The first time I questioned my mother’s eating habits, I was 5 years old. My father had just downed a greasy breakfast sandwich as my mother pushed scrambled eggs around on her plate— the sad scraping of fork to ceramic a familiar sound. The tulle of my skirt was glued to the diner booth with spilled maple syrup and the stain stuck with me for years.
“Why aren’t you eating that much?” I had asked her, hand-picking rainbow sprinkles off my plate of used-to-be pancakes. My mother grimaced.
“Why are you eating that much?” she retaliated.
I looked down at the baby-pink t-shirt that clung to my bloated belly in a way that I’d imagine a hug would feel. I hadn’t noticed until then that two fatty bumps were beginning to form on top of each other, like fleshy hills with a dip in the middle that shaped my stomach’s profile like a “B”. I peeled the “Birthday Princess” sticker from my upper chest and relocated it over my gut, shielding less surface area than I would have preferred.
I thought I saw a twinkle of guilt in my mother’s eye then, nestled within her blue irises that never matched my amber, but she always blamed her eyes welling up on allergies, so I chose to overlook it. My father’s eyes, however, remained glued to his plate. In all those years before he got the guts to leave, I think he may have feared her.
My full-length mirror is decorated with post-it notes around its floral border— some are homework reminders, others are self-targeted obscenities disguised as “body positivity”, and absolutely none wish me a happy seventeenth birthday.
Unavoidable within the mirror’s reflection, in the wide stretch between my bra and panties, there is a bulging mass of skin. It’s plump, soft, and spilling out over my waistband like a shaken-up bottle of soda. My stomach mocks me with its wry crease of a smile trailing from one hip to the other. With each inhale and exhale, the two lips of fat open and close, exposing my belly button for mere moments at a time like periodic laughter.
I see my mother. I don’t see her in the convex form of my abdomen, nor the ripples of skin that ride down my sides like a lazy low tide. I don’t see her in my body’s fullness; I see her in its emptiness.
She calls me downstairs for breakfast, and for a moment, I believe her order is directed at someone else, for she calls me neither “Pig” nor “Fatty”. She uses my legal name, one that feels foreign to me, not having left her lips since I was thin and she was happy.
As I descend the staircase, I expect to find the traditional two slices of bone-dry toast alongside a single unpeeled orange. I’ve gotten used to choking down the bread and now nearly enjoy the sting of citrus that follows— it’s the caustic cherry on top of a spiritually draining meal. Most mornings, she and I sit at the pristine white table, always on opposite ends, separated by my father’s vacant chair.
When I enter the kitchen, I cannot be more stunned to discover my mother seated alone at the table before a massive, luxurious buffet. Crowded along the stretch of marble tile are four large plates, including a dozen bagels jam-packed with smoked salmon, glimmering golden hash browns smeared with layers of ketchup, bunches of bacon sweating out streams of grease, and an eye-level mountain of cheesy scrambled eggs.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” my mother says uncharacteristically. “I waited for you to start.”
The overwhelming mix of scents causes something hot to rise from my abdomen to the back of my throat – either stomach acid or liquid fear – but I manage to gulp it down and resolve to breathe through my mouth from here on out.
“What’s gotten into you?” I whisper, which comes out weaker than I intended.
“I can tell you what’s about to get into me, and that’s all of this delicious food!” She exclaims in a frenzy, promptly picking up her fork and knife and gripping them with white knuckles.
Beside my mother is a dining setup identical to her own, including the sterling-silver utensils and expensive chinaware she typically keeps off limits to me. I approach the spot at the table that was once my father’s with tortoiselike hesitation. Intrusive thoughts of potentially poisoned food poke at my spiraling brain and tickle terror from its folds and crevices.
The very instant my thighs meet the chair cushion, my mother goes to town.
She eats fervently, as though the persistent calculator in her mind has finally lost its battery, now unable to track the calories, servings, and pounds that have haunted her since I’ve known her. She shovels oversize scoops of eggs onto her dish until her stack is nearly toppling, then ditches her fork and knife to dive in face-first, rubbery pale yellow bits sticking to her cheeks and chin.
“Come on,” my mother encourages through a mouthful of grub. “Dig in!”
I glance between plate and stomach, plate and stomach, back to plate and then stomach again. I see the evil lips of fat grinning at me from below, now prouder than ever. Perhaps the intoxicating aromas are getting to my head, but I’m almost certain I see the eyeless face wink.
Rage fills my gut so intensely, I almost forget I’m starving, but then I see it. It’s on the floor near my slipper-covered feet. I assume the odd placement is due to the packed table leaving no space for one last plate. Presented on the dish is a monstrous stack of pancakes, all dotted with chocolate chips, slathered with cream cheese frosting, and topped off with rainbow sprinkles. Directly in the center of the stack sits one wax candle with a feebly flickering flame.
She remembered.
But there is no birthday song to be sung when my mother is too busy conducting her own melody of lip smacks and slurps. Noting the pure haste with which she devours, something clicks within me.
I pick up the platter of pancakes and set them on my lap. Maple syrup drips onto my knees and down the curves of my legs and my pores gladly absorb the sugar. I don’t “give in” to the cravings. I grab them by the hair and yank them towards me. I put them in a chokehold. I spit on them. I call them mine.
Before I know it, I’m stuffing my face with delicacies at a record rate, not focusing on the flavors, but instead, the long-forgotten feeling of filling my stomach. I am hunched over the table, savagely grabbing fistfuls of everything in sight and often swallowing before I completely chew. Amidst the crunching and munching, my mother looks towards me, and a smile erupts on her sauce-speckled face— a different kind of smile than the twisted one on my belly. I think this smile might actually be proud.
Both of our stomachs fill and inflate like overstuffed teddy bears that start to rip at the seams. The gap revealing my gut expands rapidly and stretches the smirk like clay until it widens and flattens out into a trembling frown. Soon, the elastic of my waistband snaps, tearing the pants to accommodate my ballooning midsection. Buttons on my mother’s blouse shoot off with ease, peppering her plate as a garnish.
The two of us watch our stomachs develop their own frightened expressions. We scoff at the pathetic skin that fights to withhold the treats we have packed within it. We laugh and laugh until we feel we could burst, and then, as one might expect, we do.
In the aftermath of the explosion, slices of cheese fall from where they were stuck to the ceiling and ketchup trickles down the refrigerator. Chunks of half-digested, unidentifiable food have splattered against fat-shaming posters tacked all over the walls.
My mother’s abdomen is split down the center and emptied out, and I don't need to check my own to know I look just the same. The array of plates on the table, holding only crumbs a few moments ago, are now serving pumping organs with a side of fresh guts.
I watch my mother’s gaze tiptoe across her mangled midsection, an utter wreckage of her womb with its suffocating bounds now dismantled. She smiles, bittersweet, and takes my hand.
I’d long forgotten how cold her skin could be— I’m hoping mine can warm it.
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