Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  I look at my mother and sister who are waiting for me to say something. Not knowing what else to do, I close my eyes and make a wish.

  Shelly leads us through a corridor. It’s much nicer than I expected. The walls in the ward are painted in pretty pastel colors and there are a lot of windows, so the place is filled with sunlight. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than the reception area, or my parents’ house, come to think of it. We have shabby furniture bought when they first got married. It’s also really dark all the time so we live in shadows like we’re rodents.

  “We’re encouraged to express our creativity,” Shelly sneers as we pass an oil painting of a farm. “To get in touch with our feelings. Frannie, isn’t this place the biggest joke?”

  “I guess,” I say carefully. I touch the frame. “This is nice.”

  Shelly shrugs. “Cynthia did this. The girl on hyperalimentation.”

  “She’s a very talented young girl,” my mother offers. “Is she an artist?”

  “She’s thirty-two, Mom. And she was with the ballet until she fried her brain. It was so sad when they tubed her. For weeks, she gulped water in the shower before weigh-in. No one noticed until she hyperventilated and passed out. It was amazing, everyone screaming and Cynthia lying on the floor, peeing all over herself. Now they make us wait until after weigh-in to take showers.”

  “How’d she fry her brain?” I ask nervously, peering into the bathroom.

  “Starved herself. No oxygen. She should’ve gotten tubed a long time ago, but someone fucked up. They don’t like when we talk about it.”

  “She starved herself in here? I thought they were supposed to monitor you.” Wide-eyed, my mother glances at me. Someone fucked up.

  “This place isn’t as well-supervised as they like to think. Everyone sneaks laxatives, water pills, speed. Girls throw up in towels, send them down the laundry chute, whatever.” As Shelly speaks, I notice a twinge of pride in her voice. “Some girl drank ipecac. She vomited blood, but lost a pound so I guess she felt it was worth it.”

  “Would you?” my mother asks quietly. “Shelly, would you feel it was worth it?”

  “Why do you always ask questions that you think are so probing, but that are really just retarded?” My mother tries to light a cigarette. “Mom!” Shelly exclaims. “You can’t smoke in here! This is a hospital.” She rolls her eyes as we walk into her room.

  “This is Bernadette.” We turn to look at a girl lying on a bed. Bernadette is much more filled out than Shelly. Her face is bloated and a little lopsided. She nods, but doesn’t open her eyes.

  “Bernadette’s bulimic,” Shelly says, loud enough for Bernadette to hear. “There’s a lot of animosity between the anorexics and the bulimics. The bulimics don’t think they get enough attention.” Silently, Bernadette flips Shelly the finger, but smiles mysteriously as Shelly laughs.

  Shelly rips open the present from my father. Inside is a white sweatshirt with the words JUST DO IT silk-screened in big block letters.

  “It’s from Daddy,” I tell her. “He thought it would be inspirational.”

  “He’s so weird. He called me the other day to ask what habeas corpus means.”

  “He probably wanted to talk, but didn’t know what to say,” I tell her wisely. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him what it meant and he thanked me. Then he hung up.” She snickers. “Like, hello Daddy, I’m not in my office right now.” She busies herself putting on her sneakers. “He said he was going to be here today.” She sounds upset and won’t look at me.

  “He had some meeting.”

  “Bullshit. He didn’t want to visit a loon hotel. He only wishes this was my office.”

  She’s right, actually. My parents can’t wait for Shelly to be a real attorney. They constantly ask her their idea of lawyerly things, like if my mother can sue the cleaner’s for losing a blouse. It’s obvious they think more highly of her, which kills me because I’m the older sister: the one who’s supposed to have better clothes, make more money, and get married first. Until she landed here, she had me beat in almost every category. Now I guess we’re tied.

  Bernadette finally rises from her bed and tells Shelly she’s going to watch TV. “You want anything?”

  Shelly shakes her head. “Only to check out of here.”

  Bernadette smiles. Her teeth are gray. “Me first,” she calls over her shoulder.

  “Nice dental work,” I note.

  Shelly sighs. “Frannie, she has no enamel. It’s a symptom of bulimia. Perhaps you’ve heard the word?” My face burning, I mumble that I’m sorry, but I’m getting pissed. It’s extremely difficult to keep up with my sister when she’s in one of her moods.

  My mother walks toward a small closet. “So how’s your therapy going?” Inside, she rearranges the clothes. “Marilyn said you’d have another therapist in here. What’s he like?” She peers out. “Or is it a she?”

  “Her name is Katie.” Shelly turns to me. “So how’s life at home?”

  “How do you think? I’m giving myself a month. Just like you. Actually, this place isn’t so bad, Shelly. Personally, I wouldn’t mind a few days here just to chill out.”

  “Don’t talk like an idiot, Frannie. I know what this place looks like.” Her eyes water, and she pulls me up from the bed, takes off all the sheets, and starts to remake it.

  When we brought Shelly here, she didn’t seem overtly anxious. She sublet her apartment to another paralegal in Lonny’s office, and she’d already brought her things back home, so she parked her Subaru in my parents’ driveway and got into the backseat of my mother’s car with a suitcase and some books. “You can always call me,” I said over the headrest. “I mean, I know we haven’t spent much time together lately, but I’m still your sister. I’ll come every day. That is, if you want me to.” She didn’t say anything, so I added, “Shelly, everyone has problems.”

  “Frannie.” She sighed. “Please stop acting like you feel sorry for me.”

  Chubby met us in the lobby. Shelly started to walk away but my mother grabbed her. “You’ll call me, right? And don’t worry, okay?” Shelly tried to shake her off, but she clutched harder and turned to Chubby. “Call me about anything,” she said as Chubby hooked her arm through Shelly’s and inched her away from my mother. Right before she was led into the elevator, Shelly sadly held my gaze. I started to say something, but she turned before I could get the words out. I hated myself for not saying something when I had the chance; not goodbye, not I’ll call you, not even good luck.

  “So do you think Katie is helping you?” my mother says from the closet. “I hope you’re not focusing on the past, Shelly. This is the time to focus on your future. Applications aren’t due until February, right?”

  “Yeah, my big future,” Shelly says, but my mother is already back in the closet.

  “Why did you tell her I was fired?” I whisper.

  “I didn’t. I told her you were laid off.”

  “She told me you told her I was fired. So did Cynthia,” I add.

  “Frannie,” Shelly says, exasperated. When she swallows, I can see her entire jaw. “I don’t care if you were fired. Hasn’t it occurred to you that I have other things on my mind?”

  “Why would you say something like that? I realize that.” Annoyed, I change the subject. “We almost had an accident on the way here. Mommy was completely toasted.”

  “She told me she was easing up.” Shelly looks at my mother, who is busy unfolding the things in Bernadette’s closet. “MOM! That stuff’s not mine!”

  “I know, dear.” She sticks her head out. “I just want to help out. It makes me feel better. You know, this place isn’t so bad. The people seem very competent.”

  “Then you move in.” Shelly’s voice cuts through me like a sword. “You and Bernadette can trade war stories.” She laughs, but her laugh is hollow and fake, and she sounds like she’s about to cry.

  “Mom,” I cut in. “Why don’t you take a walk? Let me and Shelly t
alk.”

  “Fine, you girls talk and I’ll find a place to smoke.” My mother runs her hand along the door frame before walking out. “Really, this place isn’t at all what I thought it would be.” She turns to us and smiles. “Thank God.”

  “I can’t stand this,” Shelly says when we’re alone. “She makes me crazy.”

  “She doesn’t know what to do, Shelly.” I want to tell my sister that she’s being an asshole, that for once, our mother is trying, but I’m afraid of her reaction.

  “Cynthia told me you didn’t want her to come.” I pause. “Me to come.”

  “That’s not true. I just said that I didn’t want you to see me in here.” Her voice breaks. “It’s embarrassing, Frannie. Anyway, Cynthia is a fucking lunatic. Why are you listening to her?” She turns away. I wonder what her back looks like, tempted to lift her shirt. “I had everything in place,” Shelly continues. “I was going to work, getting my applications ready. I feel like I just gave up. Don’t you understand? I ruined my life—it was in place.” She wipes away a tear. “Do you realize how long it will take me to undo this?”

  “This is a beginning, Shelly. This isn’t the end. And whose life is perfect? Look at me? I’m back at home with Morticia and Gomez.”

  She doesn’t answer. “They want me to gain seventeen pounds before I can leave,” she says suddenly. “They won’t let me see the numbers, though. We get weighed backwards. How will I know when I get there? It makes me crazy not to know. Jesus, I can’t imagine what I’ll look like if I gain that much weight. I haven’t been that big in a long fucking time.”

  “You’ve gotten very thin, Shelly,” I say slowly. She doesn’t know? She can’t see?

  She shrugs. “I just don’t like when they watch me eat. It makes me feel all needy when they watch. It makes me feel like I’m crippled and completely helpless.” She puts her hands on her hips. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m not like the other girls. They talk about food all day. They’re grotesque. I’m not like that. I have a job. Lonny counts on me. Maybe Mommy was right. Maybe I should stop before I get in too deep. Do you think I’m grotesque? You’re my sister, Frannie. You have to tell me the truth.” She starts to cry.

  I shake my head. “No, Shelly,” I say softly, feeling a rush of love for her. “Of course not. You’re so pretty. I just want you to get better.”

  “Don’t SAY that!! I’m NOT like them.” She takes a step and accidentally trips over her own feet. Her T-shirt flies up, and I can see her stomach and chest. Not only is her skin stretched so tight I can see the outlines of her ribs, but her body is covered with a soft down like that of a baby chick.

  Startled, I blink rapidly. Do not move. Do not let her know that you know. I fold my hands in my lap. I clear my throat. “I understand that, Shelly. You aren’t like them.”

  “You are so lucky, Frannie, not having law school to worry about. You are so free; you can be anything.” She lies back on the bed. “I hate this place. They just want to fatten me up and process me out. God, I’m so fucking tired. It seems so much easier to take a razor and slide it across your wrists.” She looks at her hands and then up at me. “They say you can’t even feel it.”

  My mother walks in. “I want a cigarette, but they told me I have to go to the roof. What’s this?” She pulls a cord sticking out of the wall. Suddenly, a bell goes off.

  “Mom!” Shelly sits up. “That’s the emergency alarm!”

  “I’m sorry.” She backs away. “I didn’t know.”

  A nurse rushes in. “Is everything all right?”

  “I pulled the cord,” my mother says, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “It’s okay,” the nurse says sweetly. “I had to get Shelly anyway.” She looks at her. “It’s time for meds.”

  “I keep forgetting this is a hospital,” my mother says, watching Shelly leave. “Everything’s normal, but skewed at the same time.” She shakes her head. “She looks horrible, doesn’t she? I want to take her out of here.”

  “And bring her to your house? She’s where she belongs, Mom. And frankly, I don’t think it’s so terrible.” I don’t. It seems so peaceful. And it’s not like she has to get up at six A.M. and traipse through New York in high heels for jobs she won’t get. I don’t understand why she called me free. She has a plan. What could be more free than that?

  I hear a piano being played. I think Shelly should take advantage of this place. It might be nice to sit around and talk all day. If you think about it, there isn’t much of a difference between Shelly’s situation and my own. In fact, she’s got the better package. Neither of us can smoke in our rooms, neither of us can have men sleep over, and neither of us can eat what we want without someone commenting. But she doesn’t have to live with my mother.

  “I hate hospitals,” my mother says. “It makes me depressed just to be here.”

  “You’re depressed? How do you think Shelly feels?”

  “Who knows? She seems so mixed up. I just don’t know how she got so bad so fast. We talked every day, I thought I knew what was going on. Once she found Marilyn, she told me to butt out. It wasn’t like I didn’t try, you know.”

  “Maybe you didn’t try the right way.”

  “Maybe there is no right way. Maybe this is the best it’s going to get. Maybe you girls should appreciate what you have. I’m not perfect, but I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Here is a relative term, Mom.”

  “Why are you talking about me?” Startled, I look up. Shelly’s standing in the doorway. “At least close the FUCKING door!” She walks over to a sink. She leans forward, and before my mother and I can stop her, she smacks her head against the mirror. “I asked (Bang!) you both (Bang! Bang!) not to talk about me behind my back! (Bang!) Don’t talk about me like I don’t exist because I DO (Bang! Bang!)!”

  I jump up to pull her away and realize that she’s hitting a sheet of plastic; there’s no glass in this place. “We didn’t mean anything by it, Shelly. Really, truly we didn’t.” I try to put my arms around her, but she pulls away.

  “We didn’t, Shelly.” My mother tries to light a cigarette, but her hand trembles.

  “You are lying!!” Shelly whirls around. “AND YOU CAN’T FUCKING SMOKE IN HERE!!”

  “Shelly,” my mother stutters, “please calm down. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

  “I am NOT overreacting!” Shelly screams. She leans over the sink again, staring into the fake mirror as if daring herself to make contact. “Why don’t you both go home to your lives and leave me alone? Just leave me alone.”

  “Shelly,” I start to say, but my mother cuts me off. “Well, fine then. Okay, we’ll go,” and stands up.

  I lurch forward. “MOM! Wait!”

  “You heard her. She doesn’t want us here. We can come back another time.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Shelly says. “If you want to go, go.” Tears stream down her face. “Just leave me here, I don’t care. I don’t need you.”

  “We don’t want to leave you, Shelly,” I say. “It’s just hard to see you so unhappy.”

  “I’m not unhappy.” Shelly starts crying out loud. Her sobs are deep and guttural and I feel myself wanting to cry with her. “I’m just sick of everyone talking about me like I’m a case study. I AM a PERSON!”

  “Okay already. We’re sorry.” My mother holds up her cigarette. “Let’s take a break from all this, go up to the roof or wherever, and have a smoke.” She reaches for my sister’s hand. “Come, come with me. Listen, Johnny’s nephew went to Harvard. Johnny said he’d call him. Maybe he’ll write a recommendation. It’s good, isn’t it, to have recommendations from alumni? And he’s a big mucky-muck at IBM.”

  “Mom.” Shelly sighs. “Mucky-muck is not a word.”

  “Fine. Strike it from the record, Counselor.” Shelly giggles as they walk, holding hands, toward the door. My mother tells me that they’ll be right back.

  I start to say something, but a slow shiver of anxiety
runs through my body, like lightning that hits the roots of a tree and travels up through its limbs. I lie down on Shelly’s bed. I’ve got to get a job. And a life. If I don’t, I’ll end up here, too. Starting tomorrow, I’ll call advertising agencies. I haven’t hit advertising yet. I roll over. The thought of getting on the phone and calling people I don’t know makes me very, very tired.

  Sunlight filters through the window, casting shadows of the bars across the blankets and against the walls. I hear the sound of a siren scream and then fade. As I feel myself drifting, I think about my mother and Shelly together on the roof. I have a sudden craving to go up there and let them watch me as I walk to the edge of the roof, dangle a leg over, show off a little, Look, Ma—no hands, and take a step forward. Just one small step so I can free-fall along the side of the hospital, belly-down, arms spread like wings.

  I stroke my stomach, squeeze a roll of flesh. Just two minutes, I tell myself, burrowing my nose in Shelly’s pillow, imagining myself floating from the sky and sleeping peacefully forever. And I close my eyes and breathe deeply and silently wonder what my mother and my sister are saying about me.

  4

  So why do you want to be in advertising?” From behind the desk, the man smiles. I uncross my fingers and point to my résumé. “I majored in communications.” He holds the résumé close to his face. He’s well-dressed in a pin-striped suit and a red silk tie. He doesn’t look that old, maybe late forties. He’s actually kind of handsome.

  “I’m really good with people. I think advertising is all about people. I’m a real people-person.” Oh Jesus, Frannie, shut up. I’m sweating in my suit, which isn’t surprising since it’s almost July and I’m wearing wool.