Page 44 of Look on the Bright Side

She bet Ellie Smith had never had a single procedure done in her life. As Joy hustled to and from Wellfleet Marketplace and flew through the house, trying to see it through Ellie’s eyes, she couldn’t help comparing herself with Ellie. They were about the same age, but Ellie…she knew who she was. Joy never had.

Joy remembered with great clarity the day her quest to change herself had started. It had been the summer before fourth grade. Her parents were in the bedroom, Mama crying, Daddy yelling. There were some thuds, which caused a sick, weak feeling in Joy’s knees. She knew what caused those sounds, and no matter how often she heard them, it wasn’t something a person could get used to.

She’d been on her way to sneak down to the cellar but stopped to grab some Oreos, since Mama hadn’t made lunch. Unfortunately, she’d underestimated the length of her parents’ fight, and her hand was in the package when her father was suddenly storming through the kitchen. She froze.

If only Paulie had been there that day to scoop her into his room or take her to the park or to the corner store. But he hadn’t been. Joy’s eight-year-old self felt her soul curl into itself like the injured dragonfly she’d tried to save last week. Whatever happened next would be bad. She knew that with her whole heart.

“Whaddaya standin’ there for, huh?” Daddy barked, striding across the kitchen and grabbing her by the shirt. “You stupid or somethin’? And you’re eating junk, of course. You’re fat and ugly, just like your mother. Too bad you weren’t a boy. Maybe I coulda had a real son if you had been. Don’t just sit there, frog! Clean up the kitchen and do something useful for once.” He shoved her aside as he left, slamming the door so hard a pane cracked, and it would remain cracked until the house was sold forty years later.

Gianna-Marie did not clean up the kitchen. Instead, she stood there, Oreos still clutched in her hand, as her father’s words burned themselves on her soul. She knew to slip and slide around Daddy, to try to be invisible and away and quiet. She knew that he was always angry at Paulie, though why, she had no idea, since Paulie was perfect. But until he’d said those awful words—stupid, fat, ugly, frog—she hadn’t thought much about how she was. It wasn’t like anyone told her she was pretty, of course. They weren’t that kind of family. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought too much about herself at all, really.

There wasn’t a lot of room for anyone’s feelings but Daddy’s in the Moretti household—Gianna-Marie knew that before she could put it into words. Mama told Paulie and her to be quiet, to listen to Daddy, to understand how hard he worked, how smart he was. When Daddy was home, she’d coo and fuss and serve him, which kept him calm…until it didn’t.

She and Paulie didn’t talk about their parents. Daddy’s parents, who lived on the third floor, didn’t, either. When the fighting started, Nonna would turn up the TV, and Papa would leave the house. Her other grandparents lived in Brooklyn, and when they visited, they only talked in rapid-fire Italian. Kids were not invited into the conversation. Mama wore long sleeves even on the hottest days. If the bruises were on her face, the priest would ask how she was doing, and she’d glare at him. “Fine, Father. Just fine,” Mama would say, and she’d sound almost proud. “It’s nobody’s business, that’s what it is,” she’d add to Paulie and Gianna. “We’re a family. What happens at home is our business, and you two keep it to yourselves, you hear me?”

That day in the kitchen, Gianna-Marie became suddenly aware of how disgusting she was. She went into Paulie’s room, since he had a full-length mirror on the door of his closet. She ignored Mama’s quiet sobs from the bedroom. Experience had taught her not to knock on the door, because Mama would just yell at her.

What she saw was dark hair on her legs. Bulging calf muscles, fat upper arms that jiggled, like Nonna’s. Her neck was stubby and fat, and her stomach bulged like there was a baby in there. Daddy was mean, but he was also right. She did look like a frog. So what if she was the best kickball player in third grade? So what if Sister Noreen praised her for getting a B+ on her math test?

Why couldn’t she look like Paulie, who took after their grandfather? Paulie was beautiful. He was skinny. His black hair was thick and curly, not frizzy, his brown eyes coppery and clear with long lashes that every woman loved. Women fawned over Paulie, and he flirted right back.

Moments after her father crushed her soul, Gianna-Marie went on her first diet, one of the hundreds she would undertake during her life. That weekend, she asked Paulie to walk her to the pharmacy, where she stared at shampoo and conditioner.

“Don’t get that stuff,” Paulie said when she reached for a bottle of Breck shampoo, handing her a bottle of Lustre-Crème instead. “This is way better for your hair. And get the cream rinse, too. Also, Gia…” He dropped his voice. “You should probably start shaving your legs.” He made a kind face, and Gia felt weak with relief that he was so nice. “And your arms.”

By puberty, Gia, or Joy, as she called herself outside the house, was religiously saving for a nose job. Paulie gave her skin- and hair-care products for her birthday and Christmas (on the sly, of course, because Daddy would have a fit that his son knew so much about feminine beauty). The two siblings had an unspoken agreement that Paulie’s advice and expertise would be kept from their parents, and in exchange, she’d cover for him on the nights he told his parents he was on a date with a nice girl from New Brighton (or Livingston or Great Kills…these imaginary relationships tended not to last). When Paulie joined the NYPD, Daddy said, “Finally I got something to be proud of with my kids. About fuckin’ time.”

“Yes, I’m a police officer now. And I don’t know if you know this, Dad, but domestic violence is a crime. Mom doesn’t have to press charges for you to get arrested.”

There was a stunned silence at the table. For a second, the world trembled, and hope bloomed like a million white flowers in Joy’s chest. Finally, finally someone would put their horrible father in his place.

“You ever say anything like that again, you can kiss your mother goodbye,” Daddy hissed. “You think she wants to see her faggot son making a scene? Right, Anna?” He turned and glared at their mother.

“You watch your mouth, Paulie,” Mama said. “You don’t know nothin’ about anything.”

Those white flowers shriveled and turned brown. Paulie looked at Joy, and his eyes were so, so sad.

So nothing changed on the home front, except Paulie wasn’t around. Her father continued to beat up her mother, and everyone ignored the violence and bruises. Joy sequestered herself with a fictional world—TV movies, magazine covers, where the citizens were blond girls with blue eyes, straight noses and pink cheeks, or Black girls with flawless skin and perfectly straight teeth. Thin arms, tiny waists, flat stomachs, trim thighs…things Joy had never experienced. At night, she pinched the flab around her abdomen mercilessly, wishing she could just cut it off with a knife. Mama’s cooking and Moretti genetics eradicated any weight loss she achieved by drinking cabbage juice or eating only iceberg lettuce for five days straight.

Stupid. Fat. Ugly. Too bad you weren’t a boy.

Paulie was the only one she could talk to. Though he’d never said the words out loud, the fact that he was gay was like the sky being blue. He lived in the West Village, never invited his parents to his apartment, visiting them on Staten Island only on major holidays. But he did invite her to the Village. All his friends were men, and they loved Joy, told her how fun she was, admired things about her that she’d never have thought were attractive.

“You have such a kind soul,” said one of the friends, and Joy was in shock. Did she? Well, that was a nice surprise!

“Honey, I could stare into your eyes all day,” said another, sighing. “If I was straight, I’d marry you so fast.”

The nose job made her look more like Mama, especially with the bruises under her eyes. Her grandmother told her she was a vain whore, her father said, “For fuck’s sake, Gianna! Why you wasting your money?” and her mother, always backing him up, said, “If you think that makes you pretty, you’re wrong.”

Finally, high school ended. First order of business—get out of her parents’ house. Getting a job that could cover rent and everything else she wanted…she wasn’t that naïve. Instead, she went to LaGuardia Community College and looked for a boy who’d marry her.

Husband number one: Frankie O’Dell, a nice Irish Catholic boy who couldn’t take his eyes off her 42E breasts. His family owned an auto parts store—they were well off, in other words. She let him kiss her, let his hands wander, told him they should wait to get married. When he protested and seemed like he might be losing interest, she let him rid her of her virginity. Afterward, she mentioned that her father might be connected to the Mafia (he wasn’t) and would kill Frankie if he found out.

The next day, Frankie bought her a sizable diamond ring, dropped out of college and went to work at his dad’s store in sales. Joy started working at the register. College had served its purpose. The wedding night was not awful, though she had to let Frankie see her naked, something she’d been able to avoid in the back seat of his car.

“Hon, you’re beautiful,” he said, making her roll her eyes. At least sex didn’t hurt this time. Frankie wanted kids right away, but Joy said no. Not until she had some work done. O’Dell’s Auto Parts was a good business, and Frankie made enough money for plastic surgery if they didn’t buy a house and lived in his parents’ basement. Besides, she’d probably like sex more if she liked her own body, she argued. If he loved her, he’d understand. He was no match for her single-minded determination. She was going to change herself with or without him.

First surgery—tummy tuck with liposuction on her thighs and arms. The pain was staggering and lasted for weeks, and the bruising was hard to look at, but she was smaller. Not thin, not svelte, not yet, but better.

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