“Her Father’s Daughter” (1st installment)

Today, I wanted to share with you a short story I wrote about ten years ago.

It has plenty of eating disorder overtones - back then, I was grappling with the way body image affected individuals, families, relationships, jobs and societies.This is by no means a “finished” product; it’s quite rough… almost embarrassingly so. However, I thought it worth posting to start a dialogue. I’ll be adding it in three installments.

Enjoy.

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Her Father’s Daughter

“Eat, Rebecca,” her father’s voice whispered. “Eat.”

The éclair before her melted under the lights of the bakery display. Drippy dark chocolate slid over sugary cake. Thick pudding struggled to escape from its doughy prison.

Rebecca’s mouth parted as the imagined the first bite. She could taste the flavors… she could feel the creamy filling dissolving on her tongue…

“Eat…” Her father’s voice grew louder, stronger. She touched the glass which separated her from heaven.

“EAT.”

“May I help you?”

Rebecca jumped and pulled her hands away from the display case, leaving visible smudge prints. She looked at the hurried clerk, an impatient troll of a woman with salt-and-pepper hair and bottle-neck glasses.

“No… I…,” Rebecca stammered. The clerk shrugged and walked away.

Rebecca’s escape from Pastry Haven was swift. She kept her head down, making sure she didn’t look at all the people she bumped into on the way out. On Wednesdays, shops were always crowded…

* * *

At 27, Rebecca was not the woman she had once imagined she’d be, at least not on the outside.

She tipped the scales at over 300 pounds, heavy for her 5′1″ frame. Her joints ached, her skin was stretched, and she shopped in stores with “plus” sizes.

She could not remember a time when she hadn’t needed to lose a little weight - but she had never been obese. People used to tell her she had a pretty face… for a fat girl. When they stopped offering such small compliments, she knew she was over the top.

But her father had always loved her.

Growing up, it was he who took her out for desserts and burgers. It was he who feasted with her on ice cream and coffee cake at midnight. And it was he who died suddenly of a heart attack when she was 14.

Some days, she would forget he had ever existed; but then, she’d hear his voice, begging her to eat.

He liked large women. He loved curves - the more, the better. He once told her that skinny women were nothing more than boys with uteruses. He thought women should be large… everywhere.

Ironically, her mother was a runner who had recently celebrated her twelfth marathon. Mom was at the gym almost as much as she was at the office, and she hated Rebecca.

Or she hated what Rebecca looked like.

Either way, it didn’t matter. The effect was the same.

It was actually a blessing her mother wasn’t home more. They shared a townhouse and as soon as Mrs. Adams would walk in the door, the ranting would begin.

“What have you been doing all day?” “Is that a cupcake wrapper in the garbage?” “Emily Randolph’s daughter is a model - how the hell am I supposed to compete with a girl like you?”

Rebecca’s only answer would be to shrug and promise herself a bag of Doritos after her mother headed into her bedroom to read one of her trashy novels.

“Your father died over ten years ago, Rebecca! Get a life! No one’s ever going to want to marry a pig, and you can’t stay with me forever!”

The words had become meaningless. Rebecca always stared blankly while her mother ranted and steamed and finally stomped up the stairs, her black leather pocketbook in one hand and her gym bag in the other.

Then, Dinner Number Two, a habit left over from the days when her father was alive, would begin.

* * *

(…to be continued…)