Free No Greater Love by William Kienzle

curvy. Their posture was straight, their oval faces attractive; both had blue eyes spaced widely apart. Each was in her early twenties.
    About the only marked difference was their hair. Andrea’s Cleopatra-style bangs were brunette; Patty’s no-nonsense short bob was blond.
    Except for that, they could easily have passed for sisters.
    But it was not always so.
    Andrea’s father was Polish, her mother Irish.
    Andrea was an only child, though her parents had hoped for many more children.
    Her early life could best be described as ordinary. Much treasured by her parents, she tried to compensate for having no siblings by making and keeping friends easily. She was, in short, a happy, well-adjusted little girl.
    She attended St. Hedwig school in the parish where her family lived. All was well—until sometime during the third grade.
    Andrea began to gain weight—a noticeable amount. The gain necessitated fairly frequent wardrobe changes as the girl progressed through one size after another. Clearly, there was a problem.
    The doctor found nothing physically wrong. He suggested that it was a phase some children go through, that in time it would take care of itself.
    Bolstered by this diagnosis, the Zawalichs went home determined to weather the storm. It was all a matter of time. But time passed so very slowly. Day after day they approached their daughter apprehensively, expectantly. Still, Andrea grew heavier. Not as rapidly as in the beginning, but, heavier, nonetheless.
    Andrea was consuming a lot of food. Perhaps, thought her parents, it was as simple as that: She was just overeating.
    They restricted her menu. That slowed her gain, but didn’t halt it.
    They accused her of snacking when she was away from home. She denied it. It was a comforting defense for the parents. It wasn’t their fault; it was her fault. She was responsible for her condition. The parents absolved themselves.
    Both teachers and parents noted a pattern of indolence setting in. Never had Andrea had any problem with either schoolwork or chores at home. Now she was shirking both.
    It was as if she were some sort of engine slowing down, running on fumes. Home was becoming a hell on earth.
    Andrea’s life was changing most depressingly in her relationship with her classmates and friends. In the school of hard knocks she was learning the truth of that old maxim: Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone.
    Andrea cried—alone—frequently.
    Her schoolmates were of the age when children can be brutally cruel. With Andrea they had plenty of opportunity.
    She grew too large to share the double school desk. She more waddled than ran. Races were over before she had taken ten steps. Even after her weight gain slowed, her face continued to bloat.
    Her former friends invented names to call her. She was Kong—for King Kong. She was Moby—for Moby Dick. She was Ellie—for elephant, Dino—for dinosaur.
    In the playground during recess, somebody would take something of hers—a scarf, a hat—and play keep-away. She could barely turn, let alone run after her tormentors to try to regain the swiped item.
    Over and above all, Andrea was terrified. She knew she wasn’t overeating. If anything, she was eating less than she ever had. Something was going on inside her body that was blowing her up like a balloon.
    She had no one to whom she could turn.
    The doctor had dismissed her symptoms as something time would take care of. Her parents eventually became convinced that she wasn’t overeating or snacking behind their back. Desperate, they debated sending her off to some sort of sanatorium or fat farm for the duration. But would that be in perpetuity?
    Meanwhile, the harassment by her peers continued unrelentingly.
    One evening her mother bundled her up and carted her off to St. Hedwig’s rectory. She told the young priest who answered the door all about Andrea and her hitherto normal, now