As I continued sorting my things and packing, I would go out to withdraw cash from the bank. I considered visiting the café while I was out, but Carmen was still on maternity leave and she was the only part of it that I missed.
Movers came to collect my furniture and boxes and take them to a storage unit in Queens, where I’d leave them while I was living at Calliope House. Then the apartment was empty, except for the bedroom where my cousin Jeremy’s boxes were stored. I called him in Cairo to let him know that I was moving out of his apartment. I offered to continue paying rent until a new tenant moved in, but he told me not to worry. With me moving, he said it was likely he would sell. I understood that he would have sold years before if not for me, and I was grateful for the time he had allowed me to live in a nice place, one that I wouldn’t have otherwise been able to afford. The apartment on Swann Street had made the other difficulties in my life easier to bear.
On my way out, I took one last look around. The apartment was smaller than I remembered it, in the way that everything looks smaller after you’ve left it behind.
The next morning, I awoke in the buttery light of my bedroom back at Calliope House and realized that it wasn’t simply another day. It was the tenth of October, the day my weight-loss surgery had been scheduled to take place. Lying in bed, I instinctively placed my hand on my bare belly and ran my fingers over the terrain—soft to the touch despite the lines and crevices. I was grateful for what was missing: the violent eruption of an incision. Beneath the expanse of flesh, my stomach was nestled among my other organs, healthy and whole, not stapled and clamped shut. I knew I had Leeta to thank for leading me to Verena and the others, for this morning spent snug in my bed, not under the blazing lights and masked faces of an operating room.
The money I’d been withdrawing from the bank for Leeta was in a neat stack in my bottom dresser drawer, but she would need much more than that. I knew Julia would contact me soon; at any moment I’d receive a frantic email or phone call and she’d demand to know if I was going to help fund Leeta’s escape. Until that moment came, I would put it out of my mind. What I wanted now was to celebrate how far I’d come.
I decided to throw a party, with food and lots to drink. The previous weeks had been intense for all of us—the women had their work, I had my personal struggles, and through it all was Jennifer. We continued to refer to Soledad and the attacks by this single name, its origins not yet clear. Jennifer had made up seem like down, had left us all spinning and dizzy, had set the world on fire, and she was still out there.
I climbed out of bed and headed out to shop for groceries and booze. In the afternoon, I baked a three-layer chocolate ganache cake and prepared vegetable curry and rice for the main course, the perfect warming meal for an October evening. I didn’t bother to tell the others we were having a celebration. It didn’t need to be a formal occasion; I would let it bloom before their eyes.
As the curry and rice simmered on the stove, I cleared the stolen lingerie out of my bedroom closet and carried it downstairs in two plastic bags. In the tiny backyard, Verena kept her gardening tools in a tall metal drum, which I emptied onto the ground. I dumped charcoal into the drum, drenched it with lighter fluid, and set it ablaze. When the fire was glowing and flames shot out the top, I opened one of the bags and pulled out a few thongs and padded bras, dropping them into the drum, which made the fire pop. I’d always known the underwear would serve a purpose—it had just taken me a while to discover what it was.
When it was time for dinner, I was joined by Verena, Marlowe with baby Huck, Rubí, and Sana. We ate curry and rice in the kitchen, followed by cake. I was pleased that I no longer needed voluminous amounts of food to feel satisfied. I was learning to listen to my body’s hunger cues and desires, which helped me know when I needed to eat, and what, and how much. Rubí said my metabolism was ruined from years of dieting and it would take time to heal and get back in touch with my natural rhythms. I would never restrict myself again or do math before eating. I would give my body what it needed and wanted—nothing more, nothing less.
After dinner we carried our drinks outside to where the fire was burning; the drum was positioned in the middle of the concrete slab that was our yard, ringed by trees bright with autumn gold. I kept the fire going, but everyone was eager to help. “Let me,” said Sana, dropping a lilac negligee into the flames, and then a pair of striped boy shorts. We watched them sizzle.
“This lingerie is from Bonerville, right?” said Marlowe. I told her it was and she asked why I had two bags full of it.