Such a Pretty Face by Annabelle Costa

Chapter 40

Something sort of scary happened this morning.

For some reason, I had a little trouble getting out of bed. I mean, it’s not like I usually leap out of bed every morning—usually, I have to sort of roll to my right side, which isn’t always the easiest thing, then I swing myself slowly into a seated position. It’s a bit of a process. But this was more than my usual amount of trouble.

This morning, I rolled onto my right side, then I just couldn’t seem to sit up. I kept trying to push myself up, and my body just wouldn’t budge. And for a few minutes, I was terrified. I was morbidly obese before, and since Brody and I broke up, I’ve gained some weight. Have I reached a new level of obesity after morbidly obese? Am I now ginormously obese?

I know there are people out there who put on so much weight that they literally can’t get out of bed, and eventually, it takes like eight firefighters to haul them to the hospital. I know people like that exist, but I never believed that I was close to being in that category. It was something I comforted myself with—I may be fat, but at least I’m nowhere near that level.

But this morning, it didn’t seem quite so unrealistic that could happen to me one day.

Luckily, it was a short-lived fear. I propelled myself into a seated position, and I got up to start my day.

So when I get home from work today, I’m not in the mood to find Abby sitting at our dining table with a very serious expression on her face. I know what she’s going to say to me before she even says it.

“Emily,” she says. “This is an intervention.”

I roll my eyes. “Aren’t there supposed to be more people at an intervention? It’s just you. That’s not an intervention.”

That throws Abby for a second, and I’m hoping maybe I can escape to my room without a lecture. But no such luck.

“Please sit down, Emily,” she says. “We need to talk.”

“I’m pretty busy,” I say, which is true. I’m taking a new class at the college, and I’ve got homework to do. Fortunately, Brody isn’t in this class. But I’ve been struggling a bit because my vision has gotten worse lately. I’ve always had 20/20 vision, but lately, I’ve been having trouble seeing the board clearly during class. I probably need glasses—good thing they won’t put a crimp in my social life.

“Please sit,” Abby says again.

And she looks so anxious that I sit down. But when I do it, I sigh loudly. I’m having flashbacks to my teenage years.

“I’m really worried about you, Emily,” Abby begins.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Honestly.”

“I don’t think you’re fine,” she insists. “Ever since you and Brody broke up, you’ve been putting on quite a bit of weight. And that’s on top of already being a very unhealthy weight.”

My cheeks grow warm. “Are you done insulting me?”

“I’m not insulting you!” Abby cries. “Emily, you get out of breath just walking across the apartment. Your clothes barely fit you anymore.”

I had no idea she noticed my clothing problem. Yes, my clothes have gotten pretty tight lately. And here’s the awful part: I went to the Walmart that the bitch at Urban Outfitters recommended, and even the largest size was too small on me. I had to order some outfits online, taking a stab at what my size might be.

“And Brody is worried too,” Abby adds.

I look up sharply. “You spoke to Brody? I thought you told me I shouldn’t date him because he’s ‘mentally challenged.’”

Abby’s face colors. “I’m sorry—I was wrong about that. I’d never known anyone who was… differently abled before. Brody messaged me through Facebook, and he gave me his number to talk. He cares about you very much.”

“When did you talk?” I ask.

“About a week ago,” she admits.

I suck in a breath. I thought that Brody had forgotten all about me, but maybe not. The thought of him seeing me like this makes me ill.

“What can I do to help you?” Abby says, her voice almost pleading. “I’ll cook for you every night… I’ll join a gym with you. Just tell me what to do, Emily.”

“I’m fine,” I say through my teeth.

“You’re not fine,” Abby insists. “I’m worried about you. Maybe you can’t see the problem, but Brody and I do. As your friend, I can’t just sit by and let you do this to yourself.”

I push back my chair from the table, and I get to my feet with only a bit of a struggle. “You’re not my friend, Abby,” I shoot back. “You hardly even know me. The only thing you ever talk to me about is how I’m too fat.”

Abby’s eyes widen. “That’s not true.”

“Really?” I arch my eyebrows. “Fine. Then tell me something about myself that doesn’t have to do with my weight. What do I do for a living? Where did I grow up? What’s my favorite hobby?”

Abby is quiet.

“Exactly,” I puff. “You know nothing about me. All you care about is how much I weigh.”

“Emily…” Abby says softly.

“Please,” I say. “I’m sick of you and Brody and everyone ‘caring’ about me so much. Why don’t you just mind your own goddamn business and I’ll mind mine?”

I don’t give Abby a chance to answer before I storm out of the apartment. I need some quiet and solitude and KFC.

_____

Abby and I barely talk for the next week. Whenever we pass each other, she gives me a tiny, embarrassed smile and a nod. And I nod back. It’s better this way.

Abby goes see her parents on the island for a night. It’s such a relief to have the apartment to myself—the tension drains out of my body as I walk through the empty rooms. When I finish my master’s degree, I’ll get a raise at work, and I’m going to use it to get my own place. I’ve officially decided.

On the night Abby leaves, I strip down entirely naked to look at myself in my full-length mirror.

I look substantially heavier than I did back when I was with Brody. My upper arms are enormous enough that my arms no longer can lay flat against my body, or even close. My thighs are puckered with rolls of cellulite. My breasts are… big but fine, I guess. The worst of it is my belly, which is quite large. The sheer bulk of it has caused it to sag substantially, so that my upper thighs are now entirely concealed.

If Brody saw me this way, he wouldn’t be worried anymore. He’d just want to get far, far away from me.

I sigh and head to the bathroom to take a nice, hot shower. Abby always uses up the hot water, taking like a million showers a day, so it’s nice to have it all to myself for a change. I turn on the heat as high as it will go, and carefully step inside the tub.

In the old days, I would have taken this opportunity with Abby out of town to really belt out some songs. It feels so good to sing as loud as I can—the best feeling in the world. (Although to be fair, I’ve never experienced sex.) And of course, the acoustics in the bathroom are fantastic. But somehow, I don’t feel like singing anymore. I haven’t sung in the shower once since Brody and I broke up.

I stay under the scalding water until my skin is bright pink, and my fingers are like prunes. I shut off the water and shake my hair out. But as I start to step out of the tub, I take a wrong step on my ankle, and my feet slip out from under me. I land on my ass in the tub with a resounding “plop.”

For a second, I just sit there, stunned. My fall has completely taken the wind out of me, and my right ankle smarts. The other issue is that our tub is pretty small, and my abdominal girth just barely squeezes inside. I can tell already that it’s going to be hard to get myself out.

I lay my hands on either side of the tub and push. Unfortunately, my right ankle hurts far too much to put any significant weight on it, so I have only three limbs to work with. And the tub is really slippery.

I try for the better part of twenty minutes to free myself before realizing that it isn’t going to happen.

This sucks. This really sucks.

Panic mounts inside me. I’m naked, wedged in the bathtub with a likely sprained ankle, and my roommate won’t be home until tomorrow. Could I sleep here? And when Abby returns, will she be able to free me?

I look up at the sink—I left my phone on the rim. This is a very tenuous situation. I can just barely reach the sink, but not enough to grab the phone. All I can do is knock it off the rim and hope for the best. If the phone falls into the sink, I’m screwed. If it falls onto the floor, but out of my reach, I’m screwed. If it falls and breaks, I’m screwed.

Slowly, carefully, I reach my arm out. My fingers graze the side of my phone, and it slides about a centimeter. I edge it closer to me, closer to the edge, and finally, it falls.

I close my eyes and hold my breath. After the clattering noise fades, I open my eyes. And I see my phone on the floor. It’s within reaching distance. Barely.

I let out the breath when my finger close around the phone, although this now poses a new dilemma: Who do I call?

If I call Abby, there’s not a lot she can do on Long Island. I don’t want to wait over two hours for her to drive back. My family? No way.

I could call Brody. But what the hell could he do? Anyway, this is the last thing I want him to see.

Jess? She’d definitely come and help, but there’s a reasonable chance the whole thing will get back to Brody. And I don’t want her to see me like this either.

I recognize that there’s only one option: I have to call 911.

I dial the three numbers slowly, hoping some alternate solution will occur to me before the call goes through. It doesn’t. The operator picks up and asks me what my emergency is. And now I have to explain.

“I twisted my ankle in the bathtub,” I say. “And I can’t get out of the bathtub now.”

It occurs to me that maybe I should have given more information. Like, that my bottom is firmly wedged into the tub and it could take more than two guys to get me out. It might have been useful for me to say that. But I can’t make myself say it. It’s either be humiliated now or later—I’m choosing later.

I have the foresight to call downstairs and let our doorman know I had an accident, and the maintenance guy will have to let the paramedics into my apartment.

It takes about twenty minutes for the paramedics to show up. Half an hour of sitting naked in the bathtub, making a few last-ditch attempts to free myself. I wish I could at least reach the towel rack.

The paramedics are both young—about my age. Both of them are fairly well-muscled, which is comforting, although the idea of two attractive young men seeing me naked, stuck in the bathtub is not that appealing. When they open the door to the bathroom, they both get really wide eyes.

“I thought you just sprained your ankle,” the taller and burlier of the two says in a thick New York accent, almost accusingly. He turns to the other paramedic. “Ain’t that what they said, Ben?”

The slimmer paramedic, Ben, who I notice has kind eyes that put me at ease, says, “It’s fine. We can deal with it.”

“We don’t even have a bariatric stretcher,” the other guy whines.

Ben shoots him a look and approaches me in the bathtub. The first thing he does is take the towel from the towel rack and hand it to me. I take it gratefully—not only am I embarrassed to be seen naked, but it’s become freezing in here since they opened the door. “Are you Emily?” he asks. He also has a thick New York accent, but it’s not as abrasive as the other guy’s.

I nod, doing my best to conceal myself with the flimsy towel.

“I’m Ben,” he says. “This is Freddy. We’re going to get ya out of there, okay?”

“Sorry,” I feel compelled to say.

“Don’t apologize,” Ben says to me. He looks down at my feet. “You hurt your ankle, Emily?”

I nod again. “I can’t put any weight on it.”

Ben and Freddy confer for a minute about the best way to help me out of the tub. Ben gets in the tub, and Freddy stays on the outside, and they both pull on my arms. But now that the tub is dry, my skin seems to have fused with the fiberglass. And my rapidly swelling ankle isn’t making matters easier.

“Goddamn!” Freddy cries. “This is impossible. We need to rub her down with butter or something.”

Ben shoots Freddy a look. “Shut up, will ya?”

Freddy shrugs. “That was just a joke. Just trying to get a smile out of Emily here.”

I don’t smile.

I want more than anything for them not to have to call for help. But even I recognize the difficult situation, and I don’t protest when they call for two more guys and ask them to bring a bariatric stretcher. I don’t know why they need a stretcher though. I’m not going to the hospital or anything after this. I just need to get out of this tub and I’ll be fine.

In the end, it takes four guys and a sliding board to free me from the tub. The towel gets completely forgotten in the effort, and when I am wrenched loose, I’m completely naked in front of four young, fit men. I can’t even imagine what’s going through their heads. Actually, I can sort of imagine. Anyway, I’m grateful when Ben hands me the robe I abandoned on the toilet, and I wrap it around myself as I sit on the edge of the bathtub.

“Bring the stretcher in,” Freddy directs one of the ancillary support.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I say. “I’m fine.”

I look at Ben, my advocate, for support, but he shakes his head. “Tell ya what, Emily,” he says. “You walk us to the front door and then we’ll leave you alone.”

Seems reasonable. I push myself to my feet, and the pain in my right ankle is excruciating. I gasp and fall back onto the edge of the tub. He’s right. I can’t walk.

The men help me onto the stretcher. When I’m lying down, Ben takes my blood pressure with this giant cuff, and he gasps. “It’s 215 over 122,” he says.

“Is that high?” I ask.

“Are you kidding me?” Freddy answers. “That’s really high. You need to get to the hospital right now.”

I feel a little ridiculous being wheeled out of my building in a stretcher. Everyone is staring at me, even more than usual. I mean, it’s just an ankle sprain. If they give me a pair of crutches, I’ll be completely fine.

Ben and Freddy load me into the ambulance and the other two guys take off. Ben stays in the back with me because he’s concerned about my blood pressure, and Freddy does the driving. He doesn’t turn on the sirens or anything, which makes me wonder if they’re exaggerating how worried they are.

“We’ll be at the hospital in about ten minutes,” I hear Freddy say into his walkie-talkie.

“Roger that,” a voice crackles back. “What you got?”

“Lady hurt her ankle, got stuck in her bathtub, and now her blood pressure’s sky-high,” Freddy replies. “You won’t believe this chick. You never seen a lady so fat before, I swear. She gotta be, like, four or five hundred pounds, easy. I never seen anything so disgusting.”

Ben looks up sharply. “Hey!” he yells at Freddy, pounding his fist on the wall. “We can hear ya back here, asshole!”

But it’s too late. Tears prick at my eyes. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I just want to go home and crawl into bed and never come out.

“You’re not so bad,” Ben says awkwardly, as he sees a tear roll down my cheek. “I seen much worse. It’ll be okay.”

Ben is trying his best, but he’s just a kid himself, and what he’s saying only makes me feel worse. I cry all the way to the hospital.

_____

I swear, you’d think I was suffering a coronary the way they treat me at the hospital. They stick all these monitors on my chest and even put me on oxygen. They draw my blood, and I have to pee in this little bedpan they stick under me. A few times, I try to protest that I’m just here with a sprained ankle, but nobody listens. They do an X-ray of my ankle, at least.

Christ, if someone could just get me a pair of crutches, I’d be on my way.

I’ve been at the hospital emergency room for at least two hours when a doctor finally comes in to see me. He’s maybe in his mid or late-thirties, wearing blue scrubs, and even through my haze of irritation, humiliation, and ankle pain, I have to admit he’s very cute. He looks like he could be on one of those television medical dramas where all the doctors are having sex with each other.

“Emily Davison?” he asks, glancing up at me from the clipboard he’s holding.

“Yes…” I say. “Are you here to discharge me from the hospital?”

“I’m Dr. Cooper,” he tells me, not answering my question. “We need to have a talk about your condition.”

I shift in the creaky ER bed and my ankle throbs, despite the pain meds the nurse gave me. “Is my ankle broken?”

“Your ankle isn’t broken,” Dr. Cooper says. I sigh with relief. “It’s just a sprain. Just ice it and we’ll give you some crutches to use until you feel comfortable putting weight on it.”

“Great,” I breathe.

“Unfortunately,” he adds, his eyes darkening, “your ankle is the least of your problems. Ms. Davison, when you came in here, your blood pressure was dangerously high. It’s come down a bit, but it’s still well above normal.”

“Oh,” I say.

“And on top of that,” he continues. Christ, there’s more? “Your blood sugar was significantly elevated. There was also sugar in your urine sample, which is abnormal. I think we can conclusively diagnose you with adult-onset diabetes based on this.”

I flash back to what Dr. Richmond said to me when I saw him for my physical. Diabetes. That sounds so frightening. “But I’m only twenty-seven…” I say.

Dr. Cooper shrugs. “Considering your weight, it’s not entirely surprising. Do you have a primary care physician, Ms. Davison?”

“No,” I mumble.

He snorts. “Of course you don’t.”

My cheeks grow warm. I don’t like this cute doctor. Who the hell does he think he is? He met me five minutes ago, and he’s acting like he already knows everything about me, just by looking at me. Typical.

“I’m going to have you admitted here overnight,” Dr. Cooper says. “I’d like to monitor your blood pressure. I’m going to put you on medications for your blood pressure and something for your diabetes. I’ll have the nurses show you how to check your blood sugar. But you need to make a follow-up with a primary care doctor as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” I say. “I will.”

Dr. Cooper rolls his pretty blue eyes. Like he doesn’t think there’s any chance I’m going to do what he says. Which would make me angry, except for the fact that I actually don’t have any plan to do what he says. I mean, I know I don’t have diabetes. If I did, I’d have symptoms. Which I don’t.

“And of course,” he adds, “you don’t need me to tell you that you desperately need to lose weight. Your health problems are just going to get worse as you get older if you don’t lose weight.”

“Yeah,” I say. I roll my head away, not even looking at him anymore. To this doctor, I’m not even a real person. I’m just this fat thing. There’s no point to any of this.

Dr. Cooper sighs. “We’ll get you a bed for the night and keep you on the monitor. You can go in the morning unless there are any surprises. You might want to call someone to help you get home. Do you have any friends or family?”

“Yes,” I snap at him.

What the hell kind of question is that? Does he think that I’m so disgusting, none of my family has anything to do with me? And I couldn’t possibly have any friends, right?

Although actually, I guess I don’t have any friends. Not at the moment, at least. Crap, who can I call? My mother is my geographically closest relative, but I sense that calling her would open up a huge can of worms—she hasn’t seen me in a while. Same with Camille. Then there’s Brody, who I obviously would never call in a million years, even if he did have a way to help me get home.

That leaves Abby. Damn.

As soon as Dr. Cooper leaves the room, I get out my cell phone that Ben was nice enough to make sure arrived safely at the ER. I find Abby’s number and call her. I brace myself as the phone rings on the other line.

“Emily!” she answers rather breathlessly. “What’s going on? Why are you calling?”

I bite my lip. “I need your help, Abby. I’m sort of… I’m in the hospital.”

Abby gasps rather dramatically. “The hospital! Emily!”

“I just sprained my ankle, that’s all.” I’m not telling her about my bathtub adventure. “I’m being discharged tomorrow, and I was hoping you could come to pick me up.”

“They’re keeping you overnight for a sprained ankle?” Abby asks incredulously.

I sigh. “My blood pressure was high. They want to monitor me overnight.”

“Why is your blood pressure high?” Abby asks.

Christ, what is up with all these questions? “Look, can you pick me up or not?”

“Yes, of course!” Abby agrees. “Just tell me when to be there.”

When I hang up with Abby, I feel a little better. Abby isn’t so bad—she’s trying to be my friend, at least. It’s hard to fault her.

Soon I’ll be home again and this entire experience will just be like a terrible nightmare.