Chandler was watching a parade from the living room. He called out over his shoulder. "Try all you want, the marching band won't go any faster."
"Ha. That's so funny, Bing." Monica walked over to the bathroom, took a quick look in the mirror, blanched, and walked back out. She'd spent an hour on her makeup and still she could find a million flaws. Most of which were sure to become a topic of conversation.
Phoebe entered the living room. She was walking gingerly; the cast had come off last week and it still pained her to walk. Her doctor had reassured both her and Monica that the pain was normal and even necessary - it would help the healing processes to put weight on the still-recovering bone. Phoebe had put up with it rather well - Monica had found increasing respect for Phoebe's ability to bear the pain and still be cheerful.
Phoebe was wearing a soft blue dress that was as formal as Monica had ever seen on her. Monica eyed Phoebe warily. "Are you going to be all right getting over to your grandmother's by yourself?"
"For the hundredth billionth time, yes." Phoebe walked over to the love seat and carefully lowered herself into it. She looked Chandler up and down. "What are you going to be doing for Thanksgiving?"
"Ah!" Chandler made a cross with his fingers. "Don't say that evil word! I'll be watching television and eating out of the fridge and praying for Friday to come real, real soon."
Monica took the pie out of the oven and set it on the counter. "Don't eat any of the olives, I want to use them for a dish I want to try with the leftover turkey."
"Wasn't planning on it. Those cherries, however, are in very serious jeopardy."
"So are you if you get any pits on my floor."
"Floor, check. But it's okay if I spit them onto the ceiling?"
"Only if you want your face to join them later."
"So," Phoebe interjected, "why is Thanks- uh, today so evil?"
Monica groaned. "Oh God, he's going to tell the story."
Phoebe looked wide-eyed at her. "What story?"
"It was Thanksgiving, 1978." Chandler's voice had shifted into story-telling mode. "Dinner has been strange. Mom and Dad aren't talking, which was actually a pleasant change. I'm only eating because I have to, but I'm thinking, gosh, if I had a light saber, I could slice the turkey and cook it at the same time."
"Ew!" Phoebe wrinkled her nose.
"Wait, it gets much worse." Chandler leaned forward. "So there I am, thinking about why we don't have pumpkin pie year 'round, and the houseboy is going around trying to serve us more turkey, when-"
To Monica's great relief, the front door opened. Ross and Carol stepped in. Monica greeted them enthusiastically, at the same time watching closely for any signs of strain. None seemed evident, which put her a little at ease.
After greeting Chandler and Phoebe, Ross looked back at Monica. "So, ready to go?"
"Just a sec." Monica brought out her tin foil and covered the pumpkin pie, then wrapped it in towels.
Meanwhile, Carol had entered the living room and sat on the couch. "So, Phoebe, how's your leg?"
"It's getting better, thanks." Phoebe grinned. "Gosh, you're pretty."
"You, you think?" Carol touched her hair. "Does this look better up or down?"
"Oh, down, definitely, shows that you are free and loose and breezy."
That last thing Monica currently felt was breezy. "Okay, let's go." She handed Ross the wrapped-up pie and put on her coat. "You guys have a happy Thanksgiving, okay? Even you, Chandler."
"Argh!" Chandler clutched his chest as if mortally wounded. "Canadian. I should have been a Canadian."
Ross chuckled. "Canada has a Thanksgiving, too."
"Oh. British, I should have been born British. God save the Queen!"
"Well, have fun picking a nationality, then." Monica pulled on Ross's arm. "C'mon, let's go."
They made it out the door without incident. They took a subway to Grand Central and caught a train there. Monica was too wound up to talk, so she listened as Ross and Carol made idle talk.
All too soon the train was pulling into the station. With a sigh Monica stood up and followed the crowd outside. Ross and Carol had a brief debate about whether to walk or take a cab, which was decided by the noticeable lack of taxis at the stand. Fortunately they only had to walk a mile or so.
Monica looked around as they walked. She was intimately familiar with the area, and a slew of memories threatened to overwhelm her, not all of them pleasant. Her apartment in the city still felt unfamiliar in certain ways. The house they were now approaching was still set in her heart as home.
Ross rapped on the door, which was quickly opened by an older woman with faux-auburn hair and a smile that seemed slightly frozen. "Hello, Ross. Hello, Carol. It's so good to see both of you."
"Hi, Mom." Ross reached in to kiss her on the cheek. He handed her the bundle he'd been carrying. "Monica made pumpkin pie."
"Oh. How... original." Mother looked over at Monica. "Hello, dear. Don't you think it's time you bought a new coat?"
Monica's stomach twisted. This was going to be every bit as bad as she'd feared. "It's only a couple of years old, Mom. Can we come in?"
"Of course you can." Mother took the pie into the kitchen.
Everyone took off their coats as an older man, not quite fat but certainly plump, greeted them with a wide smile. "Ross, Monica, Carol, it's so good to see you all." He hugged them one by one, and Monica took a brief amount of comfort in his embrace.
"So, tell me you crazy kids," Father said to Ross and Carol, "when are you going to give me a grandchild?"
"Soon, I hope." Ross smiled at Carol. "Just waiting for the right moment, y'know?"
"Well, don't wait too long. I'm in good health now, but next year, who knows?"
Monica had been watching Carol's expression. She found no great enthusiasm in Carol's expression, but then, no one would be thrilled to be asked direct and embarrassing questions by her father. Monica decided that just this once she wasn't going to worry too much about how Ross and Carol were getting along. Just for today, Monica had problems enough of her own.
"Don't say things like that, Dad." Ross escorted Carol into the living room. "Have you thought of a diet? Monica could probably recommend one for you."
"Then when would I eat any of her delicious pies?" Father grinned at her. "It's worth the risk."
"Now, dear, you could get pies just like Monica's at the bakery." Mother had come back into the living room. "Dinner's in an hour if you want to freshen up."
Monica sat on the couch next to Carol as Ross endured another round of questions about children from Mother. This was fine by Monica as it kept the attention off of her. Monica fussed a bit with the doily draped over the arm of the couch, idly wondering if she should get some for her couch. She almost might if she wasn't worried that the guys would mistake them for napkins.
Unfortunately, Mother interrupted her reverie. "So, Monica, how's that... cooking thing going?"
Monica steeled herself. "It's going fine."
"So, you're a full-time chef?"
"Well, technically I'm on a part-time shift, but I work forty-five hours a week."
"You're not salaried?" Father raised his eyebrows. "Monica, you need to talk to that boss of yours and negotiate a firm salary like your brother has."
Monica suppressed a wince. Unlike her mother, Father meant well when he said those kind of things. He just proceeded from an assumption that Monica should live her life exactly like Ross did. "I'm working towards becoming a head chef, which would be a salaried position. But that will take a while. I just need to put in a couple more years at least. They don't let people fresh out of college become head chefs."
"I don't know that I'd qualify what you went to as a real college, dear." Mother turned towards Carol. "How's your practice going?"
"Uh, it's fine." Carol reached over, squeezed Monica's hand as she kept her eyes on Mother. "I'm not well-established yet, but I'm working on it. Right now I'm trying to get my name placed on a few referral lists. That's not easy to do, unfortunately, but I'm patiently persistent."
"Well, isn't that nice." Mother smiled. "It's nice to see a young woman who can succeed while still doing things in moderation."
Monica gripped Carol's hand tightly but didn't say anything.
Father asked a question about the museum, which Ross used as an opportunity to describe in excruciating detail the new exhibits that were being planned and his part in designing them. Monica wasn't certain whether Ross's loquaciousness was planned but she was grateful for it. Anything to keep attention off of her.
Sooner than Monica had dared hope, Mother announced that dinner was ready. Gratefully she sprang towards the table and quickly took her seat.
Father chuckled as he sat at the head of the table. "I remember when you used to sit here for half an hour before dinner actually began. You were so anxious to begin eating that-"
"I'm not that way any more," Monica interrupted. "So, you gonna carve the turkey or just admire it?"
"Monica, there's no reason to snap at your father." Mother, as always, spoke in a detached tone of voice, even when she was scolding.
Monica thinned her lips but had to admit to herself she was being a tad snappish. "Sorry," she mumbled.
"That's okay, honey." Father, also as always, was very easy-going and never seemed to get mad at anything. "So, white and dark meat, who wants what?"
Monica helped to pass around food, taking a thin slice of turkey with cranberry sauce and some salad for herself. Ross began asking questions about what the neighbors had been up to, and Father and Mother seemed only too happy to gossip. Monica ate slowly and took a second helping of salad, trying her best to blend in and not be noticed.
Dinner passed and Monica and Ross helped to clear the table. Carol tried to help but was gently reprimanded by Mother, who led her out into the living room to show her pictures of Monica and Ross as babies.
"So," Ross said as they began washing, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"
It was horrible, Ross, but you just don't see it. "It was fine."
"At least you don't have it as bad as Carol. Mom is dropping baby hints with every other sentence."
Monica rolled her eyes. "Wow, how awful for her."
"Hey, it's bad enough when-" Ross cut himself short.
Monica looked up at him. "When what?"
"Never mind." Ross busied himself scrubbing a pot.
Monica sighed silently. Probably marriage problems again. Couldn't they just be happy? Monica shook her head.
After the dishes were washed, dried, and put away, Monica took out her pie and prepared slices for everyone. Ross took coffee orders from the living room and soon they were all sitting around the room.
Mother took a bite from the pie and made a small face. "Seems a little sweet, don't you think?"
Monica clenched her jaw and forced herself to relax. "So is Aunt Iris coming?"
"She's over at Lillian's for dinner, but they'll join us later for drinks." Mother set her pie on the coffee table, having only taken two bites of it. "Ross, you and Carol will stay, won't you?"
"Sure," Ross said easily to Monica's deep dismay.
"Lillian makes a most excellent upside-down cake," Mother continued. "Perhaps you could get her recipe, Monica, for next year. She learned it from her husband's family, but I suppose you won't be learning any recipes that way, will you?"
"Yeah, perhaps I could. Excuse me." Monica put her own plate of half-eaten pie on the coffee table and all but fled the living room. She quickly walked up the stairs to her bedroom, flicked on the lights, and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Why, why did she come here every year? Why did she put up with this, why did she torture herself? If she just disappeared off the face of the earth right now she was certain her parents wouldn't mind at all.
She heard footsteps in the hallway. They stopped at her door, then stepped inside the room. Monica cursed herself for not closing the door and forced herself to sit up. To her surprise, Carol stood there, eyeing the room. "My goodness, you did like to work out."
Monica looked around, seeing it with Carol's eyes. A treadmill in one corner, a nautilus home gym in another. Not much room to move around in. "My mother wouldn't let me put them anyplace else, and Nana wouldn't let me bring them into her apartment."
"But it's your apartment now, isn't it?"
"Well, yeah, but I've gotten used to running and free weights." Monica stood up, walked over to the home gym. "I suppose I should sell them or something."
"But you don't because they're important to you somehow?"
Monica turned around, looked into Carol's sympathetic eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess they are." She sat on the gym's seat. "They, they kind of... mark my rite of passage."
"Rite of passage from where?"
"From my old life to my new life. Surely Ross told you what I was like as a kid?"
"I've... he's made comments. I wasn't certain how much to believe."
"It's become a running joke in the family. And the longer I've... remained as I am now, the more exaggerated the tales get." Monica leaned back, put her arms into position where she could begin doing some chest pumps. "To hear Ross tell it, if he didn't eat quickly I'd consume everything on the table, including what was on his plate."
"Ah, yes, I've heard that as well." Carol sat on the chair by the desk. "Do the tales bother you?"
Monica shrugged. "No. It's so much noise by now. All that matters to me is that I... I did what needed to be done and I like myself better now than I did before."
Carol tilted her head slightly. "Do you?"
Monica pushed out, feeling the weight. Probably about eighty pounds. "Do I what?"
"Feel better about yourself."
Slowly, Monica released the weights. "Of course I do. I mean, who'd want to be a seventeen-year-old girl that weighed two-hundred fifty pounds? Anything was better than being that person."
"I'm not certain that's true. I've met many people who weigh as much or more and are quite content. Clearly, though, you didn't want to be that girl."
"No," Monica said with feeling. She pushed out the weights once more. "She was alone and unhappy and so miserable."
"And is the woman who is lifting weights right now any happier?"
Monica made a face and lowered the weights again. "I'd have to be, wouldn't I?"
"I don't know, Monica. I'm not you. But I do know that you're avoiding answering the question."
Argh. The woman was far too insightful. "I, I have friends, Chandler and Phoebe and, and Ross hangs around all the time, they, they make me feel good."
"Did the seventeen-year-old Monica have no friends?"
"I, I had a good friend. A great friend. My friend, she was very supportive of my... transition. She was so excited for me. She let out a little scream every time she saw me after I'd lost a few more pounds. It, it was exciting to meet her."
"Your friend was supportive. Was no one else?"
"Well, Ross of course. You should have seen his eyes bug out the first time he saw me after I started my exercise program. He was even a little worried for me, and I had to tell him that I was seeing a doctor and that I wasn't losing weight too quickly. He was so encouraging after that."
"So your friend was supportive and Ross was 'of course' supportive. Yet it seems to me that there are other people who should have been 'of course' supportive as well."
Monica sighed, pushed out again. "Dad... Dad liked to show me off to people, especially towards the end. He kept measuring my waist and announcing it to everyone he saw. It was kind of embarrassing. But, but kind of fun, too. I, I didn't struggle too much every time he wanted to measure me again."
"Ah." Carol nodded. "It's good to have parents that encourage you, isn't it?"
"Y-yeah." Her arms were beginning to tremble ever so slightly. "That would be good."
"Would be? Not 'was'?"
"I..." Monica slowly relaxed her arms, let the weights fall. "I had one supportive parent. And one parent who... who complained about all the new clothes I bought, complained about having to buy new groceries, complained about the noises that were made while I was working out, complained about having to take a whole new set of family pictures because I had inconveniently changed the way I looked, complained-" Monica bit her lip before everything came spewing out. "Basically, she complained. Basically, I could never do anything right at all, ever. My whole life she's done nothing but complain. About me."
"I see." Carol studied Monica. "And, and you were disappointed that... that your weight loss didn't change that?"
"I mean, if she couldn't compliment me on that, what could I ever do that was any good at all!" Monica snapped her mouth shut, forced herself to talk in a calmer tone of voice. "I'm fairly certain I could end world hunger and bring about peace on earth and it would never be good enough for her."
Carol leaned forward, put her elbows on her knees, rested her chin on her hands. "Monica, let me say just this one thing. You may very well be right about your mother. She may look upon you as a younger version of herself and will never be satisfied unless you live your life exactly the same way she lives hers. But that's not important. It doesn't matter what she thinks, or what your father or Ross thinks, or what I think, or what any of your friends think. The one and only thing that matters is what you think. Do you like what's changed in you since you were seventeen?"
Monica looked down, felt her stomach, flat and hard. It gave her a thrill, as it hadn't in months. She remembered Fun Bobby's enthusiastic appreciation the first time he saw her naked, and similarly Kip's low whistle, and even Chandler's joke about her being the strongest women he'd met outside of a circus. She loved things like that every time they happened. Perhaps women like Rachel were well used to them and maybe even tired of the constant compliments. But Monica reveled in it, even now.
"Yes," she said out loud. "Yes, I like myself better now. But-"
Carol sat up and held out her hand in a 'stop' gesture. "No, no, there is no 'but'. You like yourself better. I want you to hold on to that feeling. Think about how much better you feel about yourself and let that sustain you for now. Once you've finally accepted that, then the feelings of anyone else won't matter at all."
Monica smiled slightly. "Fair enough, Dr. Freud."
Carol laughed gently. "That quack? Trust me, the very last thing I suffer from is any kind of male envy."
Monica laughed in return. "I hear you." She stood up, stretched out her arms. "Well, once more into the breach. And I bet you Mom makes some comment about monopolizing you."
"No bet. But let me fix your hair." She reached over, gently brushed back Monica's bangs. "I just want to add that I like you the way you are, too. I happen to think you're beautiful."
Monica couldn't help blushing slightly. "Thanks. And I always thought Ross was luckier than he deserved in finding a woman as pretty as you."
"Ross." Carol lowered her hand to Monica's shoulder, let it rest there a moment, then withdrew it entirely. "I'll lay you three to one odds he makes another comment about getting me pregnant before the end of the night."
"No bet." Chuckling, Monica stepped past Carol and out of her room. A moment later Carol followed her.
She entered the living room to see Ross and Father in deep discussion about whether the Giants could repeat as Super Bowl champions. Mother looked pained by the entire conversation and her eyes latched on to Monica.
Bracing herself, Monica sat down and waited. To her great surprise, Mother simply asked, "Are you all right, Monica?"
"Uh, yeah. I was just talking with Carol."
"That's good. You should spend more time with your sister-in-law. She could set a good example for you."
Monica relaxed. Now she was in familiar territory. And, curiously, she wasn't as stressed about it as she had been. At the same time, she didn't want to expose herself to this any longer than she had to. "Ross, what time were you thinking of leaving?"
Ross interrupted a treatise on Phil Simms to turn towards her with surprise. "Gosh, not for a while yet. Aunt Lillian and Aunt Iris are coming over."
"And Dr. Burke and his wife are coming over," Father added. "You haven't seen him in a long time, have you?"
Ugh, even more old people talking about things that would bore her to tears. "I have to work tomorrow. I think I'll head on home now."
"Well, let me drive you to the train station." Father stood up, absently patted his pockets.
"No, no. Stay here, I can walk." She walked over, hugged him. "Nice to see you again, Dad."
"Hey, always glad to see you, my little Harmonica."
She grinned, then turned towards Mother, who hadn't risen to her feet. Monica bent down, kissed her lightly on one cheek. "Thank you for dinner, Mom."
"You're welcome. Be careful getting home, your brother won't be there to protect you."
"I know." Monica straightened, turned. "Bye, Carol. Bye, Ross. See you guys later."
Carol smiled as Ross waved to her. As Monica walked out into the foyer to put on her coat, she heard Ross say, "So Carol, Mom was telling me that she still has some of our old baby toys and was wondering if we'd like them."
Monica smiled and left the house.
It was quite dark outside when Monica got to the train station. A wait of only a few minutes was needed before a train arrived. Monica got on board, paid the attendant, and found a relatively isolated seat. She sat against the window, stared outside at the darkness, and brooded.
Carol's words had been nice, and well-meaning, and helpful. But there really was a 'but'. It really did matter what people thought of her. It really did matter if her mother would ever give the faintest glimmer of approval. Monica had changed just about everything about herself and still couldn't find anything inside that Mother found loveable. And there was a fear, still lurking in Monica's brain despite all the diets and workouts in the world, that she was fundamentally unattractive and unlovable.
Monica spent the train ride and the subsequent subway ride wondering if she'd ever find anyone who'd be able to convince her otherwise.
As she approached her apartment door, she could see that the lights were on inside. She tested the door and it was unlocked. Stepping inside, she saw Chandler on the couch, drinking a beer and watching some old black and white movie. Miracle on 34th Street it looked like.
He looked over as she entered. "Hey."
"Hey." Monica took off her coat. "Phoebe back?"
"Nah. Not unless she's disguising herself as that pigeon on the terrace." Chandler picked up the remote and muted the television. "Truth be told, I'm surprised you're back this early."
"Hey, I went, I ate, I gabbed, I came back." Monica sat on the opposite end of the couch from Chandler. "That's what Thanksgiving's all about."
Monica waited. Go ahead, Chandler, I fed you the perfect setup line. Tell me all about how Thanksgiving is supposed to be about making little boys throw up in shock. Or something even wittier. There's a thousand things that'll just make your day.
It took her a few seconds to realize that not only hadn't he made a joke, he wasn't going to make one. She looked over at him out of curiosity. He was sipping his beer and looking at her. "That bad, huh?"
Monica shrugged. "Bad enough."
"Was it something Ross did? Because I can hire someone to rough him up for you."
"No, no, Ross was fine." Monica looked back at the television. "Someday I'll tell you what my parents are like. Just because they still have a stable marriage doesn't mean my holidays are any better than yours were."
"Ah." Chandler stood up. "Well, guess I'll go home and thank God that this day is over."
Monica chuckled. "Send him my thanks as well." She picked up the remote, unmuted the television.
She heard Chandler open the front door, but then he called out to her, "Hey, Mon?"
She looked over her shoulder. "Yeah?"
Chandler looked over both shoulders before speaking again. "Listen, don't ever tell anyone I ever said these words out loud, but... Happy Thanksgiving." He raised his beer in her direction.
Monica smiled, deeply amused and genuinely touched by his gesture. "Thank you."
Chandler nodded and left the apartment, closing the door behind him.
Monica turned back towards the television, feeling better than she had all day. She watched and found hope in the thought that the woman in the movie would have a lousy Thanksgiving but that all would be well by Christmas Day.
(to be continued)