maybe if someone pushed me (chapter 20, part 1)

(photo thanks to Jan-Roald Johansen)

Ants crawling all over a delicious morsel. That’s what they were like: the trainer, the cosmetologist (or whatever you call the person who fiddles with your skin), the masseuse, the seamstress, the housecleaners, the various assistants and, it would be fair to say, Drew herself, although she tried to suppress that notion while she greeted them at the door, motioned to chairs and fetched drinks. Drew carried her notebook with her, one finger squeezed in to mark the page of questions she wanted to ask Mae when there was time.

Lauren the personal trainer came early Saturday morning, just after Drew herself arrived. The woman nearly knocked Drew over when she opened the door, barked hello and pumped Drew’s hand like it was part of her workout. Drew left her in the home gym and knocked on Mae’s bedroom door.

“Come in.” Mae— barefoot and oddly nondescript with her new mousy hair pulled back from her now pale face—was leaning against the bed, pulling on her yoga pants.

Drew averted her eyes towards the luggage stacked by the closet. “Are you awake yet?”

“I’m not sure.” She hugged Drew sleepily. “So good to see you! Is there any coffee? ”

“I’ll get some. I am so happy you’re home—I have so many questions to ask.”

Lauren elbowed past Drew. “Rise and shine, girl! Time to get to work!”

When Drew entered the gym with two cups of coffee, Lauren had Mae doing sit-ups. “Do either of you take milk or sugar?”

“Not when Lauren’s looking!” Mae gasped over her knees.

Lauren smirked. “Thirty eight, thirty nine… look at that tummy. Do they have you on a strict dough diet down there? You are what you eat, girl, and you look like a cheesy soufflé. Forty- five, forty six, keep going, breathe coming up. That’s it.”

While Mae struggled with the freeweights, she called over to Drew sitting on a stationary bicycle: “You’re welcome to join us if you want. Lauren’s the best. She’s relentless. That’s why I love her.”

“No thanks, I think I’ll just watch.” Drew had dressed up like a professional writer that day, in a cashmere cardigan, a pair of black slacks and a silk scarf from Katherine Lilien’s closet. “You’re looking good, by the way—did you lose some weight?”

“Probably. I haven’t had time to eat. I’ve been writing like crazy.” Drew couldn’t believe she said that but she realized this was just going to be one of those times when her mind must dissociate from what her mouth is saying.

“Whatever it is, it’s working. Keep it up and you’ll look like a celebrity.”

Lauren glanced over at Drew. “Another 10 pounds, I’d say. I’d start you on something low-impact, a cleansing diet and some yoga. Do you swim?”

“Not really. I’m not a strong swimmer. I mean, I can hold my head above water, but I don’t swim voluntarily. Maybe if someone pushed me in…”

Lauren turned back to Mae. “Maybe you should push her in, Mae. You could use some extra laps today. Your triceps look like buffalo wings.”

Mae paused on an upswing. “Remember, Lauren, I’m playing a Victorian lady. I’m allowed to be a little round.”

“Isn’t that a funny fucking joke.” Lauren spit the words out. ”Maybe if your audience was Victorian, too, maybe then you could get away with looking like a pig in blanket, but they’re not and if you don’t get to work, girlie, you’ll need a nametag, because no one will recognize you. I mean, hello-you gained two-point-two-three pounds down there. Get your flabby ass on that treadmill.”

Drew laid the notebook on the handlebars and fiddled with the knob, wondering what she was doing there. Watching someone workout was like watching them make toast or talk on the phone or do the dishes. Even if she was Nabokov or Einstein or Chaplin, this would get dull. Well, maybe Chaplin could do it, but the Mae she’s been writing doesn’t do boring things like that. Her Mae has read Austen and Chekhov and Proust and, like the characters in all Drew’s favorite books, lives in a world without a toilet, without hangnails or telemarketers or tampons or garbage disposals or daytime television, who travels perhaps by train or in a carriage or some mysterious means so we never have to see her waiting in line or putting gas in her car.

Between sets, Mae stole a sip of coffee and gasped, “Isn’t she great?”

*
Hello there! Is this chapter as boring as I think it is? I’m trying to convey Drew’s irritation with this long fixation on the surface of things and I’m afraid I’ve overdone it. (Friends: Please excuse me if I seem rather quiet these days. I’m on vacation for two weeks at a spot on a river that has spotty internet connectivity. You’d think that meant more time to write but no, no at all.)