I cried for her disappointment, and for mine. I wasn’t the daughter she was proud of, I was the daughter that made her ashamed. And no amount of fame could take take shame away.
“Why are you sorry, darling? You are who you are.”
“I know! But you’re ashamed of me! You won’t even tell our family and they’re the people who love me!”
“I just thought that your being gay was nobody’s business. It was private.”
“Michael’s relationships weren’t private? You had no problem talking about those! You tell everyone the private things you’re proud of!”
My mother swiveled toward me, put her hands on my shoulders, and turned me to face her.
“Listen. I’m a stupid old fool. Alright?” She was looking directly at me. It was like she was seeing me for the first time. “I was scared, okay? I didn’t want you to lose everything you’d worked so hard for. But I was wrong. And I was stupid.” She folded me into her arms. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
I felt the weight fall away from me. I lost the weight that I’d been carrying around since I was a teenager. Shame weighs a lot more than flesh and bone.
Within moments we were laughing, talking about how crazy I was to take the weight loss too far. We were saying that all of it was really unnecessary, that I was great just the way I was. We decided that it was time to start dating and “to hell with it.” Happiness was everything. “And health,” she chimed in. “Without them, what’s the point?” We laughed and hugged and agreed that the most important things in life are health and happiness and that they were the only things I had to worry about now. That’s all she cared about.
My health and happiness were the only things my mom cared about.
We walked directly to the kitchen arm in arm and we made lunch together. We made fried rice with peas and a teaspoon of oil. We were laughing and talking, we ate it together, and my grandmother watched from the corner of the room in her chair, smiling as the credits rolled. The End.
26
I WAS STILL 89 pounds. I liked being 89 pounds. Although the image of my brother crying and my mother breaking down was burned into my memory and I had made promises to them that I would gain weight, January was not a good time to gain weight. I had agreed to shoot the cover of Angeleno magazine, a big, glossy fashion/lifestyle rag. I had committed to attending the Australia Day Ball, an annual event held in LA that honored Australians in the film and TV industry. I just couldn’t gain any weight until all that was done. What would be the point in sliding backward to the middle of the pack when it was just as easy to take the pictures of me at the finish line, alone in my triumph? My ego wouldn’t let me gain any weight. I didn’t see the point to it until after the cameras were no longer pointed at me.
As the maintenance took up a lot of time, I barely had time for anything else. Even with Carolyn doing the supermarket rounds to find the brands with the least amount of sodium or the lowest fat content, working out took up most of my day. I decided, however, that I needed a social outlet and I joined that ballet class with the yelling Russian and the fat women in makeup and tights. I figured at 89 pounds I was thin enough to wear a leotard and développé my leg into the air. Besides, ballet was a kind of workout, too, if you weren’t lazy about it. I met a girl there who liked to count calories and to work out. Melody was thinner than me with a better turnout and a higher extension. She was called on by the yelling Russian to demonstrate good développés. I tried to befriend her as we had a lot in common, but what we shared in common made it difficult to be friends. We were both recluses with rituals. Besides, being gay I didn’t feel comfortable making new friends. It didn’t seem fair after months of presenting myself as a relatable heterosexual to suddenly surprise them with the news that a lesbian had been lurking underneath the whole time, had been in their homes, talking about their sex lives, hugging them and telling them they had good leg extensions in ballet class. I stopped going to ballet class anyway. I didn’t have the thinnest thighs nor was I the best dancer in the class. It didn’t remind me of a time when I was good at something, it made me aware of the sad reality that if I was good as an eight-year-old, then I had gotten worse. I had peaked at age eight. What was the point in continuing? The old yelling Russian told me that I was too thin and that I needed to gain weight. What was the point?
The Angeleno cover shoot was a reward for my hard work. I had trained hard for the event and knowing that I had done the work, all I had to do was relax and enjoy the ride. The ride was a gentle downhill slope with smooth pavement beneath me. The ride was my feet off the pedals, feeling the wind through my hair, smelling the wildflowers as they rushed past me firmly rooted in place. No panic. No doubts. No disgrace. The interview was different. It took place at my favorite restaurant, The Ivy, which was my favorite because they blanched all their vegetables and never brushed them with oil. I ate my vegetables (with no lip gloss or lip balm—one can never be too careful) and attempted to maneuver gracefully around personal questions as fundamental and important to a person’s character as their desires to marry and have children. Being secretive was exhausting. But the interviewer had a secret, too. She secretly didn’t like me while pretending to find me delightful. She suckered me into being a little looser, a little more truthful. What added to my uncharacteristically easy mood was that the interview took place on my birthday, and when the manager at The Ivy presented me with a large slice of birthday cake, I looked at my new journalist friend and said with a wink in my voice, “Like I’m gonna eat that!”
An Australian tabloid picked up the story and on the cover it printed, “Out to Lunch with Portia.”
A cover is still a cover.
“Good news!” I stood in my kitchen looking out onto the Sahara desert that was the yellow wall of the Sunset 5 shopping mall and tried to rally excitement for my impending movie. My mother loved to hear of my accomplishments and because of the hell I had put her through over Christmas, I felt that the “good news” of an exciting role in a big studio movie was what she deserved to hear. As I began to describe the film, “It’s called Cletis Tout,” who was cast to star in it, “Richard Dreyfuss plays my father!” and where it would shoot, “In Toronto—you’ll have to come visit,” my excited, energetic voice was in stark contrast to the exhaustion I was feeling. Landing the role wasn’t exciting to me, it was merely the end of the long uphill climb of auditions, callbacks, and negotiations. Getting the role was a relief, like the moment of collapse at the top of a mountain before you begin worrying about how to get down. Like a tourist who travels not to experience foreign places but rather to tell people that she’s well traveled—this was how I viewed this excursion to Toronto with its film set and its respected actors. “I’m doing a movie this summer.” That was the reason I wanted the movie. As my Ally McBeal cast mates had seemingly all succeeded in landing movie roles, I too must do something extraordinary to fit in.
I hung up the phone and felt empty, vacant, directionless. I knew I should celebrate, but I didn’t know who to call. I didn’t know who would care. I couldn’t call my brother because he would want to take me out for Mexican food and margaritas and I couldn’t think of an excuse not to go. I couldn’t let him see me in person because I didn’t want to upset him again. He could think that I was eating more and loosening up on my strict diet from the picture on his TV screen, as everyone looks ten pounds fatter on TV. He could check in with me as Nelle Porter once a week and be pleased with my progress as the wardrobe department had cleverly quilted a disguise of flattering clothing to cover all my flaws: a patch to cover my thin arms, a patch to cover the gap between my thighs. I thought about a glass of wine—heck, champagne!—but knew I couldn’t enjoy it without feeling guilty. I was the leading lady in a movie, after all, and Christian Slater was my man. We had chemistry, apparently. A shape-shifting, sexless androgynous girl could have chemistry with anything. My life was just a fantasy with its fantasy lovers and its make-believe conversations with make-believe people in my head. So I was a perfect candidate to fall in love with a make-believe man and consummate our pretend love in a make-believe house. Reality was the difficult part. And the reality at that moment was that it was Friday at 5:00 and I didn’t know what to do. So I went to the Pilates studio.