chapter 2

When Clara arrived home an hour later, the aroma of a Thanksgiving feast seemed to surprise and captivate her. She came waddling in, belly busting, with a look of insecurity.
"Sorry I was gone for so long Mom."
"That's alright," I said, laying on a sickeningly sweet air, "you are home now, and that is all that matters." I patted the seat next to mine. She moved slowly toward it, trying as she might to hide her waddle, and dutifully sat down where I indicated.
"I figured to change things up a bit, I know I've been hard on you recently about your weight and everything. But I wanted to show you that I can enjoy a good meal once in a while."
"Oh! ...Great." She said, a little trepidation in her voice. I loaded up a plate filled with fats and calories smothered in gravy, and set it in front of her. Her eyes screamed gluttony, but her stomach groaned enough. However, she picked up her fork and began to eat. She started slowly of course, but quickened her pace as each forkful brought a new wave of delicacy to her palette. Eventually, she began to push the food in before she was even done chewing the last bite. She finally worked her way through the plate. She sat back, and with a dainty burp, thanked me for the meal. Before she backed away from the table, I sat another plate in front of her.
"But Clara, you barely ate a thing! You must be starving from being out all day!"
She looked at the food, then looked at me.
"Um, y-yeah..."
She picked up her fork and set back to it, albeit a little slower than before. She crammed forkful after forkful of mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, green bean casserole in a white cream sauce, and the best dark meat, dripping with fat. Each bite sent a moan, and a slightly slowed pace.
This time, I was on top of it. I set down a new plate when the last one was finished. And as she ate, I could see the discomfort in her eyes, and the grogginess in her jaw. She leaned further and further back as she dutifully ate her food. Her belly swelled larger and larger, and her breathing became labored. She somehow managed to plow through the remainder of the feast.
By the end, she lay almost prone, her chin tucked into her bosom, showing off her second chin. There was a smear of gravy and fat around her lips, and a dollop of potato on her blouse. Her belly was an expanse, her blouse stretched tight against her fattened body. The keyholes between her buttons were larger than ever, and her buttons strained. Her cheeks were still puffed with the final bite of the meal, of which she slowly chewed in between groans and the occasional hiccup.
"Its a good thing I know my daughter so well." She didn't look at me.
"I had the staff prepare some desert." That got her attention. Her eyes went wide and shot to me.
"Oh Mom, I couldn't possibly--"
"Nonsense. You've always loved a good pie," I remembered the Facebook post, "so I thought I'd make a couple for you."
I must have felt particularly vindictive that day. I walked around the corner, and brought out 3 different pies. Each their own flavor, but each equally fattening. In some way, I convinced myself that this was for the betterment of my daughter. I kept telling myself that if I acquainted her to the plight of the turkey, that she might see what the road the traveled would have in store for her. So, I vowed to stuff her senseless. Playing the guilt card didn't hurt either.
She reached for a plate, but I swatted her hand away.
"No need for the plates, surely!" And instead, I handed her a tin.
She gulped as she set the heavy pie on her overtaxed belly. She reached in, grabbed a slice, closed her eyes, opened her mouth and took a bite. Then another. And another. The entirety of the pie followed suit. Eventually pumpkin fluff and whipped cream joined the gravy around her lips.
"Oh God." She whispered under her breath.
I was growing impatient. She reached for the next pie, and as she opened her mouth to take her dainty little bite, I pushed her hand and shoved most of the slice past her lips.
"Mmmph!" she cried. She tried to chew as fast as she could to make room to breathe. I did not hesitate and shoved the rest of the piece in. Her hands quickly maneuvered to her distended belly, as she felt it grow slightly larger with each passing swallow. I was relentless.
About ten minutes later, the pies were gone, and my sweet daughter was dutifully sucking down the remainder of the blueberry filling of the final pie. When it was gone, she dropped the pie tin to the floor, as her hands fell to her sides. She chewed slowly. She looked positively green. But finally, when she finished her bite; as she packed in the remaining remnant of Thanksgiving, her blouse could no longer take it, and one after the other, her buttons exploded off her blouse, leaving a large dome, open to the elements. Her pie stained hands, slowly lifted to her engorged gut, and gently rubbed, smearing blueberry in a semicircle on either side.
"Oh God." She moaned.
Here it comes.
"Mom, I swear,"
Moment of truth.
"If that is what...meals my meals..."
Go on.
"are gonna be like..."
Yes?
I can't wait until ... Christmas!"
***.