Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  Anger explodes in my head when I hear him spit the word waitress through his teeth as if it’s vile. I lean across the table and get right in his face. “Don’t talk to me like that,” I hiss. “You have no right to be such an asshole. I am still a person!” Dumbstruck, the man stares at me. He raises his hand and I jerk back, but he puts it around his date. Muttering, he digs a few bills out of his wallet and throws them on the floor. I look at the money lying at my feet. “Pick it up,” he says. “You wanted it, didn’t you?”

  I hold his eyes. With images wrapped around my mind, Artie’s sick smile, Shelly’s blank application, Everett’s diamond bracelet, and my mother giggling on the phone, I backhand a glass of red wine into the man’s lap. “I went to college,” I tell him. “And I’m going to law school. Harvard.” I look dead-center at the woman. “He’s a loser,” I say. “Let his wife have him.” An audible gasp comesfrom the woman, the man starts ranting about his suit, and I saunter away, triumphant.

  “Hey, Artie,” I call out, “I forgot to pick up the check from table seven, but I have to go to the ladies’ room. Could you get the money?” Eagerly, Artie jumps up and scampers into the dining room. It dawns on me that the man knew Paulie’s name. How does he know Paulie? Panic sets in and I wonder if Bryan Thompson will still consider dating me when he finds out I’m unemployed.

  8

  The voice on the answering machine startles me. “Mr. Hunter, this is Adele Reynolds, Daniel’s wife, from On-Target. Could you please call me at home this evening? It’s important. My number is 516–555–7575. Thank you.”

  I rewind and listen again. She must be calling my father to talk about Daniel and my mother. I copy her number down, stick it in my wallet, and listen to her message again. This time I hear an undercurrent of depression, a hint of sorrow. She’s been betrayed, she is beaten. I unwrap a piece of gum and chew it thoughtfully. Then I do what any normal person would if they heard a message like that—I erase it.

  Later, I call Abby from the gym. “Are you there, God?” I ask. “It’s me, Margaret.” She doesn’t pick up. “Abby, come on. It’s Saturday. I know you’re there.”

  “What’s up?” She sounds groggy.

  I force myself to stay calm. “Abby.” I tense up. “You’re not going to believe this. Promise you won’t tell a soul.”

  “Promise. What is it?” She yawns, but I know I’ve got her interest.

  “Abby, you have to swear. God, this is so fucked up.” A woman jostles me. “Oh shit, hold on. I dropped the phone.” I nestle it into the crook of my neck. “Okay, there.”

  “TELL ME ALREADY!”

  “Calm down. Abby, canyoubelieve? My mother is having an affair.”

  There’s a long silence. “Well I’ll be damned. No wonder you were so freaked out about Everett. It’s that handsome guy in her office, isn’t it? Jesus, Frannie, I’m really sorry.”

  “He’s not that handsome,” I say sharply. “He’s a fucking freak.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve met him.”

  “No, Einstein, how do you know about the affair?”

  “I just do.”

  “Are you going to tell your father?” A woman brushes by wearing nothing but a turban. Her breasts hang like pendulums and she has sparse pubic hairs like a plucked chicken. Disgusted, I look away. “Frannie? Are you there? What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. We can’t tell anyone—not my dad or yours. Especially not yours. God, imagine if Shelly found out. This would really fuck her up.” She’s silent. “Abby, this is serious. I mean it.” Still, she doesn’t say anything. “Look, forget I said anything.” I get choked up.

  “Frannie, you’re my best friend. I won’t say a thing. I feel badly for you.”

  “I feel badly for me, too.”

  Abby is quiet. Finally she says, “You know, there’s got to be a better way to meet men. Do you think we should ask your mom for dating tips?”

  Tuesday night is Family Night at St. Mary’s. We haven’t attended any Family Nights, but I was suspended from Rascals indefinitely and have nothing else to do. I’ve decided to spend the entire afternoon with Shelly. This Harvard thing has me all shook up.

  My father walks into the kitchen as I’m about to leave and asks where I’m going. “To see Shelly. She’s your other daughter. The one with all the brains.” I eye him suspiciously, wondering if he has any idea about my mother and Daniel. “Is everything all right, Daddy?”

  “Everything’s fine. Have you spoken to your mother?”

  “No. Why? You seem upset. Are you?”

  “Am I what?” His back is to me as he rifles through the mail.

  “Upset. Did something bad happen that I should know about?”

  He sticks his head in the refrigerator and tells me he’s making calf’s liver lasagna for dinner. “Daddy, it’s Family Night. I’m going to see Shelly.” I inch toward the door. “What did Mommy want?”

  “She said she’d be late, but wanted to know if you took her Liz Claiborne jacket.” I tell him I haven’t seen it.

  He looks up. “Frannie,” he asks, “why are you hovering? Am I missing something here?” His eyes are bloodshot and he looks exhausted. He must know something’s going on.

  “I just want you to come with me to Family Night. You’ve only been to see Shelly a few times.”

  He pats the mail. “I have a lot of things to do, Frannie. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  “Whatever,” I say, and grab his keys. “But one day, you’ll regret this.”

  I drive to the corner and stop. Then I make a U-turn and go back home. “Daddy,” I yell, jingling the keys. “Come with me to see Shelly.”

  He’s not in the den so I turn off the television and walk upstairs. At the top, I notice that Shelly’s door is open. I peer inside. My father is sitting on the edge of the bed, holding the picture of us on the beach. He stares at it the way I stare at the photograph of my mother hugging the statue that I carry around, as if he’s expecting her to step out of the picture and dance.

  “Daddy?” I whisper. “You okay?”

  He turns around, startled. “Yes, of course.” He clears his throat. “I forgot about this picture. A lot has happened since then, hasn’t it?” I nod. “I know…I…uh…Look, Frannie. I have a difficult time, you know, with hospitals. Your grandmother, my mother, spent a long time in the hospital before she died. I don’t want you to judge me.”

  My throat constricts. “I didn’t mean what I said before about you regretting this. That was an awful thing to say.”

  He waves. “Don’t worry about it. I just…I don’t know…it’s no big deal.”

  “What? Say it.”

  “I…” He fumbles. “I was never smart like Shelly. Book smart, you know. Your mother’s like Shelly. I’m people smart. So sometimes I don’t know what to say. I guess…I, you know, I feel helpless, that’s all. I just thought that things like this don’t happen to people who are so smart. I always thought they’d be able to figure a way out.”

  “Daddy,” I say softly. “I don’t think anorexia has much to do with being smart.” He says he knows, but keeps staring at the picture. “She’s gonna be okay, Dad,” I tell him. “She has big plans.”

  “I know.” He manages a grin. “You girls always manage to pull through.”

  When I walk into the unit, I see Shelly curled on the couch in the day room. The television is on and people are milling through, but Shelly doesn’t move.

  “Hi, Frannie,” Lucy, one of the nurses, says. “Here to see Shelly?” I nod. “I’ll see if she’s up to a visitor.” She looks at my face. “Are you okay? You seem upset about something.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” You taking a poll, Lucy? As much as I like her, she’s a little too concerned a citizen. I look around, hoping to see Bryan. He must not work at this hospital anymore, I guess. Shelly finally comes to claim me. Shuffling along, she looks at her feet as if mesmerized by the floor tiling.

  “Hi,
Shelly.” I lean in to hug her, but she draws away. “Mommy and Daddy both had to work late. They said to tell you that they’re sorry and they’ll come next week.”

  “That’s good because I called family therapy off.” She trudges toward her room, not looking back to see if I’m following. As I walk behind her, I notice that her hair is stringy and thin, like it’s falling out. She’s wearing a bathrobe and two long T-shirts underneath the JUST DO IT sweatshirt. The once white sweatshirt is now gray and stained with what looks like vomit.

  She turns on a radio and lies on her bed. “I see you’re wearing Mommy’s Claiborne jacket. You guys are sharing clothes?” She covers her eyes with her arm.

  “You seem upset, Shelly. Did they change your medication?” I ask.

  “So now you’re a psychopharmacologist?” she snaps. “Why are you interrogating me?”

  “I’m not. I’m just asking.” Distracted by the radio playing in the background, I find myself humming.

  We sit for a long time without talking. “Frannie,” she says finally. “I have to tell you something, but you have to promise me you won’t tell Mommy. She’ll be very disappointed.”

  “I promise. I have something to tell you, too. And you can’t tell Mommy, either.”

  “You go first.” She sits up. “No, I’ll go first. I didn’t do any of my applications to law school.” Tears fill her eyes. “I’m sorry I lied.”

  “It’s okay, Shelly. I understand. Believe me, I understand.” I pause. “I got fired from Rascals.”

  “How are you going to keep that from Mommy? Where will you go at night?”

  I grin. “I figured I’d just come here.”

  Shelly doesn’t smile. She reaches for a glass of water. When her sleeve hikes up, I spy long red marks, like cat scratches on her forearms. I grab the left one which she wrenches away. “Shelly! What the hell happened to your arms?”

  “I cut myself. Don’t get hysterical. It didn’t hurt.” She lies back and closes her eyes.

  “With what? You’re not supposed to have sharps in here. I’m calling Lucy.”

  “With a Scotch tape dispenser. They want me to move,” she says slowly, as though every word takes effort. “A few floors up. They think I’ll be happier. Here, I have to do activities, and upstairs, they won’t make me do anything. It will be better up there, they said, and tomorrow we’re expecting scattered showers, so bring an umbrella. Temperatures will fall. Tomorrow they’re putting me on the tubes.”

  I stare at her. “What did you just say?”

  “They’re putting me on the tubes. I’m not supposed to know. I looked at my chart. If the tubes don’t work, I’m going upstairs.”

  “No, about the scattered showers. And the umbrella.”

  “I didn’t say anything about an umbrella. I said they’re putting me on the tubes.” She licks her fingers and runs them through her hair. Her mouth is so dry, I can hear the sound of her lips separating. Then she pulls out a strand and chews on it.

  I flush with a wave of anxiety. “Shelly,” I tell her, “I know you’re in this place to get better, but lately, you don’t seem like yourself.” I say this gently, as if the two of us are in this together, and together we’ll find a way out.

  “I’m not crazy, Frannie. I just start to think about all that I have to do. And the only way I can contain it is to keep my patterns: my calories in order, my weight down. But in here, they fuck with my patterns. So my head gets all twisted and I have this constant whirring, like a fan is on inside it. I can’t stop it. It’s just going all day long, this huge fan, like a hum. But in my body, I can’t feel anything. So I cut myself, just to feel something. They’re making a much bigger deal of it than it is.”

  Shelly starts to cry without making any noise. Tears slip out of her eyes and run down her cheeks, but she doesn’t move to wipe them. She just sits and looks at me through a catatonic glaze, as if waiting for her feelings to catch up. I don’t think she even realizes she’s crying. Late afternoon sunlight shines through the bars on the window, flushing Shelly’s pale face with a beautiful golden light. Watching my sister glowing I wonder why, if the sun is so warm, it doesn’t dry her tears. Sunlight is supposed to do that, I think, sunlight should dry all the rain.

  October 9—I miss the office. I miss the office. I miss the office. I miss my routine. I miss my routine. I miss my routine. I need to work. I need to work. I need to work. God, get me out of here!!

  October 12—They ask me what I think of food. I tell them I don’t know, but I do. I know everything about it. I feel like I’m at war. It’s all about the battle. I am always aware of what I am doing. I watch myself watch the plate, I watch my hand lift my fork. I watch the mouth that opens like a cunt, the fork that slides in like a dick. That fucks me every time I swallow. I watch every second. I savor it all. The object, however, is to not let them know that you know this. Because if they do, they will take it away. Not the food, of course, but the knowing. Your absolute certainty that you will win. That’s the real war, not the food, but the fuck and the desire of that fuck that I can control and I can deny. That I can destroy. You destroy the hunger, you destroy the desire, you destroy the need, you destroy the girl. The Me. And once I’m gone, what’s left to fuck?

  October ?—There’s this place deep inside myself that I’m trying to reach. A calm, quiet place where I don’t exist as a girl with a body that grows too big. A place where I can finally sleep. I’m trying to reach that place, every day I try, and I know there will be a point when I’ll be able to slip through. I know the point, I’ve almost been there, the point when I’m so hungry, I can’t feel it, the point of numbness, of suspension, the window of time when it’s okay to say yes, to let go, to fly. That’s the point I work toward, my own personal hunger point; a point when I feel everything and nothing at all. When all it takes is one more step and I’ll be safe.

  “What are you reading?”

  Startled, I wave the pamphlet I’d been holding in case she caught me. My heart raps in my chest. “Nothing…” I take a deep breath. “Well, actually, I was reading the hospital rules. It says here you’re not allowed to go to the bathroom unescorted.” I look up. “Ever?”

  “I don’t know, Frannie. Come on, I want to sit on the roof.”

  It’s chilly out and Shelly trembles. “You’re cold,” I tell her. “Let’s go inside. Shelly, I’m really worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. I like it out here. It’s very peaceful.” She looks at me. “How is living at home?”

  “Are you thinking of leaving here?” I ask slowly.

  “I don’t think I’ll be leaving here for a while. It’s not so bad, really. I’m used to it now. How is it with them? With Mommy and Daddy? I can’t remember.”

  “Shelly, I’m serious. I’m really fucking worried.” My eyes tear. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Please.”

  She sits up. The white lights overhead drain her face of color. “I can’t feel myself anymore,” she says. She leans forward. “I don’t exist, Frannie, I’m a big black hole getting sucked into myself. And I can’t stop the whirring in my head. It’s there all the time.”

  “Shelly,” I beg her. “Shelly, you’ve got to talk to someone.”

  “It’s no use, Frannie.” She rocks her head back and forth as if it’s too heavy for her shoulders. “It’s my brain,” she says softly. “It’s eating me alive.”

  In the lobby, I huddle against the pay phone. “Abby, I’m at the hospital. I just saw Shelly. She’s worse than ever. You should hear her! And I read her journal. She’s totally suicidal.” I pause. “Look, I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself.”

  “What do your parents say?”

  “What do they know? They’re the reason she’s here in the first place.”

  “What about Fatso?”

  “Her name is Chubby, Abby. I mean Marilyn. And she won’t tell me anything. All that shit is confidential.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Frannie.” Then
she blurts, “Call that doctor! You have the perfect reason!”

  “I can’t use Shelly like that. Come on, this is important.”

  “You’re not using Shelly. You’re trying to help her. I care about her, too. Just call this guy. He’s a psychiatrist, right? Maybe he can give us some advice.”

  “He’s a resident.” My mind races. “I don’t know how much he knows about Shelly. Besides, even if he did, I don’t think he’d tell me. What do you think? Do you think he’d tell me?” I roll the idea over and over.

  “Call him. Shelly would, if the situation was reversed.”

  After we hang up, I start to walk away from the phone but change my direction mid-stride. I dig in my wallet and I pull out the paper scrap with his number. I dial quickly, willing the connection to go through before I change my mind. “I’m doing this for Shelly,” I tell myself. When I hear the phone ring, I immediately hang up.

  I take another breath, dial again, this time, much more slowly. I wait for Bryan’s deep voice. “Hello? Hello? Who is this?” It’s a woman’s voice, one I can’t place. When I glance at the number, I realize that I’ve mistakenly called Daniel’s wife, Adele. Startled, I reach to hang up, but surprise myself by holding on. Adele gets more urgent. “Who is this?”

  “This is Frannie. Frannie Hunter,” I say quickly. “We got your message.” There’s silence on her end. “This morning, remember?”

  “Yes?” Her tone is clipped. “Why isn’t your father calling me?”

  “I thought you might like…” I stutter, “you know, to talk, about your husband.”

  “What’s wrong with my husband?” Her voice rises.

  “Nothing, I swear.” It slowly dawns on me that she may not know what I’m talking about. “You did call about your husband and you know, my…uh…mother?”

  “Of course not.” She tells me she was going to ask my father to have his company print up 1,500 T-shirts for a muscular dystrophy benefit. “What did you think I was calling about?”

  I think quickly, but not before an obvious, painful silence elapses. “I thought you were calling about the surprise party. You know, for Johnny Bennet. I’m on the invitations committee. Daniel and my mother are planning it.”