Peter Marrick

Sunday, 15 October

I had the intern return the laptop. That’s one thing off my plate.

I’ve been spending a lot of time trying to think of ways to meet Barb and her friends, other than the obvious way. I haven’t been able to come up with any ideas due to my damned lack of imagination—ironic and rather tragic in view of how much I crave to be creative. Which is one of many reasons why I need to meet these people.

I got a complaint at work that I look distracted.

I can’t obsess about this anymore. I will meet them the obvious way.

Chapter Six

On Sunday, I invite my friends over and read Gabriel’s letter out loud to them. They act surprised in appropriate ways (except for Georgia, who’s heard it already), and I can’t decipher which of them might be KAY.

While we work, Lily continues trying to beautify Jack through her piano playing, but without success. Upset and frustrated, she leaves abruptly.

Georgia says she doesn’t like her novel anymore, that it’s not as great as she thought it was when she believed it was lost forever. She says the memory of it took on monumental proportions, and now the reality of it is just a bit of a letdown. She attributes this to absence making the heart grow fonder, and it makes her sick.

Penelope says Georgia is probably simply suffering from some sort of post-traumatic reverse syndrome of taking something for granted as soon as she gets it back.

And I remind Georgia that she’s always told me this was her best novel yet, so it probably is.

LILY DOES NOT call that night even though I asked her to when she stormed out of my apartment earlier. I’m concerned about her. I know she’s upset that she hasn’t been able to beautify Jack through her music. I restrain myself from calling her, not wanting to be overly protective.

What dramatically increases my concern is that, at two o’clock in the afternoon the next day, movers show up at my apartment to take away Lily’s piano. They tell me those are her instructions. They show me a form she filled out requesting its removal. While they carry out the upright piano, I’m anxiously trying to reach Lily by phone. She’s not picking up. I curse myself for not calling her last night.

As I run out of my building to look for Lily, I pass Adam the doorman who says to me, “One day you’ll find yourself, and wish you hadn’t.”

I’m a bit unsettled by that comment as I jog the few blocks to Lily’s apartment, trying to refrain from holding my bouncing fake fat.

I ring Lily’s downstairs buzzer. There’s no answer. A tenant on his way out lets me in. I knock on Lily’s apartment door. No answer. I can’t stop my worry from mounting, though I know it may be irrational. I call Jack, Georgia, and Penelope. Within minutes, they have joined me. Jack gets the super to open her door. Lily’s not in her apartment.

We go to my place. We keep calling her.

At five p.m. we’re sitting on my couch, trying to reassure ourselves that she’s okay, but not doing a very good job of it. I mention to my friends that three days ago she seemed delusional, claiming her hands had turned to mirrors and that it felt like death was trying to take hold of her, but that she fought it and it went away.

“Yeah, she told me that too. Not reassuring.” Georgia pauses and takes a deep breath before adding, “But let’s be optimistic. I’m sure she is fine, and will be fine, and in fact will probably make all her dreams come true. I’ve noticed that in life there are three ingredients that, when present simultaneously, create a potent combination: talent, love, and lack of beauty. One’s love for someone, unrequited due to one’s insufficient beauty, can motivate one to do great things to win that love, if one has the talent. Just look at what Lily’s achieved so far. And I bet it’s not stopping.”

Twenty minutes later, the doorman buzzes me. We brighten, gripped by hope.

But when I answer my doorman intercom, I hear Adam’s voice say softly in my ear, “Hi, piece of shit. There are some deliverymen here for you.”

My heart sinks. I was so hoping for Lily.

“What do they want?” I ask him.

“To deliver something, moron.”

“Deliver what?”

“I’ve only got one nerve left, and you’re getting on it.”

Ignoring him, I repeat, “Deliver what?”

“A piano.”

A piano is not as good as Lily herself, but it’s the next best thing. “Thanks, Adam. Send them up.”

We’re surprised that the upright piano the deliverymen carry into my apartment is made of mirror. We admire it, while they place it in the spot I indicate by the window.

Forty-five minutes later, Lily strolls into my apartment.

When she sees her new instrument, she says, “Ah. Good. It’s here.”

“We were worried to death!” I scream at her.

“I’m sorry. I was busy.”

“With what?”

“Same project. But I’ll be practicing on myself now instead of on Jack.” She sits at the piano and starts hitting single keys, listening to the sound quality. “I bought this piano thinking it might inspire me. My project is so insanely difficult. Impossible, probably. But I’ll work on it until I croak, if that’s what it takes.”

“Why don’t you just give up?” Penelope says.

“Because then life might not seem worth living.”

“See, that’s the project you should be working on—making life worth living for reasons other than Strad,” Jack says.

“I can’t. I need love.” Lily starts playing scales very rapidly, testing the piano. She stops, says, “Sounds good.”

We’re all standing around the musical instrument, our scowling expressions reflected back at us.

BEFORE BED, I call Lily at home to get a better sense of how she’s doing and ask if she’s had any more trouble with things like her hands becoming reflective.

“Yes. Yesterday I was in the pits of depression and then the hand thing happened again a couple of times while I was playing the piano. I stopped it each time from spreading, but I was so tempted not to.”

“It spreads?”

“Yes. Up my wrists and arms.”

“How do you stop it?”

“I will it to stop. I refuse to let it overtake me—out of fear, I guess. Even though it feels good. I mean, it feels good because it feels like nothing, which is good compared to how I feel, which is terrible. Death is the ultimate painkiller. When I will it to stop, it recedes, and the pain comes flooding back.”

“I’m glad,” I say quietly. “That you make it stop. And since yesterday, it hasn’t happened again?”

“No. So far it’s only happened when I hit bottom. But today I’m okay. Buying the mirrored piano cheered me up a bit.”

On Friday is the meeting of the Excess Weight Disorders Support Group, which I promised my mother I’d attend and have been dreading.

When I arrive I see there are about twenty people in the group, all overweight or obese, mostly women. And there is a leader, fitting the same description.

The meeting begins. A woman shares her story. A few people make comments. Another woman shares. More comments. I wait for an opening to tell them the truth about myself. I’m nervous.

For a long time, I see no opportunity until finally a woman says, “Ever since my first child was born I’ve been struggling with my weight. I gained a lot and then lost some and then gained back more than I lost, and then lost some again, but whenever I lose any weight, I gain back all of it and more.”

Another woman jumps in with: “I’m a total yo-yo dieter, too! I take the weight off in the summer and fill my closet with skinny clothes, and then I put all the weight back on in the winter.”