by Christina Berke

April Dauscha, *Communion*, archival pigment print, 16 x 20 inches, 2014. Courtesy of the artist.

Rich

Christina Berke | Mar 2025 | Issue 43

You’ve been so good—so good— that when your friend meets you at the airport, she says, you look like a bird. You smile. No, you say, no, I’ve still got a long way to go. You’re grinning all the way through the flight at the thought. This new plan you’re on takes commitment, but you’re sure you can stay on track so you’ve packed two medium hard boiled eggs—no salt—your weighed baggie of dry oats, your peeled apple, your gallon jug of water, emptied and ready.

When you land in this beautiful tropical space, you tell your friend you need to eat, right now right now right now. It’s past your meal time because the goddamn plane took off late and sure you’re trying to take it easy, you’re on vacation, you’re supposed to relax, you deserve it, but all you can think about is getting your food, so you ask the driver to pull over at the nearest place, you don’t care where, anywhere, and suddenly you’re at a chain diner, one you don’t even eat at back home, mouthing your order of hot water, salivating at the smells of bacon so bubbling with oil you can taste the salty crisp fat, fists tightened into balls, threatening you not to give in. When, thank god thank god, your mug is finally finally placed in front of you, your friend watches you as you take out your tepid boiled eggs, the ones without even pepper, shining and perfectly orb. She watches you drain your mug of black coffee, pour hot water over your unflavored oats from the little baggie into a bowl, your six ounces of apple—sliced, because it makes it seem like more food—watches as you inhale your food, exhale your anxiety. You’re done before she can finish cutting into her whipped cream blueberry pancakes or take a sip of her caramel latte.

For dinner, you order the chicken, plain, four ounces, please weigh it, and furiously wonder if this restaurant is honest about how it’s prepared. Is it true they don’t use any oil, is it true they don’t use butter, is it true it’s just plain chicken prepared not even with pepper because, you say to them, you have a lot of allergies, you say, sugar and flour and most things in between.

It continues this way, you in your new almost-bird-body, tanned and smiling, empty and wanting.

Here there are iguanas and toucans and frogs. There are volcanoes and waterfalls and cloud forests. Guaria morada and gingers and mandevillas. It’s not enough, or it’s too much, too much beauty and life that it makes you ache in your ugly insatiable want.

On the day you go to the waterfall, a man offers to take your photo and you hand over your phone as you and your friend pose and laugh and feel free, maybe something like happiness. The mist of fresh water dewing your face, frizzing your hair, jacket slick with it. You think about how many more minutes until lunch time, about how today you’ll treat yourself to the grilled zucchini instead of steamed broccoli.

Here, he hands the phone back, slow enough to linger on your skin. But he’s not looking at you. He’s looking at her. The one who can eat a burger with fries and a side of ranch and doesn’t have to weigh herself every time she’s in the bathroom, the one who has no idea how many calories are in a tablespoon of peanut butter, the one who doesn’t drain her bank account into classes and programs and pills and apps and and and. You’ve put in all of this effort, implemented all of these rules, been so good, so fucking good for so fucking long and you did it, you thought anyway, you unlocked the key to achieving your almost-dream body, though he must see that you still have weight to lose because he’s talking to her, he’s sitting next to her, knees touching, hands in her hair and on her flawless makeup-free face. And you, you’re still not enough because, you think, you are too much of a body, just like your ex said, just like your classmates said, just like your cruelest inner thoughts remind you.

When you go out to dinner, your last night, you order the double bacon burger, you order the bucket of fries, you order the salad with extra cheese and croutons, you order two sides of ranch, you order the big sloppy sugary tourist drink, you order the brownie blast with double fudge sauce and you inhale the food, exhale your sadness, inhale your hatred, exhale your dreams.

But you were doing so good, are you sure, she asks. She watches you eat your grief, lick up your wounds, pulse in pain.

I was so good, you think, so good.

When did it get so bad?

Christina Berke is a Chilean-American writer based in Los Angeles. She’s been supported by Tin House, Sewanee, Hedgebrook, Storyknife and elsewhere. Her memoir, Well, Body, was Longlisted with Disquiet Literary International.

Born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky, April Dauscha received her BFA in fashion design at the International Academy of Design and Technology and her MFA in fiber from Virginia Commonwealth University. April has served on the board of directors for the Surface Design Association (SDA) and is one of the founding members of Tiger Strikes Asteroid Greenville (TSA GVL). She has been represented by Page Bond Gallery in Richmond, Virginia and her work has been featured in Vogue Portugal. She has exhibited her work nationally, at the Fuller Craft Museum, MANA Contemporary, and Tracey Morgan Gallery, and internationally in Berlin, Cape Town, Jerusalem, and Belgrade. She is currently heading the fiber arts program at the Fine Arts Center, a performing and visual arts high school, in Greenville, South Carolina.