Surviving As A Single Mom

“I am really self-conscience about posting this. I have been writing since I was a little girl, but I never shared my words with other people. I want honest feedback for these, because that is the only way I will learn, grow and get better. Let me know what you think.

Here is some background for the story. Happye Porter suffers from low self-esteem and unhappiness. Everything she is unhappy with in her life, she has tied it to her being overweight. She doesn’t think she will have love, friendship, or happiness in general until she is a size that is acceptable by society. After meeting an outspoken older woman, she loses the weight. But will this bring her happiness or will she learn that happiness is much deeper than what we look like?”

Chapter One

 

 

Life is funny. What the hell does that mean? I never understood that. There isn’t anything funny about the ache in my back from sleeping on a rock hard bed that I can’t afford to replace. There isn’t anything hilarious about the fact that I go to sleep on that cement block covered in cheap Wal-mart sheets alone every night. There isn’t anything even mildly amusing about me almost missing the ‘L’ train again for the third time this week and have to break out in a quick run so that I won’t risk being late for work and losing my job. I really don’t find the fact that, because of my increased weight, I am now out of breath, the heels of my shoes are giving out, sweat is dripping off my face in the middle of winter, and small children are starting to point and laugh, all that laughable.

“Life really isn’t funny,” I whisper out loud as I take a big breath before braving the concrete stairs to the train platform. “I can’t keep doing….ooof.”

Missing a step, I tumble forward; all of my weight landing on the one arm that I put out to break my fall. What a great way to start my day?

I hear the children laugh harder at my newly display of embarrassment. “Maybe life is just a little bit funny,” I mumble as I brush rocks and dirt from my black Liz Claiborne hand-me-down pantsuit and notice a small tear just above my thigh.

With my wrist now throbbing in pain, I limps the rest of the way up the stairs just in time to push a token to the attendant and make the train. My wrist may be broken, and I look like something that was dragged down the alley by a stray mutt; but at least I will arrive at work on time for the first time this week.

As if my day wasn’t sucking enough already, I’m greeted with regular strange looks as I walk the train looking for an empty seat. People are generally uneasy by sitting next to an overweight person; as if I will use my extra mass to propel them against the train windows and cut off their air supply from sheer force of my enormous volume.

I’ve just learned another life lesson; people are terrified even more by a dirty, hurt, limping overweight person sitting next to them as purses, briefcases, paper bags and infants were hurriedly pushed into any empty seat; letting me know loud and clear that there was no room for me in the inn.

Normally, this type of behavior would pain me and have my bottom lip quivering with stubborn unshed tears. But not anymore. I am used to it. I am over it.

A small, older woman with kind eyes smiles at me from the back of the train. With a nod of her gray head she alerts me to the empty seat next to her. I smile back at her and excused my way to the vacant seat. On days like this it is good to know that there are still some kind people on this earth.

The kindness in her eyes turns to worry as she accesses my appearance. “My God, Child, what happened to you?” she asked with genuine concern.

I clear my throat from the roughness of nonuse before answering. “I fell on the stairs trying to make the train.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride.” I said giving her another small smile that I hope would smooth the worry lines from her wrinkled forehead. I raised my right hand, still throbbing with pain. “And my wrist a little bit.”

She inspected my wrist before allowing her eyes to travel back to my face. The worry lines that I thought would disappear were still present. “Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

Becoming uneasy by her concern and focus on me, I turn my head, hoping to halt any further conversation. “I’ll be fine,” I assure her in the smallest of voices.

Although she was a pleasant person, I was just not accustomed to strangers talking to me on the subway. I wasn’t accustomed to strangers talking to me period. People treated ‘fat’ people like an infectious, contagious disease. They observed me from a distant; looks of humor, pity, disgust and disrespect sure to follow. But, they don’t come close; and they sure as hell don’t hold conversations with me. Like I said before, I was fine with it. I was used to it. It doesn’t hurt (much) anymore.

I let my eyes roam around the train, as I do some mornings. I like to see if people are watching me. I don’t like to be watched. I like being invisible. I like crawling inside myself and hiding. I like riding to work without a word or drawing attention to myself. But, I don’t like to be watched. I can’t help that sometimes. Being my size, it is kind of hard to be invisible. Other days I am insignificant. Those are the good days.

Some of the riders are regulars; the same people I try to disappear from every day. Others are new, rookies to this particular car. Or maybe they are just like me; people who doesn’t want to be seen and are successful at it most days. Today, I see them. I wonder if they see me too.

The little old woman sitting next to me, she is a rookie. I haven’t noticed her before and she doesn’t seem like the type who wants to go unnoticed. Everything about her is noticeable; from her distinguished features, that have aged gracefully, to her bulging eyes that are as bolder as they are kind. You couldn’t tell from the worn brown coat that she’s wearing, but she sent off an air of elegance. The kind that is only evident in old money or good breeding.

She smells of honeysuckle, if you can image such a thing. Not the manufactured bottled fragrance Honeysuckle that is now popping up in air fresheners and hygiene products, but the ones growing wild in fields. The ones my sister and I would pick from my grandmother’s yard as children to pull the center to suck on the small sweet honey on the end. Her scent is fresh; fresh honeysuckle.

“My name is Geraldine Moore,” my riding partner said, forcing my attention back on her. She stares at me as I, trying to decide my next move, looked into her aged, brown eyes. After a short while, humor colors her face, and for a second, it seems as if she would laugh. “My God, Child, everything isn’t a life or death situation.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” I know exactly what she is talking about.

“So you’re not trying to decipher how much your life would change drastically if I knew your name?”

Lying through my teeth, “No,” I answer. I am such a terrible liar. Everyone knows that. My family knew it, I knew it, and now a stranger by the name of Geraldine knows it. It is evident on her disbelieving face.

“You do know introducing yourself come next, right? I say my name; you say yours. It is Manners 101.” Her tone is a little mocking, but mostly playful; I don’t take offense. As a matter of fact, I am starting to like the little old woman who is evading my early morning, silent train ride ritual.

“Happye.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my name. “ I try to explain, “Its Happye Porter.”

She stares at me for a minute, trying to decide if I’m telling the truth. Like I said, I am a terrible liar. She’ll be able to tell if that was just a name I pulled out of my behind just to pacify her. “Happy, huh? That’s ironic.”

“How so?”

“You don’t seem all that happy to me. You seem despondent, self-doubting, self-conscious, or lonely maybe; but not happy. ”

This surprises me. I am usually a master at hiding myself; my thoughts, my wants, and my emotions. Geraldine sees through me. She doesn’t see the stereotype that all overweight people are naturally jolly. She doesn’t see the façade of indifference that I put up to keep people at bay. She saw me. I’m not really sure how I feel about that.

“You don’t know me. You have no right to make that assessment from a fifteen minute train ride.” I couldn’t help but to become defensive. It is usually not my nature; I am more of a ‘shrink away and hide from confrontation’ type of person, especially with people I don’t know. My sister is the only person who gets to see this side of me.

She doesn’t take offense to my lashing out. Can you believe she laughs? She actually sits there and laughs in my face. Not just a slight giggle or your run of the mill grin, but a full-on ‘head thrown back, building from deep tresses of your toes’ laugh. All I could do was sit there with, what I could imagine as, the dumbest look ever on my face.

“Okay, okay. There is no reason to get your panties up in a bunch. The world isn’t going to end because someone can see past that masquerade and see the real you.”

I should to be thrilled that I’m not invisible or just an object to taunted. That is what I want, right? To be noticed? Liked? Loved? Yet, for some reason, I am even more uncomfortable with being seen than I ever was at being ignored.

“So, how exactly do you spell that?” she asks, once again getting my attention. She seems quite skilled at that.

“Spell what?”

“How do you spell your name? I just know it isn’t the traditional way. People these days never keep it simple. They want to be artsy, cute or unique.” She looks out of the window with a small smile threatening to show on her lips. “Ha, unique; that’s really funny. They are all naming their babies the same thing; pronouncing it the same, but spelling it differently. That is their definition of uniqueness. The world is full of simple and common morons.”

I can’t stop the laugh that escapes my lips. As soon as it was out, I cover my mouth with my good hand to try to quench it.

“You really should let yourself have that.” She’s looking at me again with a peculiar look on her face. I give her a curious one of my own, wondering what exactly she’s referring to this time. “Laughter. You should laugh more. You are really pretty when you do.”

I freeze at the forbidden word ‘pretty’ and look around to see if anyone heard her. What the hell was wrong with her? Doesn’t she know that she isn’t to blatantly lie like that? Doesn’t she know that she’s not supposed to associate me with any of the deadly words like pretty, attractive, or beautiful? Did she have any idea how many of these public transporters were disagreeing with her or, at the very least, think she is completely blind or senile at this exact moment? I can just feel the swarm of mocking snickers all around me.

“I’m not pretty.” I tell her, almost whispering, so that she would know the next time. Maybe she was blind. Maybe she was senile. It was up to me to inform her of the cold hard facts; especially of the ones that concerns me and my level of attractiveness.

“Well, Child, if you don’t think you are than no one else will,” she replies as if she had just revealed the secret of life.

I decide at that moment that it was time to end this conversation. I don’t like where it‘s going and I’m uncomfortable talking to this woman about my lack of self-esteem. If and when I’m ready to do that I will do like all normal people and pay someone $100 an hour to tell me how all the problems I have with myself and my life is traced back to buried issues with my mother.

“H-A-P-P-Y-E. That is how you spell my name.”

It’s now her turn to laugh out loud. In a voice that’s a cross between being humored and impressed, she said, “Very smooth. You are very skilled in strategically changing subjects. Fine, I can take a hint.” She pats my hand to let me know that she now knows her boundaries, giving me a certain amount of comfort. “So, Happye with an ‘e’ at the end, Where are you on your way to this morning?”

“I am on my way to work.”

“Oh, you’re a career girl! What do you do?”

“I’m an event planner.” Now this, I can do. I can talk about work all day. As a matter of fact, that is the only time I feel in my element and can socialize with anyone. I know when some people say that their work is their life it is mostly bullshit. Not with me. Work is my life; outside of it, I don’t exist. As an event planner I am alive; as Happye Porter, I am just going through the motions. “I plan weddings, family gatherings, social and political events.”

“That sounds interesting. How did you get into that?”

Seeing my level of ease increase, she turns her body halfway towards me, preparing herself for the long, interesting conversation that she was sure was about to ensue. Her assumption was premature. I can see my stop quickly approaching as the train gently rocked on the overhead rails. What the hell; I might as well humor her for the six seconds we have left on this ride.

“I kind of stumbled upon it really. I interned for a woman who owned a wedding planning business in college. I was a business student and was there for the knowledge and expertise she could give me about running a business. I learned more about the planning side than I did about the business side, and I guess it stuck.”

“Well, you seem to really like it. Your face takes on a certain type of glow when you talk about it. You become more animated.”

“I do enjoy it.”

“State Street” is announced over the intercom and I throw a sympathetic look her way, letting her know that it was now time to end our conversation. I didn’t want to talk to this woman to begin with but now that it was over, I realized how surprisingly pleasant it was.

“Well, Happye with an ‘e’, it was nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too.”

She gives me another one of her signature smiles and her eyes turned back kind; the way they were when she first offered the seat next to hers. “Do you really mean that or you think it is the right thing to say?”

I only have to think of my response for a second before answering. “I think I really mean it,” I say honestly.

“I believe you.”

With a smile fixed upon my lips, I bid Ms. Moore goodbye and exited the train. Maybe this day won’t turn out as bad as I thought. Maybe I’m not as much of an introvert as I seem. Maybe, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, people can see me. Life; ain’t it funny.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Life is like a box of chocolates. Wrong. I get the meaning behind that phrase; that you never know what you are getting until you jump in and take a bite. That life is unpredictable. But, I find several inconsistencies with that logic. Unlike the naïve Forrest Gump, I know that it isn’t as simple as that.

See, my life isn’t all that unpredictable. As a matter of fact, it is quite mundane. I wake up alone. I go to work alone. I come home to an empty apartment. I eat dinner alone. I watch television for a few hours alone. I go to bed alone. Everyday it’s the same. Every activity is always done with the same person.

Plus, I like chocolate. It is sweet, sometimes bitter, and it melts in your mouth in a puddle of brown heaven. I put a piece in my mouth and for a small amount of time, I am happy. With chocolate, I am content and I know that I will have this feeling each and every time. Chocolate never lets me down; life does every day.

No matter how unpredictable I want days to be, nothing seems to change. Some would think that I like things this say; I don’t. I want to do new things, experience new tastes and smells, converse with new people every day, and see new places. I just don’t know how to go about doing any of these things. I’ve found myself in a runt; I can’t seem to climb my way out of it.

I am a walking contradiction of myself. I desire interactions with new people, yet I am terrified of people seeing and coming close to me. I want to go to new places, but am afraid of any place outside my comfort area. I want adventure, but shy away from anything isn’t the norm. I want, but don’t want. I need, but don’t need. I desire change, but is committed and dependant on my daily ritual.

Take tonight for instance. I came home from work, changed out of my work clothes, fried some chicken and French fries, and turned on the television in the front room. I have a riddle for you. Which one of those activities I haven’t done at least a million times in that precise order? That’s easy; none of them? My dinner menu may vary from time to time, but beyond that, nothing.

‘Ring, ring.’

Even the phone ringing at 6:35 isn’t a surprise. I know exactly who it is; the same person who calls me every night, although not always at the same time. When I think of it, other than your ‘run of the mill’ telemarketers and my parents (who doesn’t really call all that much), there is only one person who knows my phone number. Maybe if I give it out to more people, then maybe for a split second before looking at my caller id, I can have that sense of mystery in my life. What interesting person is calling today? What adventurous things they have to tell me now?

“Hi, Joie.”

“What the hell are you doing at home?”

My sister, Joie (pronounced like Joy), is queen of stupid questions. She asks things she already knows the answer to just to come off wiser than she really is. Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely adore the girl. Why wouldn’t I? Everyone adores Joie; she is the personification of perfection. Ask anybody they would tell you the same. Everyone adores her, especially my parents; she is their favorite.

“Ummm…because it is my home? And, I like it here?” I know I am being a smart-ass, but that is to be expected when I am talking with Joie. She is the only person in the world I am comfortable talking to like that. For the most part, and my jealousy aside, she is my best friend.

“Ha, ha, very funny. Let me rephrase that. Why aren’t you on your way to my house?”

“Why, dear sister, would I be on my way to your house?” I know what she was referring to, but I couldn’t skip on an opportunity to give her a hard time.

“I don’t know, to come to my party, maybe?”

“Party?”

“You know that thing where people gather to share food, music, and semi-interesting conversation. Don’t tell me it has been so long since you allowed yourself to enjoy something that you actually forgot what a party is?” That is what I love about Joie. She gives as good as she gets.

“Joie, not tonight. I’m not in the mood to be in a room full of your friends trying to out-do each other in the most obnoxious pissing contest ever. Why are you even friends with those people, just to have someone to brag to?”

Joie friends were lawyers, doctors, political leaders, and parents of overachieving children who wins beauty contests or something. On their own, I am pretty sure they are really nice people. But together, their desperation to be the only significant person in a single confined space brings out the monsters that Joie keeps subjecting me to over and over again. Imagine me, the loser, in the same room with these people? Breathing becomes difficult with the air so thick you can cut the stint of ego with a knife.

“Happiness, they aren’t that bad.” She’s pulling out the big guns. She knows how much I hate that name, but for some reason it pulls at my heartstrings to hear her say it. When we were little and the force from being in her shadow was too heavy for me to carry, she would tell me that it didn’t matter what other people thought about me because I was her happiness. That made me feel more than significant. How momentous is it to be the happiness of the person that everyone considered as their joy. Just the sheer magnitude of what that meant kept me content at night.

“Joie….” I already felt myself weakening. It would be nice to see my sister. We don’t see each other all that much since she moved to Elgin, the suburban community right outside Chicago, with her husband and child.

“What else do you have to do? The most you have to look forward to is watching someone else’s life on television.” She just had to ask, didn’t she? Why did she have to throw in my face that my life is about as exciting as shopping for white paint. True enough, the sense of nostalgia that I was starting to feel starts to wear off.

“What type of self-absorbed idiot throws a party on a Thursday night and expects the world to show up, anyway?” I lash out. It’d stupid and immature, but I don’t care. What can I say, it is my defensive mechanism; every creature made by God has one. “I guess if I had a rich husband and could afford to sit around all day and polish my toenails, I’ll have enough energy to party on a weekday also.”

“Happye, you know good and damn well I don’t sit around all day. I have a thriving career and a two-year old,” Joie comments, not even remotely taking the bait. “Throwing down the glove, showing your claws, and turning into Super Bitch will not make let up on you. Remember who I am. I won’t hide my tail between my legs and walk away.”

“You’re full of colorful metaphors tonight, aren’t you?”

“Happiness, please come.” When all else fails, beg. It works at least 38% of the time.

“Why do you even need me there? I’m pretty sure the party will go on without me.” On my list of things I want to do tonight, being stuck holding the measuring stick to Joie’s friends’ comparison of accomplishments is at the very bottom.

“I don’t need you here; I want you here. You’re my sister and I love you.” Oh, she is really laying it on thick now.

“Cut the crap, Joie. This is a pity invite and you know it.” My sister loves me; I admit that. The very thought of me being stuck clogging my mind and arteries with mindless sitcoms and fried food while she was hobnobbing with the Joneses sends her into a tailspin. Her invite has nothing to do with her needing to see me or wanting to be around me, but because she feels an need to rescue me and place me dead smack in the middle of her sophisticated lifestyle to bring a resemblance of purpose in my own uneventful life.

“Will you stop overanalyzing everything and just enjoy the moment for once in your life. Most people get invited to a party and take it just as that, a party invitation. You: you take it as an opportunity to psychoanalyze the method behind the madness.” Someone has been making good use of the thesaurus she got for her birthday. “I’m having a party. I invited my sister. It’s just that simple.”

“Okay, Joie. You win.” How can I not go when she puts it like that?

“So you’re coming.”

“Yes. I am searching for uncomfortable shoes to put on as we speak.” Not to mention an uncomfortable black dress to go with them.

“Boki-yii!”

“Boki-yii?” I giggled. “Joie, sweetie, please don’t say things like that.”

“What? Dennis says it all the time.”

“Dennis is 6 “2”, 285 pounds, and a professional football player. He can get away with it. You? Not so much.” Dennis is a running back for the Chicago Bears and is constantly thinking of new phrases he can scream out after a touchdown. For some reason, Joie thinks that she has the right to mimic his idiotic non-existent words.

“Whatever. Just hurry up; the guests are starting to arrive.”

“Okay, Joie.”

“Oh, and wear those earrings that I bought you for Christmas.” Great. I thought I would make it though the conversation without her giving me a wardrobe suggestion.

“Okay, Joie.”

“And wear your hair up. I don’t like it when you wear it down and cover up that pretty face.”

“Goodbye, Joie.”

“You know, come to think of it, you shouldn’t be driving alone at night all the way out here.”

“Good because you know I don’t like driving in this city. I’ll take public transportation.”

“No, you can’t do that. It isn’t safe. I’ll send someone for you.”

Uh-oh. “What do you mean you will send someone for me?”

“Dennis has a friend who lives not far from you. He can pick you up.”

“Joie, I don’t think…”

“It’s settled then. I’ll call John, that’s his name.”

“Joie….”

“Happye, stop talking and get ready. John will be there in a minute. See you soon. Love ya.”

How does she do that? She can go into one of her spills that will and leave me completely speechless. I mean, even my thoughts go utterly silent. Not only did my beloved sister talk me into coming to her useless party, she is arranging for me to spend forty-five minutes in a car alone with one of Dennis’ friends. Does Dennis even have friends that don’t make a living throwing other men on the ground?

“I highly doubt it.” I say to no one in particular.

I really hope this isn’t one of Joie’s attempts at matching. If it is, please let it be of the ‘if they meet each other hopefully they will hit it off’ variety and not the ‘hey, will you please go out with my lonely single sister before she give up on love and start adopting cats’ type of thing. I can just imagine the conversation. I wonder if money changed hands.

“I wonder if she told him that I’m fat.” I continue to talk to myself as I pull my only black dress out of the closet. I hate the way this particular dress fits me; I prefer something less form fitting. If shopping wasn’t so depressing, I’d buy a new one. Nothing gets me down more than having a skinny saleswoman suggest the men’s ‘big & short’ store for my slacks.

I quickly take a shower and throw on the dress. I decide to wear my black leather boots because it is winter and I don’t want my pudgy little legs to get cold. Taking Joie’s advice, I pull my long black hair into an elegant bun at the nape of my neck. I finished off by putting on the diamond earrings that she gave me this past Christmas and just a touch of lip-gloss.

For a moment, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, assessing my appearance. Am I really pretty? That was what she said right; not to hide my pretty face? She’s the second person to call me pretty this week. Either they are seeing something I am not or I’ve had the privilege of encountering two crazy and blind people in one week. I wouldn’t say I’m pretty; I’m not absolutely hideous either. If I wasn’t so chubby, maybe I’ll be a little pretty.

And if I am kind of pretty or have the potential to be pretty; I crave to be beautiful. You know the type of beauty I am talking about. The kind of exquisiteness that stops traffic and makes the sun pause for a second. The kind of splendor that the causes the wind to blow and the reason why the birds sing. The kind of unique wonder that all love songs was written about, the definition of magnificence. That is what Joie is, what I want to be.

The outside intercom buzzes and I nearly jump out of my calf-high boots. All of a sudden, I’m nervous again. For a moment there I forgot that I was expecting a traveling partner; a man at that, of all people.

“Yeah, who is it?” I know who it is. Who else would it be?

“Hey, it’s me, John, Dennis’ friend.”

“I’ll be right down.”

If I didn’t already have anxiety about going to this party, now it is magnified ten times over. I have to be alone in a confined space with a man who would likely look at me; judge me. I really hope this isn’t a matchmaking attempt by Joie. Please let it be anything but a matchmaking attempt. I’ll die happy if we drove all the way to Elgin and he not even notice I was riding shotgun.

By the time I descended the two flights of stairs, I see him standing outside the glass outer doors. John Whitmore; she sent freaking John Whitmore, the quarterback of the Chicago Bears. I don’t know much about football, but everyone knows the quarterback. I also know from the tabloids that he is the epitome of a ladies’ man, often even leaving the clubs with a different woman than the one he came with. Nervous doesn’t even describe what I am feeling right now.

I am going to kill Joie. I am going to wrap my chubby fingers around her scrawny neck and squeeze until her head pop off. She knows me. She knows me better than anyone. She had to have guessed that this would make me uncomfortable. How could she have not known that I would rather ride a bus full of homicidal psychos than to be stuck riding alone with this smooth-talking, womanizing, handsome millionaire in his canary yellow……what a minute. Is that a Lamborghini?

Feeling even more self-conscious, I wrap my long coat around my body even more to hide the rolls of flesh that is visible through my dress. ‘You might as well get it over with, Happye,’ I tell myself before exiting the building and taking John’s hand to be escorted to his very expensive piece of Italian engineering.

When I woke this morning, I couldn’t have predicted that by 7:15 I would be going to a party, no less riding with the most famous man in Chicago in his $400,000 car. In some ways, I have to say that life has it way of making the unexpected happen. I heard this quote one time that describes what I am going through right now; Life is like a box of chocolates.

 

Chapter Three

 

Life sometimes throws a curveball. Tell me about it. I’ve just been thrown the biggest curveball of the season. Here I am on my way to Elgin, Illinois to one of my sister’s useless parties, in a luxury sports car driven by Chicago’s most notorious playboys. It that’s not a curveball I don’t know what is.

“So, Dennis tells me you’re an event planner.” Is he talking to me? He is actually trying to make conversation with me. I guess it would make the drive seem less long and dreadful if we didn’t endure most of it in silence. “What is that like?”

Say something cleaver, say something sophisticated. “I don’t know. It’s just a job.” Great job, Happye. You’ll easily make his list of the most interesting people he ever had the privilege to share time with. “I mean, it is kind of exciting, meeting new people.”

  “You must go to the raddest parties in the state.” Did he say ‘raddest’? Is that even a word? “I can imagine all the connections that are right there at your fingertips.”

“I don’t really attend the parties that I plan. Yeah, I show up to make sure that everything is okay, but I mostly stay in the kitchen. I don’t socialize at them.”

“Why the hell not? I know they don’t make you spend the evening with the servants?”

“No, they don’t. I just feel more comfortable doing that than making small talk with people I don’t know.”

“So, you are the quiet type.” The man’s smile should be considered a crime in forty-eight states. It was positively lethal. “I like you more and more.”

It has been so long since a man told me that he liked me, my face redden with embarrassment and delight. I can’t find anything coherent to say, so I say nothing. I am still reeling from the fact that he likes me. Maybe this won’t be so bad afterwards.

“Dennis is right. You will make a good wife.”

I assumed a little too prematurely. I have a feeling that this is going to be worse than I thought. “Wife? Ww…..www…wife for whom?”

“For me, of course.”

“I’m a little confused.

“I know that it will be an adjustment in the beginning. I had to adjust myself. I mean, you’re not my usual type. When Dennis told me that you were on the heavy side, I was completely against it. But, now that I’ve had time to talk about it; I agree with him. You will be perfect.”

Did I slip and bump my head? I must be dreaming, please let me be dreaming.

“Perfect? What am I perfect for, exactly?” I still can’t believe this is happening to me.  What kind of freaky ass twilight zone did I wake up in?

He has the nerve to give me a look as if I’m the one that have lost the use of my mental facility. “You’re a little slow, huh?” Son of a bit….. “That’s okay. We can work on that.”

I grab hold to the door handle so tight my hand is starting to spasm. He has to be driving 100 miles per hour, but everything is going in slow motion. I let out a long breath and try to get a hold on my emotions. The last thing I want to do is overreact.

Okay, Happye, what is going on? On the surface, it seems as if your brother-in-law pimped you out to this slick playboy.  What does that mean? He wants me to be some type of trophy wife? I may be a little ‘slow’ (his words, not mine), but I thought that one of the qualifications of being a trophy wife is to actually be a trophy. There has to be more to this.

“You are exactly what I need right now for my image. Advertisers only want the ‘family man’ type. If I want the good endorsements, then I will have to clean up my image a bit. That is where you will come in.”

I wish he would shut up. The more he talks the sicker I become. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe my sister, the only person in the world that I thought truly cared about me, would do this. Why would she do this?

Don’t cry, Happye; just don’t let him see you cry. ‘Too late’ I say to myself as I feel the tears threatening to spill out of my eye sockets.

 He catches my lip quivering and the glistening of tears in my eye. At least he had the decency to look sympathetic. “Don’t worry. I will be completely discreet with my affairs. I won’t embarrass you.”

Astonished, all I can do is stare at him. There are no words; I can’t say anything because there are no words. My mind is completely blank. This jackass has stunned me into utter silence. If there ever was a time to disappear, it would be now.

“Oh, and I will save some of the Whitmore lovin’ for you too. I don’t have a problem doing fat chicks. More cushion for the pushing, you know what I’m saying.”

‘Shut up, just shut up right now before I take off my boot and bludgeon you to death, you jerk.’ Okay those are words, but why can’t I say them out loud. ‘Speak up, Happye. Open your mouth and take up for yourself for once.’

No matter how many inspirational speeches I give myself on the ride over, I don’t say anything. I sit there like a crying stone statue while this man keeps sprouting off how much my life will improve once I married him. He doesn’t even know me and he is talking about how many kids I think we should have to further his career. And, I say absolutely nothing. I sit there, with tears streaming down my face and unable to breathe, and try to hide within myself. ‘Please make me invisible.’

We arrive to my sister’s two-level brick home. He gets out and is heading around my side to open the door for me. I give him no time to get there before I bolt out of the car and speed-walk to the house. I hear him laughing behind me and all I want to do is hit him over the head with a shovel and bury his beautiful body in this foot of snow. I’ll probably need more snow for his enormous ego. ‘Where is a snow storm when you need one?”

I press on the door bell with abandonment, praying that Joie hurry up and open the door before ‘that man’ gets any closer. I feel him just behind and I press harder. He put his hand in the small of my back just as the door opens, and I nearly jump out of my tight black dress. I push whoever it was that opened the door out of the way and rushes to the upstairs bathroom. The last thing I needed right now is to break down in front of Joie’s pretentious guest.

I barely had time to close the door behind me before violent sobs racked my body. Bending over as in immense pain, I clinch the edge of the sink for support. My body, so heavy with emotion, slowly sinks to the floor for my legs could no longer support me. I hear the music and laughter below, but I can only think of my pain. At that point I knew that I would never leave that bathroom.

 I haven’t cried like this in such a long time I thought I was immune to getting this type of deep hurt ever again. This breakdown was long overdue. Once I open the floodgates, it will take nothing less than a miracle, or death, to close them again. Deep down I know that this wasn’t just because of John, but for all the misery I had been feeling lately. This is a cry for the loneliness I’m subjected to day after day. This is a cry for the fact that my parents doesn’t even acknowledge me if it’s not directed tied to something about Joie. This is a cry for kids that laughed at me this morning. This is a cry for the fact that my sister felt that I wouldn’t ever find love that wasn’t falsely portrayed for photo-ops to ensure my fake husband’s endorsement deals.

A slight tap on the door and I sink further onto the floor. If it was humanly possible, I would melt into this very expensive tile and cease to exist. There is another knock and I want to scream; to yell and tell the person who is trying to interrupt my emotional breakdown to go away. To leave me to my tears; but they don’t give up. A couple more knocks and I hear my sister’s voice coming through the door.

“Happye, are you okay.”

I ignore her. At this moment, she isn’t my only sister. Right now, she isn’t my only friend; the one person that I thought would never intentionally hurt me. But she did; she hurt me far more than anyone ever did. She knows me. She had to have known that selling me to that jerk would be a major blow to my sanity, heart, and self-esteem.

“Happye, open the door sweetheart.”

That person outside the door, calling my name, I don’t know her. She is not my sister. My Joie wouldn’t do this to me. She would want the best for me. My Joie, who considered me as her happiness, would want to be the same to me. My Joie would have taken one look at that jerk and told him to stay away from her sister. My Joie wouldn’t have done this.

“Happye, why did you come all the way out here just to lock yourself in the bathroom?” What? What did she think I would do after being set up like that? “Will you stop being such a drama queen and come on down to the party?”

This makes me angry. How dare she pretend as if everything is all honky-dory? What right does she have?

Drawing energy from my anger, I rise off the floor and snatch the door open with abandonment. At least she had the decency to look worried at my tear-stained face. I grab her arm and pulled her into the bathroom, locking the door once again.

“How the hell did you think I would feel, Joie?” I say between escaped sobs. “Am I supposed to be smiling and down there celebrating my new engagement?”

“What are you talking about? Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t you ‘sweetie’ me, you…you traitor.” I want to hit something. I could never hit my sister in a million years, so I turn my back to her and cradle my head in my hands. “I’ve never been more humiliated in my entire life.”

“Happye, calm down and tell me what happened. Did John do something to you?” I turn to look at her and all I saw were confusion and concern. My Joie isn’t this good of an actress.  “What did he say to you?”

“Oh, don’t sit here and act like you didn’t sell me out.”

“Sell you out, how?”

“Marry him, Joie? You expect me to marry him to clean up his image? I know I haven’t dated in a while but even I wouldn’t stoop that low for a wedding ring.” I notice my voice rising with every word and I don’t care.

“Marry him? What….wait, what?”

“Joie, stop the innocent act.”

“It’s not an act. I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Then, why did you send him to pick me up?”

“It was Dennis’ idea. He thought that it would be better for you to get a ride here. He said John have to pass right by your place on his way here, so I thought it would be a good idea. Knowing John, I thought that he would have some model or stripper with him and I thought that you would be fine in the backseat. I thought that they wouldn’t even notice you; that’s how you like it, right?”

I stare at her for a moment trying to decipher if she was telling the truth. Deep down, I know Joie; she wouldn’t do this to me.  I decide that she is just as ignorant to the situation as I was. Joie was innocent, but someone is at fault for this. I’m putting my money on her husband, Dennis.

“Happiness, start from the beginning and tell me what happened.”

Tears forgotten, I calm down long enough to give her a full count of the conversation in the car. By the end, she’s enraged. I blockade the door to keep her from going downstairs and killing both John and Dennis.  Even though watching my sister strangle two of the Bears star players would bring me an immense amount of joy, I don’t think I can explain to my niece why her mother is in jail for killing her daddy.

“Ahh, I can’t believe those two. He actually had the nerve to say that he would keep his affairs secret?”

“Yeah.”

“Jackass!”

“That was my sentiments exactly.”

We both look at each other for a minute before bursting out with hysterical laughter. The thought that he was serious and thought that I would jump at the opportunity was quite funny after I had time to calm down. The ego of some men is unbelievable; they truly think that God would consider them as a gift to women.

“Oh, Sweetie, I’m so sorry.” Joie says, laughter still coloring her features. “If I had known I wouldn’t have let that jerk within 50 feet of you.”

See, this is my Joie. “I know.”

She gives me a hug, and once again, I feel safe and protected and loved. “Are you okay?”

“Now, I am.” I say, pulling back from her embrace. “Sorry about the breakdown.”

“You don’t dare apologize for that. You had every right to.”

I nod and stare down at my enclosed hands. “I just felt so helpless about the situation. A part of me was hurt. A part of me was angry. But, there was also a part of me who thought that this was as good as it was going to get for me. That I should jump at this opportunity because it will be the only one I will ever receive.”

“Don’t think like that. Of course you will find love one day. You just have to put yourself out there. You are so closed up and you shy away from any lasting human contact.” She wraps her arm around my shoulders and guides me to the edge of her large garden tub to sit. “John, and what he offers, is not the best there will be.”

I want to believe her, but past experience tells me otherwise. “What if he is, Joie? Men aren’t exactly beating down my door. I’m not beautiful like you.”

Once again, she gets to her feet. “Get up,” she demands, “and come here.” I go to stand beside her in front of the spacious, wall-length mirror. “What do you see?”

“Is this a trick question?” I joke, trying to lighten the situation. I don’t like looking in the mirror. I like standing next to her, looking in the mirror even less.

“Seriously, look at yourself and tell me what you see.”

I look in the mirror again and notice our reflections. In some ways, we look very much alike. We have the same long, jet-black hair and tight, slanted hazel eyes. Our bronze honey complexions were identical. In other ways, we were entirely different. Her features were toned and beautiful, while mine, embroidered with chubbiness, seem stretched and unattractive.

“I see a poor and fat substitute of you.” I say honestly.

“Do you want to know what I see?” I nod, urging her to continue. “I see my very attractive baby sister whose heart is just as beautiful as she is. I see a woman who isn’t aware how valuable she is and doesn’t know her true potential. I see a woman who any man would be lucky to call his wife.”

I stare hard at myself and say in a small voice, “Why don’t I see what you see?”

“Because you’re too focused on the negative. All you see is your weight, but none of the good stuff.” I think this over and look back at my reflection, trying hard to see anything positive staring back at me. “Happye, if you are so unhappy about being overweight, why don’t you change it?”

“You really think I should?”

“It doesn’t matter what I, or anyone else, thinks. All that matters is how you feel about yourself.”

I look at her and picture how I would look without the excessive weight. Then, I would be beautiful and men would desire me the same way they desire her. I wouldn’t have to deal with men like John who thought it was a privilege to be offered a loveless marriage. I wouldn’t have to deal with people laughing at me or pitying me. People would be honored to sit next to me on the train.

“People, especially men, would love me.” I say wishfully, partly to myself and partly out loud.

“Don’t do this for some misconception of how you think people will feel about you. Do it for yourself; for your own self-esteem and health.” I hear her talking but I can only focus on what my life would be like if I looked more like her. I would find happiness then, and only when I’ve achieved my desired weight.

“I’ll do it.” I say determinedly, still in a wishful state.

“Good for you.” Joie says, thinking I am taking her words to heart for myself and not because I desire the acceptance of others. “Do you want me to take you home?”

“Would you? It is so far out of the way.”

“Well, it’s my fault you are here in the first place. Plus, on the ride home, we can devise our payback on John. And Dennis, of course.” She gives an evil villain laugh, the kind that you only hear in old movies and Disney cartoons. I laugh with her and we both exits the bathroom.

What would I do without my sister, I don’t know.  She is my strength and my smile. She is all I have, and I would die blessed if I never have anyone else in my life. She is my joy. And when life throws that curveball, she is right behind me, ready to pick me up and dust me off, when I swing too hard and lands in the dirt on my face.