— Yes, she repeats, now all excited and brushing her fringe out of those eyes. — Yes, I do!
I stare right into her loser soul. What do I see? A weak, bullied wretch. — Then will you stop fucking around and help me to help you get better?
Sorenson is so taken aback her breath catches as her hand reflexively flies to her chest. — What do you mean? I am getting better, she whimpers. — I. . I think I am. .
— No. You’re a liar.
— What?
— Follow me! And I storm out the workshop, across the yard, and back into the house.
Sorenson is in frantic pursuit. — Wait, Lucy, where are you going?
Ignoring her, I march into the kitchen and pull open the cupboards. Knew it: she’s stocked up on shit again. I pull out a box of crappy cereal and open it up. — Sugar. Nothing more, nothing less, I pour it into the garbage can. I shake my head slowly and point to the bathroom. — The scale, Lena. The bathroom scale can be your best friend or your worst enemy!
I move back down the hallway. Some family photos sit on a bookcase. Parents, friends, student types, though no boyfriends or lovers. But you can almost see the space they’ve recently occupied. There’s some of Sorenson, slim, and a closet hottie if you got rid of those black bangs, and that tense, worried face. I’m gripped by a sudden urge, an inspiration that almost shocks me in its violent intensity. — I want you to take off all your clothes. Down to your underwear.
— What? She looks at me, first a nervous smile, which drifts into horror as she can see I’m not joking. — No! Why would you want me to do that?
— That good shit back in there, I point to the workshop, — this fucking sham in here, I nod to the kitchen. — How do I reconcile the two, Lena? Because it isn’t the same person who is producing the fucking sick shit in the workshop who is vegging out here. The person in the workshop has fucking balls! I’ve seen your exhibition stuff, and now I wanna see what you are exhibiting every day to the world. And I want you to see it too. All your clothes! Take them off!
— No! I don’t want to!
— You said you believed in me. You record me and exhibit it to the world, and you won’t even do this! You lied, like you’ve been lying about everything!
— I. . I’m not. . I can’t. . she gasps, and fuck me, the whackoid bitch starts convulsing, struggling for breath.
I begin to get worried. — You’re okay, I soothe her.
— I’M NOT! I’M NOT OKAY! Sorenson cries out in pain.
I lower my voice. I’m stroking her arm. — No. And that’s why you have to do this. You should not be reacting like this.
— I know, and she turns to me with the most pathetic, beaten nod I’ve seen, her face creased in pain, — it’s just that Jerry, he made me—
I freeze: what the fuck. .? — Okay, I’m sorry. Forget it.
Then she half turns away, but starts to tug off her top. A bra rips into wobbling, white goosebumped flesh. A muffin belly and love handles hang disgustingly over her sweat pants.
— You have to take off all your clothes, Lena, I almost whisper.
She pouts for a second, then shrugs, now ludicrously almost like a defiant hooker, faced with the attentions of a kinky, psychotic john. I’m feeling sick. I think something is going to come up but I force it down. My eyes water as Sorenson pulls down her sweat pants and steps out of them. God, she repulses me. I can barely look at her, my body tense as I grab her fleshy wrist and pull her through to the bathroom, positioning her on the scale.
— The scale, how I hate to stand on that fucking scale, she says, anger giving her face structure and character.
I’m looking at her blazing, hateful eyes and thinking of the park, Abbie Adams Green, the smell of freshly mown grass in my nostrils. It’s nothing to do with that. I catch my breath. Get past that shit. Seize control! — What does that say?
— Two hun. . she sobs, — two hund—
— Two hundred and two pounds! I drag her, traumatized and tearful, to the full-length mirror. I snatch an old framed photo from the bookcase, and hold it up to her face. — Who is that?
— Me.
— Who is me?
— Lena. . Lena Sorenson.
I point at the blobby mess in the mirror. — Who in the name of fucking hell is that?
— Mi-mi-mi-meee. . Leee-na—
— Lena who?
— Lena Sorenson!
— THAT IS NOT LENA SORENSON! I point at the blobby wreckage in the mirror.
— No. . Sorenson’s hand goes to her eye. She’s shaking.
I’m feeling stronger now. Drawing power from the righteous mission. — That is some fat, crazy, obnoxious, sweaty monster who has swallowed Lena Sorenson! Lena Sorenson is in there, I poke at her gross, doughy gut and stare into those frightened eyes in the mirror’s reflection. I whisper into her ear, — We have to set Lena Sorenson free. You and me.
— Free. . Sorenson mindlessly parrots.
— Will you help me set Lena Sorenson free?
A pathetic nod.
— I CANNOT HEAR A GODDAMN THING! I bark at her, as she winces and recoils. — How can that gaping mouth be large enough to shovel all that goddamned crud into it, and yet nothing can come out of it? WILL YOU STAND UP?! WILL YOU COME FORWARD?! WILL YOU HELP ME SET LENA SORENSON FREE?!
— Yes—
— I CANNOT HEAR YOU! WHO ARE WE GONNA SET FREE?
— Lena. . Lena Sorenson—
— SHOUT IT! SHOUT IT IN MY FUCKING FACE! Go on, tell me: who in the name of holy hell are we gonna set free?!
Her eyes crinkle, fists balling at her side, as she erupts in a beautiful wail of righteous anger. — LENA SORENSON!
— WHO!
— LENA SORENSON!
I turn toward the mirror, looking at her blotchy red face, snot running from her nose. — They’ve locked Lena up — do you see how they did that? Do you see how you let them lock that beautiful woman up? I wave the photograph in her face.
— Yes, yes, I see. She looks at her reflection, now focused in loathing. — How could I have been so stupid?! Oh God, what have I done?
— You’re angry, I tell her, grabbing her plump shoulder, — and that’s where I need you to be. But I don’t want the anger turned in, because we call that depression. That’s when we start eating shit, packing stuff into our mouths, to reward ourselves when we feel that things in life aren’t going our way. I stand behind her, wrapping my arms around her wobbling mass. Whisper into her ear, — We’ve played that game, and it’s a loser’s game. No more.
— No. No more. She shakes her head in rage, as I step around to look into her eyes.
— We stand up. We come forward.
— Yes.
— But will you help me to help you? Will you work with me, really work with me, to set Lena Sorenson free?
— Yes! Yes. Yes. Yes, I will!
I’ve got Little Miss SoBe where I want her, a whimpering but defiant mass of wobbly Jell-O, here in my arms. And I feel her letting it all go — the self-hate, the abuse, the anger, the denial, the victimhood, and, very soon, the fat. The embodiment of all that ugly fucked-mind shit. — We’re ready, sister, I tell her. — We are ready to start fighting back, and I offer my hand up in a high five, which she at first waveringly, then properly responds to. — Welcome to the Lena Sorenson Escape Committee!
10. CONTACT 4
To: michelleparish@lifeparishoners.com