!” Christine wasn’t listening; she was going to meet with those two guys downtown…
Then, Mom found the pictures. Christine and a boy. Christine and two boys. And a man, a grown man. Christine doing those things with her mouth—they’d let her keep copies from the photoshoot. She should have hidden them better. Mom blew a gasket “You’re not doing anything like that, ever again!” No boys, no men—especially not men, not after Dad. “You’re staying home where I can keep an eye on you! And you’re going to eat. You’re wasting away.”
Christine was cowed, and humiliated. Those two guys hadn’t even paid her what they said they would, and they were probably making a fortune from those pictures. She stayed home, watched Jamie—he didn’t need much watching, a lazy little boy, sleeping all day. Mom would get home from the department store, catch a nap, then go to her part-time telemarketing job. Slowly, the money situation got better. They got a new car. And, there were plenty of groceries.
“Eat! Eat!” Mom was getting insistent. She started serving up huge dinners; the aromas were irresistible—Mom had always been a great cook; that’s why that drunken bum had married her. Lots of potatoes, lots of gravy. Christine had nowhere to go, nothing to do, just stay home and watch a toddler who was usually taking a nap. She ate, and ate. Watched TV, and ate some more.
She knew she was getting fat, but she couldn’t help it. She’d disappointed Mom so much, and Mom kept throwing it in her face—“How could you? Nobody in my family, etc., etc.” The food quieted the guilt, and it quieted Mom. More and more, mounds of stuffing, big, thick slices of pot roast, cakes and pies.
Christine grew a second chin, then a third. Her breasts, always tiny and pert, swelled and sagged; her belly got round, her hips wide. Mom used her discount at the store to special order clothes. Christine had gotten to the point where she couldn’t wear regular T’s and jeans; it was even a struggle to get into the plus-sized clothes.
Finally, she gave up, spent the day in an enormous nightgown, all day long. No panties, no bra; they cut painfully into her flab. Besides, that way, she didn’t need to do as much laundry; she had been getting crumbs and stains on everything, her fat arms bumping the table, the forkfuls of food spilling onto her shirt and pants.
Christine knew Mom was planning a big dinner for the holidays; it was her turn, and they’d be coming to Schenectady from all over the Eastern Seaboard. She heard Mom call to rent the Community Center—there was not enough room in their little apartment; there’d probably be 30, 40 people—and to order the food. “What are we having?” Christine asked, and then wondered why Mom got so cross. “Don’t be nosy,” she snapped, as Christine rammed another scoop of mashed potatoes into her mouth. “You’re too skinny! Eat! Eat!”
Christine wasn’t skinny at all; she was mountainous. Chairs creaked under her enormous buns; her thighs sagged over the seat on either side. She couldn’t see her crotch anymore, her belly was so big; she had to sit an arm’s length away from the table. The bigger she got, the hungrier she felt; Mom hovered over her, skittering around with bowls of pasta and peach cobbler, splattering another spatulafull onto Christine’s plate. “Thanks, Mom,” she’d mumble through a mouthful. “Just keep eating,” Mom insisted; “You need to put some meat on your bones.”
Finally, it got to the point where Christine would just sprawl limply on the couch all day, stuffing her face. Mom wouldn’t even call her to the table at dinner, just bring her food out to her, even spoon-feed her and Jamie both. Jamie needed changing about twice a day, and would wake up for a jar of creamed green beans or something at mid-day; the rest of the time, Christine was on her back, catching Y&R and B&B and the other shows. And eating, boxes of candy, bags of chips, bottles of soda…
The family gathering had arrived, and Christine was crying; not even the super-sized clothes Mom had gotten for her would fit. They’d been piled, unused, for weeks in her closet, amongst discarded sacks of Chips Ahoys! and Oreos. I need your help, honey, Mom told her; “I have to start getting dinner going at the Center. Just put on your nightie and slippers; no one will see us.” It was still early, seven a.m.; street lights were on, it was dark in late November. Christine waddled out to Mom’s new minivan; they had to load her into the back. Mom piled sacks of potatoes, jars of mayo, boxes of veggies onto the rear seat; Jamie was strapped in, and they headed out to the Center.
Mom backed up to the kitchen; the maintenance man let her in. He helped her unload the boxes of food, pile them onto the steel counters; he also helped her get Christine into the kitchen. “Mornin’, young lady,” he said pleasantly, and glanced at Mom, who smiled faintly. Poor kid. He left.
The Center’s kitchen was outfitted with a commercial-sized oven. The racks had been taken out; the silver-steel walls of the cooker’s cavity were stained with burned food and grease. There was a big pan on the swung-down door. Christine looked over the food, licking her lips, but she didn’t see any meat; no turkey or ham or anything. Jamie sat propped up in a high chair, intently sucking on his binkie; he stared, wide-eyed, at the fantastic place, then gradually nodded off. Mom was peeling spuds, chopping vegetables, mixing dressings…”Christine,” she said, “I need you to climb up here.” She propped a chair next to the open oven.
It was an effort, a major effort; Mom had to put one of the food crates next to the chair, and Christine’s big foot almost went through it. Finally, she got up on the chair, wobbled unsteadily, her great belly shifting this way and that, almost knocking her off balance. She peered down uncertainly at Mom, who abruptly reached up, grabbed the flimsy nightgown, and ripped it away.
Christine instinctively reached down to cover herself; she whimpered, stared gape-mouthed at Mom. Mom was sizing her up, taking in her daughter’s enormous bulk, the massive teats, the fleshy arms, the protruding belly; then, with a forearm shiver, Mom popped Christine a good one in the gut. “Ooft,” the girl grunted, and toppled backwards into the big pan.
Christine was helpless; she couldn’t stand up, there was nothing to push up against within the tight confines of the pan. She just sat there on her broad bottom, tears leaking from her eyes; Mom reached in and removed her slippers, then started dumping the veggies into the pan. “Mom, what are you doing?” she cried, but it was pretty obvious what Mom was doing.
“You’ve been nothing but a millstone around my neck,” Mom said evenly, not even looking at her; just loading in the potatoes and carrots. “Doing those horrid things with those boys, can’t keep a job, just taking up space. I knew I’d have to come up with a fancy dinner this year, and you’re it.” Mom opened a big tub of margarine, grabbed double handfuls of it, and smeared it all over Christine’s corpulent body. “And even with all the relatives coming, there’ll be plenty left; I’ll have leftovers for a month!” as she slathered the yellow grease on Christine’s big belly.
Christine sobbed; she tried in vain to lift herself by the arms, then plopped back down. Mom was smearing the stuff on her daughter’s massive thighs. “You weigh what, now—three twenty-five, three-fifty?” Christine nodded sadly; actually three eighty-five, the last time she was able to stand on the scale. “I figure you’ll need to cook maybe eight hours. I’ll keep basting you; probably have to pour off some of the fat—lots of gravy,” she said, turning to wash her hands at the stainless steel sink; she came back with a large shaker of seasoning, and started liberally sprinkling it all over Christine’s skin.
Christine was mournful, but—couldn’t help it—reached down and stuck some of the margarine in her mouth, then smeared some onto a carrot and ate that. Mom, sprinkling the spices on the girl’s calves, stopped to laugh. “Didn’t you wonder why I was feeding you so much?” she jeered. “You’re a nice, fat pig for the oven, now.” Christine kept chewing through the tears. “I figure you were gaining close to a pound a day. That’s okay; your Aunt Beatrice is always bragging about her pork loin. Wait ‘til she tries a slice of you!”
Mom put down the spice shaker, picked up some shears; Christine’s blonde hair came off in handfuls, and was quickly down to a half-inch. My hair, too, she blubbered. Mom stood back, hands on hips, looked over her greased, spiced daughter, sitting unhappily in the pan full of produce, and chuckled. “It’ll be nice and warm for you, honey,” she cackled, and tensed herself…then shoved the loaded pan up into the massive oven, closed the door, and turned up the heat…
They weren’t going to be able to get her out of the pan, not in one piece, so they wheeled right out into the dining room, and Mom dished out helpings of Christine to the family. Mom had timed it right; Christine’s meat was falling right off the bones. She was laying on her back in the pan, her skin brown and crisp from the grease, with an apple in her mouth for decoration; Mom had split her open halfway through the cooking, gutted her out, and spooned all the vegetables right into her massive abdomen. Now, Mom was cutting slabs of meat from Christine’s sides and breasts, and carving steaks from her thighs, topping it all with spoonfuls of veggies from her innards.
Aunt Beatrice was impressed. “The lazy little pig turned out to be good for something, after all,” smiled the white haired old lady, with a plateful of shoulder in one hand and a cup of iced tea in the other.
Mom nodded, pulled a shred of her daughter’s flesh from her carved-open belly, chewed on the fatty meat contemplatively. “Remind me,” she told Aunt Beatrice, “to call the day care center.”