Starfish

by Lisa Fipps

“You’ve come a long way.” “So no more sessions?” I act like an excited puppy. “But you’d miss me!” Doc says. “Actually, I would,” I admit. “I like coming here. You’ve really helped me. I’ve learned a lot.” “It’s important you learn that not all doctors are like the ones your mom’s taken you to. Try to find a doctor you like. I’ll explain to your parents why it should be your choice; they shouldn’t have any say-so.” Mom with no say-so. It’s about time.

An octopus could be wrapped around my face and he wouldn’t see it. I almost moon him, to see if he’ll notice that, but my butt deserves better.

“I’m so sorry, Ellie. I wish I’d known your mom was parading you around town to doctor after doctor and letting them treat you like this.” “I didn’t want to cause yet another fight by telling you if you didn’t know.” “Forgive me?” I forgive Dad, but it’s Mom who needs to say I’m sorry.

Doctors are like clothes. One size does not fit all. Not even close.

“Want to know the number?” the nurse asks as she weighs me. I have a choice. Power. Rights. Finally. I shake my head. “Okay, then, step on backward.”

“As they say, everything’s bigger in Texas. Six four. And the weather up here’s just fine,” she says, answering the questions I’m not asking out loud.

“Let me just tell ya, I have sick patients of all sizes. I have healthy patients of all sizes. I’m not small, but I take care of my body. I get a checkup every six months. I try to eat as healthy as I can, minus chocolate because—hello— what’s life without chocolate, and, okay, steak off the grill because—hello—Texas. I don’t go to the gym, but I contra dance, which is, well, look it up when you get home.”

Gigi’s not about to budge, though. This is her room as much as it is mine.

“I hated you dragging me to all those doctors.” Mom takes a deep breath and exhales it as a sigh. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was a bad idea.” “Really bad,” I add.

“I just want you to be okay. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” I thought all you’ve ever wanted was for me to lose weight, I think. I won’t say it and run the chance of ruining the moment. This is the kindest Mom has been since —well— I can’t remember when. And it’s weird. But nice.

Hours later, I’m no longer calling out her name, just saying in between sobs, “Gigi, please come home.” Gigi’s gone, but I’m lost.

I ball up, a starfish curling in its feet, showing signs of distress.

It’s just my luck that the person who found Gigi is someone who would hold an innocent dog for ransom just to be mean to me. I will never understand how some people can be so cruel. They have no right to keep making my life miserable. I have the power to stop this. I come up with a plan.

Gigi doesn’t take her eyes off me. She trusts me. Trusts me like I trust water. I’d do anything for her.

“And I’m not going to let either of you bully me ever again. You two think you’re better than me. But you’re just pathetic. Look at all you did to try to get at me. All the time you spent planning this. The money you forked over for the cake.” I laugh and lean in. “But enough about you two. Now give me my dog.”

I feel guilty. What happened to her is my fault because I’m fat. That’s wrong thinking. I replace that thought. What happened to Gigi was because Marissa and Kortnee are mean girls.

I close my eyes as the brush massages my scalp. Relaxing. Soothing. Comforting. Words not usually associated with Mom. “I didn’t realize how bad it was getting for you.” “The chair? The photoshopped picture? Those weren’t clues? And you see how I get treated— sometimes you even blame me for the way others treat me. That’s wrong, Mom. But what’s worse is the way you treat me. You can be my worst bully.” Mom hangs down her head. “I realize now I’ve been saying the wrong things. I’ve always been better at writing than talking. I guess that’s why I like being a writer. With writing, I can take the time to find the right words and not blurt out something I might not even mean. I’ve never been great at talking.” “No argument there.” Mom laughs. “You’re good with words. Just be careful to use them as tools, not weapons.” I jump up. “Great point, Mom!” I look her in the eyes. “You need to remember it, too. Do you know what it feels like to be called a big ol’ fat thing?” I lean in. “Thing!” I say it softer. Slower. I pull away, starfish, make myself as big as I can. “Take a good look, Mom.” I turn in a circle. Once. Twice. Three times. “Am I just a thing to you? Behold the thiiiiiiiiing!” Mom buries her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. So very sorry. Thing is a horrible word. It should never be used to describe any person. I wish I could take back ever saying that. I honestly never meant to hurt you. Ever.” I flop down on the bed, exhausted. I want to believe her, but I can’t trust ...

“Just like that, Mom wanted to hug me, as if—” “As if everything’s fine now?” Doc finishes my sentence. I nod. “I feel better, but not okay. I think there’s more I want to say.” “We’ll work on it.” Doc hands me a notebook and tells me what to do. “And, Ellie, I’m so proud of you.” If only Mom could say that.

“My therapist wants me to confront Mom.” “Wowza!” “I dread it.” “But you need to, Ellie. You really do. I don’t know how you’ve put up with it this long.” “What if it doesn’t change anything? What if it makes matters worse?” “What if it helps? What if things get better?” I hadn’t thought like that. “You’re right.” “I always am.”

When the time comes, I’m ready.

As I look over it, I realize I’ve been preparing for a trial, offering up a defense of why I should be loved. I toss it into the trash.

“I don’t feel like you love me, Mom.” Mom leans forward, starts to say something. I stop her. “No. You’ve said enough. This is my time to talk.”

“Mom, I don’t feel like you’ll ever love me, can ever love me, unless I lose weight.” I reach for a tissue as the words catch in my throat. “I used to think I needed you to love me or I would be incomplete.” The tears flow. I don’t blink them back or try to hide or bury them. I take my time. Feel them. Each and every drop. Feel them drain the pain.

“I have people in my life who love me, so I’ll be okay.”

“And I’m learning to love me. The fat on my body never felt as heavy as your words on my heart.” I walk over to her and place in her hands a notebook full of all the ugly words she’s ever said to me. “It’s time for you to carry the weight.” She crumbles.

Sometimes when you see something all the time, you forget it’s there. Like the Whaling Wall in downtown Dallas, an outdoor mural featuring humpbacks. I feel so small looking up at them. They swim. They’re smart. They have huge hearts. And they have a voice. I’ve always hated being called a whale, but it’s actually a compliment. They’re big. They’re amazing creatures. And they’re beautiful.

What’s better than a cannonball? Three cannonballs. Catalina gets an A for originality. She leaps into the air and flaps her arms like a newborn duckling, its wings pretty much useless for flight, but at least it feels like it’s doing something to try to save itself as it falls.

Not to brag, but I nail it. Perfect form. Perfect splash.

I deserve to be seen. To be noticed. To be heard. To be treated like a human. I starfish. There’s plenty of room for each and every one of us in the world.

no matter your size or who you are, you are lovable and deserve for people to treat you like you’re a valuable person. Because you are.