I ran down the street, trying to rid myself of the words, knowing they were right behind me and I’d never be free. As I picked up the pace, my lungs burning, I willed the shards of my shattered life to not only be figurative daggers to my broken heart but literal ones, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHEN I GOT HOME, I slammed the door shut, threw my bag on the floor and balled my fists as I let out a piercing scream. I clamped both hands over my mouth, forcing another yell to stay inside, trying to calm my nerves in case Mrs. Winchester rushed over to see what was wrong.
Waves of rage, sadness and desperation pounded my skull, threatening to crack it in half as I dug my fingernails deeper into my skin in an attempt to stop more cries from escaping. I wanted to pick up a chair and throw it at the wall or through the window, got as far as lifting it a few inches off the floor before letting it drop with a defeated clunk.
Breathing hard, I walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of apple juice. Drinking directly from the box, I ignored the steady trickle dribbling down my chin. The cold liquid soothed the inside of my throat, raw from running through the cold air, and I almost finished the whole thing without stopping.
I moved on to food. First the leftovers from an Indian takeout I’d bought a few days ago, followed by thick wedges of cheddar cheese, handfuls of walnuts and slices of stale bread, which I slathered with peanut butter. My heart pounded as I ate, my fingers opening cupboards as my brain raced ahead, deciding what I’d gorge on next and after that, too.
The following six, seven minutes were spent in a trance as I randomly crammed as much as I could into my mouth without choking, forcing everything down with huge gulps of juice. The food had barely settled, expanding and bloating my gut, but making my nerves subside. By the time I finished off another slice of bread and some more nuts, my hands had stopped shaking. This was a temporary reprieve, the tiniest of windows during which all seemed under control. Before long, a familiar sense of hate and self-loathing would rear its ugly head.
Emotional binge eating, a shrink labeled it a few years ago, after I’d filled in a random survey about eating habits in a magazine, answering each question with an emphatic yes. I didn’t need to read the results section to know I had a problem, and a few weeks later decided to talk to someone. I contacted a psychologist called Dr. Hope, which I’d taken as some sort of sign.
She’d been older, small and wiry, with elfin features, spiky gray hair and huge rainbow-colored glasses, magnifying her eyes like an owl’s as she stared at me over her leather-bound notepad. Her lips had formed into a bored smile as she’d waited for me to speak, reveal my deepest flaws—things I’d never told anyone and hardly admitted to myself—her pen poised to make a permanent record of it all.
I’d let out a nervous laugh. Thought about telling her, with my history, she should invest in a thicker notepad. Later, when she asked if I’d ever considered I might be attempting to fill the void inside me with food, I knew there was no point going again. That chasm was so old and ran so deep, it would never be satisfied.
Standing in the kitchen, my face and hands covered in food debris, I knew the hole had become even bigger, and with Dad...gone, more impossible to fill. I braced myself, ready for the familiar, chastising voice to begin, surrendering to it, accepting its victory.
No wonder nobody wants you. You’re pathetic. Look at you. Just look at you.
I ran to the bathroom, as I did every time, with the intention of making myself throw up, but stopped as soon as my crumb-covered, peanut butter–smelling fingers touched my lips. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I swiped at them with the back of my hand as the voice continued.
You can’t even do that, can you? You waste of space. You. Are. Pathetic.
I turned the shower to cold and set it full blast to drown out the words, but they still came.
Being overweight is a choice, Nellie. Your choice. You’re so weak. So hopeless.
I stripped down, averting my eyes from the mirror. I must have lost at least three hundred pounds over my lifetime. Shame it was a hundred and fifty times the same two I kept putting back on again. I clenched my teeth as I stood under the freezing water, forced myself to stay until my fingertips had shriveled and turned blue.
“Stop,” I said through chattering teeth. “Enough now. You have to stop.”
Once dressed in my clean, blue-and-red-plaid pajamas and the softest cotton T-shirt I could find, I crawled under the duvet and curled up into a ball, shivering until I fell asleep.
* * *
By evening I was hungry again, but I wouldn’t allow myself to eat. I knew the routine—I wouldn’t touch anything for a while. It was the way we worked, food and me, this impossible love-hate relationship, the endless struggle for control. To avoid thinking about eating or at least distract myself from it, I decided to get outside and try to clear my head.
The temperature had dropped and the misty air swirled around my face as I walked down the street, undecided on the direction in which to head. I passed the local bakery without as much as a sideways glance, stepped aside for groups of friends heading out for the night, laughing and joking. More anger bubbled beneath the surface, and I felt the urge to push it down with something—a candy bar, chips, donuts—anything to stop it from erupting.
“No,” I told myself, putting one foot in front of the other, faster and faster, away from the jovial banter.
“Excuse you,” a woman said as I bumped into her, almost sending her and her two full-to-the-brim shopping bags flying into the street. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
“Fuck you,” I snarled, giving her the finger. I’m not sure who was more surprised, her or me. This wasn’t how I reacted. On a typical day I’d have apologized and rushed off.
I knew where I was headed now and sped up, turning left on Deering Avenue and onto Bramhall Street, sticking close to other people so I was never completely alone and vulnerable, finally reaching the corner of Western Promenade. I recognized the house from a hundred yards away and had examined it so closely on Street View, I could’ve drawn it from memory.
Redbrick, three stories, green shutters, a balcony-covered porch complete with Roman columns. All that glamour set atop a manicured lawn and encircled by a three-foot-high decorative black iron fence. An impressive house, by anyone’s standards, one worth close to two million dollars if the comps I’d found were to be believed.
When I reached the house, I stopped and stood still, pressing my back against a tree, glancing left and right every few seconds to make sure I could run if I saw someone threatening coming, my breath escaping my mouth and nostrils in steamy clouds. Even from across the street I could see in through what I determined to be the living room window. The curtains weren’t yet drawn, and I easily spotted the people inside. I grabbed my Nikon and zoomed in, taking picture after picture of them. Stan and Madeleine.
They sat on the sofa, each of them engrossed in a book, looking like they didn’t have a care in the world. I wanted to know if he’d told her about my visit. Confessed he’d had an affair resulting in a secret daughter. Had Madeleine vowed to stand by him? Told him it was so long ago, it didn’t matter? I didn’t matter? Or had he said nothing at all? Gone home to a posh dinner of foie gras and chateaubriand, washed down with an exclusive bottle of Bordeaux, my visit already transforming into a distant and insignificant memory.
I loosened my grip on the camera and flexed my fingers as I stood, transfixed, watching them. Madeleine lifted her head and gazed at her husband before reaching for his hand. They seemed the perfect couple, married for decades, still in love, this moment no doubt one of many examples of their mutual devotion.
Something deep, more primal and despicable than poisonous jealousy pummeled my insides. I couldn’t imagine them fighting the way my mother and Dad had, couldn’t picture myself perched on the stairs of this house with m
y hands pressed over my ears, wishing my mother’s words of hatred would stop, hoping Dad would finally leave her and take me with him.
Dad had loved me, there was no question, but my childhood, even while he’d still lived with us, had been riddled with palpable tension, which had seeped through the walls and into the bones of the house. Because of it, I’d hardly brought friends over—there weren’t many to begin with—and, according to teachers, became more withdrawn. It was easier to keep people at a distance, and ensure nobody figured out the truth. It was one of the only ways Amy and I were similar, except she’d escaped to other people’s houses and had always taken my mother’s side, blaming my father for their problems. Had Victoria ever felt that way about her parents? Had she experienced anything similar?
I shook my head. I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t noticed Stan leaving the living room, not until the front door opened and he stepped outside with a large brown dog by his side. At first I wanted to turn in the other direction, but once again my feet did the opposite, only allowing me to take steps forward. This man was my father. I couldn’t let him swat me away as if I were an annoying fly.
My heart threatened to leap out of my chest as I stowed the camera in my bag and crossed the road, running after Stan. He must have heard me approach because he turned, stopping dead as soon as he caught sight of my face.
“What are you doing here?” he said before ordering the massive dog—a drooling Great Dane—to sit. It did so without hesitation and looked up at me, panting, its tongue hanging out, and a lopsided grin on its face, mocking me.
“I have questions,” I said, forcing myself to stand tall. “And...and I feel I deserve answers. It’s the least you can do.”
His jaw made tiny, sinewy movements. “What did your mother tell you about me?”
“Nothing. I overheard them talking the night Dad... When he died. It’s how I found out—” I looked at him, willing myself to stay strong, to not cut and run “—that you’re my father.”
Stan sighed, shook his head. “Without being delicate about it, your mother and I had an affair. It meant a lot more to her than it did to me—”
“But I’m the result. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It doesn’t,” he whispered. “It never did. Not back then and not now. I’m sorry. I paid your mother a hundred thousand—”
“How much?”
“—and I’ve already told you there won’t be more.”
“I don’t want your money!”
He looked at me. “And I can’t give you what you’re looking for. Goodbye, Eleanor. Please don’t contact me again.”
I’m not sure how long I stayed there. Long enough to watch him and the dog disappear around the corner and for my whole body to go numb. The darkness wrapped itself around me, reminding me I was alone, I had nobody, there wasn’t anyone left who cared.
As I stood there, I wondered how long it would take for me to be reported missing if I walked to the water and catapulted myself off the Veterans Memorial Bridge. Who would be the first person to notice I was gone? Not my mother. Not Amy. None of the friends I’d distanced myself from. None of my few ex-boyfriends who’d broken my heart, making me more defensive and bitter. It would either be my landlord because I’d missed rent, or Kyle Draper looking for his website updates.
I was all alone because it was what I deserved.
I imagined falling, my body hitting the water, pulled under by my sodden clothes and heavy boots, arms flailing, lungs filling...and then blackness, stillness. Peace.
With a shudder I lowered my head, turned and hurried in the direction of my apartment. Away from the water, away from the bridge.
You’re a coward, the darkness whispered inside my head. I don’t want you, either.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THURSDAY. DAD’S FUNERAL. The rain had been relentless since early morning, coming down in thick, translucent strands stretching from the skies all the way to the ground. Big fat drops thudded off my red-and-white polka-dot umbrella, the only one I had, but which now seemed disrespectfully cheery as I stood by Dad’s grave.
The crowd had dispersed in a relative hurry, mourners making their way to the warmth and comfort of the Fiddler’s Head, the traditional English pub across the street in which my ever-organized father had planned what he’d called a goodbye party, with good food and unlimited pints on tap. I wasn’t ready to join them, partly because I didn’t want to leave Dad, but also because my mother had gone inside the pub.
She’d arrived with a few of her friends who’d come to the funeral to offer moral support as she played the part of the ex-wife in mourning. When I’d first spotted her at the church, I’d been surprised to see her and wondered why she’d come, decided it was for appearances’ sake—and to make sure Dad was truly gone so she could somehow get his money into Amy’s hands. As soon as our eyes had met across the crowded church, she’d waltzed over, grabbed my elbow and pulled me to one side, her fingers digging into my skin.
“We need to talk.” Her tone had been more bitter than usual, the fact we were in a church for a funeral having zero effect on her kindness and empathy levels. “You look terrible. Couldn’t you at least have used some concealer to hide that bruise?”
I had, but obviously not to her satisfaction. I shook her off, hoping God—if indeed there was one—would make her burst into flames, providing it was possible to burn a bona fide ice queen. “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” I said, taking a step back as she tried to grab me again.
“You went to see Stan.” She nodded slowly as she registered my look of surprise. “Oh, yes, I know all about your little visits. I haven’t spoken to the man in decades, then he calls me, demanding to know what’s going on. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“None of your business.” I took another step back but she inched closer, her face in mine, eyes turning to narrow slits, her red snake mouth hissing her next words.
“How was your reunion?” she said. “Did you hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”
I looked away, my shoulders falling. Her gaze, her very presence, making me feel like half a person. I hated myself for it. For being so weak, for—after all these years—still questioning why she’d never loved me or accepted me and, goddamn it, for part of me still wanting her to despite the way she’d treated me.
The day I’d moved out with four bags and a drooping houseplant under my arm, I’d relinquished the key to her place, too. She’d stood in the hallway of the three-bedroom house in Oakdale she’d bought after Dad had left, and which she’d long filled with new furniture and memories that excluded him. An oversize baby blue sweater hung casually from one of her tan shoulders, and her black leggings showed off legs she always reminded me she’d worked hard to achieve and she thought looked better than most of those belonging to women half her age.
In lieu of a hug and good-luck wishes, she’d given me her customary disapproving head-to-toe scan, raised her eyebrows and held out her palm toward me. “You won’t need your key anymore,” she’d said, before instructing me to phone ahead if I wanted to visit—which I’d done fewer than half a dozen times in as many years—and to ring the doorbell when I arrived.
All my life I’d envied women who had close relationships with their mothers. I’d see them going to the movies, shopping for clothes or having lunch together. The likelihood of the two of us even going for a watered-down coffee and dry toast felt as probable as an all-expenses-paid trip to Bora-Bora—but I’d still wished for it. Her behavior had brought me closer to Dad, but instead of being relieved I wasn’t around her, I’d made her hate me more, furious he’d always taken my side when he’d still lived at home, and after that, too.
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” I said, catching the eye of the pastor, who gave me a wave and walked in our direction, his hands clasped over the Bible, a deep look of sympath
y on his face.
My mother leaned in. “Listen to me. You will keep quiet about this. All of it. You will not ruin my reputation or my business, do you hear me?”
“I don’t care about either,” I snapped, knowing full well her tax advisory company was the one thing that rivaled Amy when it came to my mother’s attention. She was proud of the business, and with good reason. She’d gone back to night school for accounting classes once my sister and I had been old enough to take care of ourselves. Within three years she’d started her own firm, which she’d grown to over a dozen staff. She was a determined, brainy woman, I owed her that much acknowledgment, although I’d only ever do so silently.
“I swear, Eleanor, if you tell people that man’s your father...if you embarrass me with this, then you’re no longer welcome at my house, or in my life, do you understand?”
“Wait, you mean up until now I was welcome?” My laughter oozed with sarcasm. Two could joust when they had equally long, sharp lances aimed at each other’s jugulars.
She stared at me—her eyes narrower slits—no doubt wishing I’d turn to stone, but as the pastor approached her transformation back into grieving ex-wife was instant, and she greeted him with a perfectly practiced small, sad smile, readily accepting his condolences.
I’d avoided her during and after the service, made sure there were other people between her and me as Dad’s casket was lowered into the ground, ensuring she couldn’t trap me graveside, too.
No doubt she was already charming the guests at the Fiddler’s Head, her aim to leave them thinking Dad had been a fool to let her slip through his fingers. I knew better, knew her for what she was: a manipulator, a cold, calculating, spiteful witch. Dad wouldn’t mind if I didn’t go to the pub, and I couldn’t face the throngs of people anyway, what with their solemn faces, which would brighten with every sip of beer, the memories of Dad already fading from their minds. I whispered a lengthy goodbye to him and went home, stood by my window until the sun had long disappeared behind the buildings.
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