SOON Online Magazine

Stories

Living Without

by Jennifer Brewster

Claire walked home with a sack of groceries in her arm, a light jacket hugging her shoulders to shut out the evening nip of cool air. Her booted feet had traced this path many times before across half-damp pavement from yesterday's rain. It wasn't raining now, but her soft, beauty shop-colored ash blond hair blew a little, showing the wispy affects of damp weather before and to come. Claire wasn't beautiful, and she didn't even feel pretty most of the time. She had a fair, round face that was free of blemish most of the time unless she was having a battle with middle aged hormones. Her face was plump, and bloated sometimes, although she had eyes that were an usual deep, dark blue, with maybe just a circle of her mother's olive green in the center. When she wore makeup, her eyes could be quite stunning, particularly on days when fluid retention didn't make those uncomfortable little creases. Her nose was wide at bottom, but not obtrusive or unattractive, and her lips were thin and pale in a time when big, collagen-induced ones were all the rage. She often recalled that when she'd been thin, she was considered cute--never beautiful. Not even her own father considered her beautiful--sensible, kind, able to function independantly and listen without lack of focus, but not beautiful. It was strange how her parents trusted her, she thought, when she was prone to trips to the psychiatrist and fits of absolute rage. In fact, it was all she could do right now to not tear into a candy bar and just start eating ravenously, as if that little moment of tasting sweet were one of the last remaining pleasures she had. Claire was not beautiful. She weighed two hundred and thirty five pounds, on a thin day, and no one thought big ladies were beautiful. As she walked she could remember times when people found her loveable. Her nephew had spent a great deal of time with her when he was a child. Her mother had often told her that it was that compassionate talent for listening that he loved, and she never laughed at his pre-teen angst over loving some fourth grade temptress. Her ex-husband must have found her appealing, she thought, at some point. He wouldn't have dated her, wooed her, conquered her, and married her, only to subject her to a life of isolation most of their four year marriage. Her father had told her that if he wouldn't stay at home that it must have been something Claire had done, or was doing. Men, after all, couldn't just have their own demons to fight, could they? Speaking of demons, why did Claire have so many? She was a Christian, saved since she was fourteen years old. She knew it. She loved God, had in better times, served Him well. So, why was she still so unhappy? She had taken classes at church, and seen Christian counselors. It is YOU, they would tell her. It was her who had made fun of her on the playground as a little girl. It was her who had made her realize she was fat before she even knew what fat meant. It was her who had programmed her mind to "play tapes" of negative messages. If it was her who did all these things to herself, and the society she lived in was not to blame at all, then why did everyone tell her the same things? Did she tattoo something on her forehead that said she didn't feel so good about herself. She knew all the answers. It was in her carriage, her shyness, her body language. What she didn't understand was why other people didn't love her in spite of those things, instead of ignoring her until she could gain them. She often thought that if just one person could believe in her--just one, she'd be transformed. But, that had to be wrong. You didn't look outside of yourself for your identity. "You think too much." She had better stop, she told herself. The words of her ex-husband, wise and worldly, and in search of bride number seven, echoed in her ears. Then, there were the classes that told her that God was the person who loved her unconditionally and would transform her. "God loves you just as you are, Claire." So, why doesn't God send me a husband? I'm desperately lonely. I would have liked to have had children. Oh, I know. I've done all of those wretched things--that God forgave me for--not having children is probably a consequence. Now, at not quite middle age, Claire was not healthy, and doubted her ability to ever have children. But, she was supposed to find comfort in believing her indentity was found in Christ. Christ loved her. Claire had never understood the healing properties of that study. So many of her friends had been healed by it. Yet, she had never doubted God's love--it was man's she found in serious question. Claire thought too much. She considered how her father would criticize her looks and tell her about the "dimple removing cream" he saw on television, yet he wouldn't have said such a thing to either of her sisters. Both sisters had problems with weight and dimples, too, but not as much as Claire. Maybe it was because he knew that the sisters would yell his hair backwards. Or, maybe it was because both sisters had a man who loved them. Claire had often been told that she hated men. "I don't hate men," she thought to herself. "I desperately want one; they just hate me." Instead, she just agreed with everyone that they were jerks and bossy, and that she didn't have one because she didn't know one she liked. That wasn't true, either. She often found one that she liked. They were usually small and had bright eyes, not perfect looking, but something just appealingly lost about them. But, they never liked her. Oh, now and then, especially after a desperate diet where she'd lose down to about a hundred and sixty pounds and gain some confidence, she would let her feelings show, but it never did any good. She was never giggly enough, or pretty enough, or wild enough--she wasn't sure what. Her sister said she didn't let her real personality show. Claire knew. She didn't. She was afraid. Two of her girl friends had betrayed her by stealing men from her, and all of the men she had dated had rejected her for one reason or another, and they had been few and far between. The sister had reminded her that she had spent all of her thirty two years without a single date, without even being asked, and she had found someone wonderful. Claire had thought, but not said, having no experience with a man and having a desperately bad experience with a man were two entirely different things. She wondered how Sister would feel if she had haunting memories of looking up and the man who had promised to "love, honor, and obey" as he, in a drunken rage, beat the hell out of you. But, Claire had choices for dates. There was the guy who could barely put a sentence together. There was the one who had so much body hair that he could have made himself a dog from it. There was the man who bragged that some times he went without his teeth, the one who lived in a trailer behind his mother, and the one who every body said was certifiably insane, he just didn't realize it. Those were her choices. A normal, well-educated, functional overweight woman had these men, only, for choices. Claire was not far from her house now, and it seemed that she had worked herself into a mental frenzy. Why did she always spend so much time dwelling on the terrible? Suddenly, before she turned onto her street, a figure in a dark coat darted past her, and bumped her arm, almost making her drop the groceries. Claire thought about the sack full of terrible junk she'd bought, but watched the figure, instead, running into the night and disappearing into the patch of trees behind a new business building. Claire wondered why the man was in such a hurry--at least, she thought he was a man; she hadn't seen much of him, but she remembered that he seemed taller than her when he had hit her. She rounded the curve and walked into her neighborhood and saw a figure lying on the ground, a sack of groceries a bit bigger than her own overturned beside the figure. Claire sped up and stooped down and sat her groceries down in the grass on the curb. She looked down at the figure--a woman, thin, frail, with more lines on her face than Claire, bundled in a bigger coat. Her clothes were torn and her face was stained with mud. Then, Claire noticed that she had been stabbed in the chest and her torso was covered with blood. The dark night and the dark jacket and Claire's own distraction had made her not noticed the dark blood against the coat. Claire looked for a purse to see if maybe the man had robbed her, and she saw none. She wished she'd noticed if the man running past her had been carrying one. "What happened?" asked Claire. The woman struggled to speak and rolled over just a bit. "It's...," she sputtered, "better... to die....than to live without...." Claire reached into her purse for her cell phone, and dialed 9-1-1. "There before the grace of God go I," she thought. It had been a bad night to go out for groceries.

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