chapter 3

The answer to that question hits me later that day in the middle of lunch at the café on campus. While I’m busy stuffing my face with a pair of burgers and fries, the group at the next table is going on and on about what their plans for Thanksgiving are. As I listen to one after another mention going home to spend it with their families, I get the biggest smile on my face (one that might appear creepy to those looking on).

It’s the perfect set-up. If I can get my entire family to come to Thanksgiving Dinner at my house, I would have all of them together at the same time, on my turf, where I would be in control and not them. “But what are you going to do once you have them there Andrea,” I ask myself under my breath. “Feeding them a delicious meal is more of a reward than revenge.”

This thought rolls around in my head as I try but fail to pay attention during the rest of my classes for the day. When I should be listening to lectures and taking notes, I’m doodling pictures of Thanksgiving dishes. The more turkey legs and plates of potatoes and pies that fill up the pages of my notebook, the more my plan begins to take shape.

I’m not just going to feed my family a delicious meal, I’m going to stuff them with it. And not just stuff them, but make them the exact thing that they are so offended and embarrassed by when it comes to me, fat. My doodles turn into plotting how I am going to manage that. “They aren’t going to eat enough to make them fat voluntarily, now are they” I mumble to myself with another big/creepy smile on my face.

By my last class I have a page full of ideas for not only restraining them so they can’t just leave, but ones for how I am going to make them eat and drink what I will be preparing whether they like it or not. I feel good about my progress, enough to set the first part of my plan into motion … making the invitations, something I’d prefer to do without an audience.

Once class is dismissed, I head towards a bench tucked away in a far corner of the quad and begin making my texts and calls. My brother and younger sister are easy, all I have to do is mention food and they are automatically in. A simple text is all it takes. With my older sister, a call is required, and a lot of lies. I have to convince her I agree that my weight is a bad thing and that I am sorry it has affected her life negatively.

Once I’ve groveled and apologized sufficiently, she finally agrees to come as well. That leaves me with the call I’m dreading the most, not just because of the abuse I will take when I make it, but because it will be the hardest sell. My mother is obsessed with hosting the biggest and the best holiday gatherings, so getting her to skip that and come to my house for Thanksgiving Dinner will not be easy.

Five minutes into the call I realize that is an understatement. She hasn’t even given me the chance to invite her, let alone say anything else. Instead she has spent every second berating me for me weight and how it is affecting them and their status in the community. How my being fat is ruining her Thanksgiving party because everyone is growing tired and uncomfortable having to make jokes to avoid their true feelings.

“God forbid they feel uncomfortable making fun of me,” I mumble under my breath. She doesn’t even notice though. She’s too busy giving me a list of all the people who have declined her invitations because of it, and once again telling me I am ruining her party. As more than a dozen names leave her lips, I realize I have my opening.

“Actually, I was thinking of making you guys Thanksgiving dinner at my house this year … to apologize for how hard my weight gain has been on all of you, try to make things better, like the way they were before” I blurt out. When she doesn’t immediately respond, I continue. “I’ve already spoken with Dan and Lisa, even Sarah. They all said they would come if you and dad would.”

Not sure what else to say, I sit there awkwardly holding the phone to my ear as minute after minute passes in silence. I then hear her put the phone down and walk away, followed by mumbling between her and what I assume is my dad. “They are discussing it, that’s a good sign right,” I say out loud, more trying to convince myself that they might actually care enough to show up than about my plan working.

When my mother picks up the phone she does the unexpected and accepts my invitation. With a big dumb smile on my face, a real one this time because I actually think that they do care, I start to rattle of details about what time they need to be there and what I’ll be serving. The good feeling, and my smile, come to an abrupt ending though when my mother cuts me off.

“This is your last chance Andrea. You will show us that you are truly sorry about the suffering your weight gain has caused us and that you are going to change and lose the weight at that dinner. If you don’t, we will have no choice but to remove you from our lives. Your father and I simply can’t continue to be embarrassed and have our relationships with our neighbors, friends, and co-workers harmed by it.”

As I sit there, taking in every word, I’m completely speechless and can feel the tears well up in my eyes. I knew they were unhappy with my weight gain, but I never would have thought that they would disown me because of it. Too long must have passed, because my mother interrupts the silence with, “is that clear Andrea?” With a resigned sigh, I say “yes mother,” knowing that they won’t come if I don’t say it.

Once the words are out of my mouth I hang up the phone and finally let the tears fall. At first they are sad ones, falling in disbelief over the fact that my parents care about me so little and how dumb I was to think that they did for even a second. The more those thoughts roll around in my head though, the angrier my tears become.

“How could they treat their own daughter like this … just because I gained weight? How could they care more about what other people think and feel then me? How could I be so unimportant to them,” I ask myself. As the anger gains the upper hand, I stand and wipe the tears from my eyes. “It’s not right … and they are going to get exactly what they deserve,” I say in a strong determined voice then get moving.

By the time I walk over to the lab for my weekly check-in with Jack, I’m determined to not settle with just making them a little fat. I want to make them a lot fat. I want people to treat them the way they have treated me. I want to treat them the way they have treated me. As I reach for the door it occurs to me that the only way that is going to happen is if I trade my current weight gain goals in for theirs.

“Can you actually go through with that though,” I ask myself. Am I really willing to stop taking the supplements and shakes so that I can use them to stuff and fatten my parents, brother, and sister during a Thanksgiving feast that they, and their waistlines will never forget? Am I really willing to lie to Jack, and risk our friendship and his trial results, by not taking them to get my revenge?

Replaying the last part of my conversation with my mother in my head as I walk through the door, I decide that I just might be … to both. The thought makes the check-in anything but easy. I go through the motions, answer Jack’s questions, let him take my measurements. That all goes well enough, but that is because it has to do with the past, not what is going to happen moving forward if I stop taking everything.

With my recent quest to double my efforts, it’s going to look odd, when I gain less or nothing at all over the next four weeks. “More like obvious,” I mumble under my breath. When Jack questions what I said, I tell him about inviting my family to Thanksgiving and the conversation with my mother (leaving out my revenge plan of course).

“Listen, I know how hard your family has been on you about all the weight you’ve gained, and I know how much it has been tearing you up inside. We’d all understand if you slowed down a bit or decided to stop with the trial. You’ve done your part to show the supplements and shakes work,” he tells me. I give him a half-hearted smile, knowing that what he says is true, but feeling bad that I’m about to take advantage of it.

I let him know that I’ll think about it, but that I want to keep participating in the trial whether I slow down or not, then take my supply for the next week and head home. All the while, I’m trying to not only come up with ideas for how to pull of stuffing my family, but how I’m going to keep gaining weight so that my trial participation is a success for Jack too.

“One step and bite at time, that’s how,” I tell myself as I walk through my front door and into the kitchen, … starting with double servings of tacos, rice, and beans.”