Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  Shelly studies the menu as if memorizing it. “Do you remember the last time you had brisket? It’s so weird to read a menu. They don’t let us read anything that has food in it.” I really want to change the subject, but it’s nice to see her so bright and alert.

  I groan as the waitress brings the sandwich. “Here it is,” Shelly says. I take a big bite. Shelly pours ketchup on the fries. When I look up at her, it’s like staring in a mirror. She hangs over the table, watching me eat her favorite sandwich. Her mouth moves slowly, as if she is chewing and swallowing every bite I take.

  “If I ask you something, do you promise not to get upset?”

  Shelly puts down her fork. “Depends on what it is.”

  “How come you never tell me what it was like at Cornell? Or when you lost your virginity? Or, I don’t know…” I pause. “What you talk about in therapy?”

  She lights a cigarette. “It’s not like you tell me about your life. I had to hear from Abby that you were meeting that resident for coffee.”

  A pair of junior high school boys sit at the counter. Occasionally, they swivel on their stools to stare at us. Despite two sweatshirts and a down jacket, Shelly is still painfully thin. Her neck is long and storklike, and her skin is pasty and broken out. The funny thing is, I don’t notice it anymore unless I think about it.

  The boys mimic Shelly, sucking in their cheeks and blowing out pretend smoke. I keep talking to Shelly so she doesn’t turn around. For a second, I don’t blame the boys for staring. Shelly takes dramatic drags, inhaling the smoke, then breathing it out in white clouds. The process pains me to watch. I ask her again what she talks about in therapy.

  “About our family, I guess. Growing up with Mommy and Daddy.”

  “And how they fucked you up?”

  She looks at me strangely. “The idea is to get past the point of blaming them for everything. They have their own problems.”

  I shrug. I hate when she defends them. I change the subject. “So when did you lose your virginity?” I ask.

  “Why is that so important?” She looks at me nervously, as if expecting a punch line.

  “It’s not. There’s just a lot about you that I don’t know. You said so yourself.”

  She reddens. “A long time ago. It was with…” She trails off and looks at her hands. “Frannie, we don’t have to pack everything into one lunch. We have an entire lifetime to learn things about each other.”

  “If we can’t talk about your therapy or your sex life, what’s left?”

  “How about your depression?” she counters.

  “I hardly think a few bad days constitutes a major depression, Shelly. There’s nothing wrong with me that a good job and a long schlong can’t cure.”

  “You get depressed,” Shelly says indignantly. “Admit it, Frannie. You are depressed. I called Chubby, and she said she’d see you if you wanted. In fact, Mommy and I are starting weekly sessions when I get out, and I thought maybe you’d like to come. I thought it might help you. When I see what you’re going through, it reminds me of how I felt when—”

  “I am not depressed! Just because you’re anorexic doesn’t mean that I have a major thing, too. We’re sisters, but we’re different.”

  “I’m just making an observation.”

  “Observe something else.”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” she says quietly. “I was going to say that you’re stronger than I am, Frannie. And I respect you. What you’re going through is difficult, especially moving home.”

  “Don’t psychoanalyze me.” I bite into the sandwich and chew angrily. So what if I get depressed? Everyone gets depressed. And this therapy bullshit is like a cult.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you something,” she says. “I don’t believe I’m really anorexic.”

  “You’re a compulsive overeater?”

  “Don’t be nasty, okay? I’ve been doing a lot of research. I admit that I deny my self, meaning me as a self, as a person. And that I deny my needs. I know I’m obsessive, but my mood swings are something else. In the hospital, they focus on the food, but the food is only a way for me to contain my thoughts. In fact, I’m more aware of food now than before. There’s more to it than just food. Like why do some girls starve and others binge? I think it’s something in the brain related to depression, some other mechanism…Forget it, you’re not listening. That’s what comes up in my therapy. About how you and Mommy and Daddy don’t listen to me.”

  “Shelly, now don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re very smart. I do listen, but half the time I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not as smart as you. I can’t get into your head and live there, you know.”

  She shrugs. “Guess not.” For a second, she’s in her own world. Then she tells me she’s ordering a muffin and asks if I want coffee. I nod and she signals the waitress. “Two coffees and a bran muffin, dry please.” She lights another cigarette, not looking at me.

  I try to make her laugh. “Remember the time you had a bake sale with all the muffins Mommy bought for the PTA?”

  Grudgingly, she smiles. “Remember the time you showed up drunk at Mommy’s office?” She laughs. “And you threw up in the reception area?”

  “I forgot about that. God, I was fucked up.” I laugh. “Remember the guy you brought home from Cornell? Sherman? The physicist with a lisp? Hi. I’m Therman. A nuclear phthethist…” She doesn’t laugh. “Okay, Shelly,” I ask. “What did I say this time?”

  “You didn’t say anything. Something just struck me.”

  The waitress comes back and accidentally puts the muffin in front of me. Shelly bites her lip. Then from out of nowhere, she snarls as if possessed, “The muffin is for ME. I ordered it. Have I suddenly disappeared? I also asked for it dry.”

  I clutch, awaiting a showdown, but the waitress just snaps her gum and grabs the plate. The stupid boys rise from the counter and walk out of the diner, snickering. “Shelly,” I whisper. “It’s just a muffin. We can get another one.”

  “I don’t want another one. Just get the fucking check.”

  As we walk out, I turn to her. “I’m sorry if I said something to piss you off.”

  She smiles at me sadly. “It’s not you. I was just reminded of that guy Sherman. I had a bad experience with him.” I ask her if she wants to talk about it. “Not yet,” she says quietly. “But someday.”

  Finally, finally, finally, my lunch date with Bryan arrives. I get to the diner forty-five minutes early and wait for him. When he walks through the door, my heart jumps.

  “I forgot how pretty you are,” he says as he approaches the table. He’s a big guy, but moves through the diner like a cat.

  I shred my paper napkin into little strips. “I didn’t think you would remember me.”

  “Of course I remember you. I’m sorry I had to cancel last week, but I’m glad you called me to confirm. I wasn’t sure how to find you. And I’m happy I could make it today. I’ve just been so busy lately.”

  “Yeah, me too.” A waiter hovers as I stare at the menu. Shit, what do I get? Do I just order a snack or get a sandwich like this is a meal? If it is a meal, do I pay? Should I get the turkey with gravy and make it like a whole dinner thing or will he think I’m a pig? The waiter clears his throat and mutters that he can come back.

  “No, just a minute.” I feel Bryan fidgeting. I hold up the menu, but the letters blur. What if I get a salad? That’s an in-between-meals snack which can also be considered a meal if that’s what this is. “I’ll have a plate of mashed potatoes,” I blurt out, “with grilled onions and tomatoes on the side.” I break into a sweat. What the hell kind of thing is that to order? I could just gag.

  Bryan looks at the waiter and smiles. “I’ll have black coffee.” Figures.

  There’s a long beat of silence, then we both speak at once. “You go first,” he says.

  “I’m worried about Shelly. She’s doing much better, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes I feel like there’s a whole hidden side to her.
”

  “Shelly’s not my patient so I really can’t comment. But I do know that recovering from anorexia is a long process. Many times patients get worse before they get better. It’s difficult to give up certain behaviors that become familiar even if they are self-destructive.” As he talks, I find it impossible to pay attention. I wonder if he realizes how handsome he is. I want to ask him if he thinks I’m cute. No, I don’t want him to think I’m cute. I want him to think I’m sexy. Drop-dead sexy. So sexy he obsesses about me. I realize he’s still talking. “I’m working on a paper now about the relationship between rage and addiction.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it is rage. Sometimes she lashes out at me. It’s like the smallest thing sets her off.”

  “Exhibiting anger is a good sign. Otherwise, she’d be directing it at herself. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Learn about her illness, show your support.” For a second, I stop thinking about his looks because he says something that strikes me. “Don’t look at her symptoms,” he tells me. “Get to know her as a person.”

  “I’ve been trying,” I tell him. “Honestly, but she won’t let me in.”

  “Be patient.” He smiles a slow seductive smile, and I’m swept away again. “You know what you can do,” he says, holding my gaze. “Come and see her all the time.” He touches my hand. “And me. You can come and see me, too.” At that moment, his beeper goes off. “Frannie, sorry, I have to take this. I’ll be right back.”

  When he returns to the table, he’s apologetic. “I have an emergency,” he says nicely. “But I want to keep talking. Let’s have dinner.” He takes my number and kisses my cheek. “I’ll call you,” he says, but as he leaves, I have the feeling that he planned to have someone beep him so he could make a quick getaway.

  The waiter comes with my vegetable ensemble. I mix it all together, pour ketchup on for flavor, and eat the entire thing. Then since it’s a date, I order Black Forest cake and a scoop of ice cream. I can’t stop thinking about Shelly the entire time I eat.

  I spend the next few days organizing my meals. I’m gaining weight and it’s showing. I write down everything I eat. Cereal for breakfast, a turkey sandwich for lunch, and a piece of skinless chicken with a salad for dinner. I don’t allow myself more than 1,000 calories, and I count and recount all day long. I don’t let myself fantasize about Bryan until after I’ve counted, as if he’s the prize for all my hard work. After a few days I begin to feel better. Knowing I can get into bed and think about Bryan gives me something of my own to look forward to.

  Two nights later, I hear my mother in the hallway with my grandfather. I’m watching the phone, sending call-me messages through mental telepathy and prayer, but Bryan isn’t receiving them. If he is, he’s not responding.

  My mother taps on my door. “Grandpa’s here!” Her voice raises an octave, as if she’s about to burst into song. She’s sedated, I’m sure.

  My grandfather hobbles in. “Frannie! Where’s my girl?” He has a European accent. It’s not heavy, but he trills his tongue when he rolls his R’s. He stands in the middle of my room, trying to see me. He’s a sturdy old man with soft wrinkled skin. His eyes are bright blue like Shelly’s, but loll in their sockets, and they’re milky and glazed from the cataracts.

  “I’m over here, Grandpa.” I put my arms around him.

  He touches my face. “You are so beautiful. I am so happy to see you. My one and only favorite beauty queen.”

  “Me too, Grandpa. I’ve missed you so much.” I nestle my head in his neck and breathe deeply. He smells like baby powder and soap. “It’s so good to see you.” I turn to my mother. “Can I help make dinner tonight?”

  “I was going to order in Chinese.”

  “I love cha mein,” my grandfather says. “But I can’t eat the brown sauce. I have to have the white sauce. Make sure you order the white sauce.” He looks around the room. “Where’s the little one? My other beautiful girl?” He squeezes my hand and whispers, “Don’t worry, Frannie. You’re still my favorite.”

  I kiss him. “And you’re mine,” I say.

  “Shelly is out of town for a while,” my mother says and I jerk my head up. She shrugs. “It’s better this way,” she says, mouthing the words behind his back.

  “But he can’t even see her!” I hiss. “What’s the difference?”

  “What are you girls shushing about? So where’s the cha mein? Let’s have Chinese. I can’t have the brown sauce. Did you remember that?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I remember. Come on, let’s go.”

  My grandfather pulls me back. “Go ahead, Marshie. Go order the food, but no brown sauce. I only like the white sauce. And the big shrimps. Get some big, fat shrimps.”

  My mother smiles at me. “Yes, Daddy. Big fat shrimps in white sauce.”

  I touch his cheek. I watch his eyes roam the room. He takes my hands and holds them against his face. “I am so delighted to see you, shaineh maidel,” he says. “So delighted, I’m excited. See? I rhymed.” He chuckles. As he hugs me, I can feel the rhythm of his heart. “So tell me,” he says, staring off, above my shoulder. “Tell me why you’re not married.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you.” I hold his arm as we make our way downstairs.

  “Frannie, I must ask you something. Come close. It’s very, very important.” I bend my head. “Do you think she’s gonna get the brown sauce? I don’t like brown sauce. I hate to say this, but as much as I love her, I don’t think your mommy listens to me.”

  “You know what,” I tell him, smoothing his hair. “I don’t think she listens to me, either.”

  A week later, I sit next to my father on the couch at St. Mary’s, and watch him as he glances at the door. Shelly is to my left, also watching the door. My dad clears his throat. “Marsha will be here any second.”

  Chubby nods. “That’s fine.”

  It’s Family Night and Katie has bronchitis so Chubby’s filling in. After a while, she says, “We should start. Marsha can catch up.” Chubby looks robust in a shocking red suit. For a heavyset woman, she sure can put herself together.

  Shelly is wearing a skirt, tights, and a pink blouse. She’s filled out a little, although I don’t look below her shoulders. Her cheeks are rosy and the warm yellow lights make her blond hair look like silk. “I want you both to know how much I appreciate you coming,” she begins, smiling. “It means a lot to me.”

  “No problem.” I look at Chubby. I wonder if she knows I was fired from Rascals. My father agrees. “Happy to be here,” he says.

  “Well.” She turns to Chubby. “Marilyn and I have been discussing my recovery and—” At that moment, my mother bustles in wearing her maroon On-Target jacket. “What about your recovery?” she asks after apologizing for being late. She turns to me. “I found a spot two blocks from you and Daddy. I feel victorious!” Her face is flushed and her voice is lilting. She clutches her pocketbook to her chest as if it’s a bouquet of roses. “Hello, Marilyn. Aren’t you looking well?” She must have been with Daniel. She’s never this happy just to see us.

  “We were just talking about Shelly’s plans,” Chubby says. “For after the hospital.”

  “Oh,” my mother cuts in. “Did you tell Daddy?”

  “What plans, Shelly?” he asks. “I thought you finished your application to Harvard.”

  “Shelly’s not going to Harvard. She’s going to be a therapist. Just like Marilyn.” Again, my mother is triumphant.

  I look at my hands. I can’t believe this. She’s taking my idea. “What about law school?” I ask. I try to appear nonchalant but my mind’s racing. I’m suddenly sick to my stomach with the feeling of being unemployed.

  Shelly shrugs. “I think helping people with emotional problems is more important. I’ve got this theory about depression I want to explore.”

  “What?” I ask her. “Why are you looking at me?”

  “I wasn’t looking at you, Frannie,” she says calmly.

  “You keep giving me these looks.” I turn to m
y mother. “Mom, you saw her.”

  “Frannie, really. Stop it,” my mother says. “Try to be more adult about this.”

  I glare at my mother. I am so tired of Shelly’s fucking anorexia. Who sits with her every day while she spouts all her bullshit? Who sits with Grandpa while you’re at work? And who is hoarding your little love affair? That would be me, Mom. Or did you tell Shelly and now you don’t need me? Face it, old lady. Without me, your life would be complete chaos.

  “Marsha,” my father says quietly. “I think you’re being a little too hard on Frannie.” Wow, I think, a voice from the dead.

  “David—” my mother starts, but Shelly cuts her off. “I’m leaving the hospital in three weeks.”

  Startled, I look up. “That soon?” What about the way she acted at lunch with the muffin? Are they taking that into consideration? “Three weeks, how about that?” Who’s gonna hang around with her all day? What if she needs to talk and I have an interview? I won’t be able to just not go, I mean, what if she has a crisis? “It must be exciting, the idea of getting out. You can come live in my room. Daddy will make us bunk beds.”

  “That’s terrific, Shelly,” my father says. “We’ll fix up your room. I’ll put in a TV.” I stare at him. You have got to be kidding. You never offered me a TV.

  Shelly and Chubby smile at each other. “Thanks, Daddy, but I want to move into my own place.”

  “Your own place?” I blurt out. “Do you think that’s wise?” I must have really hurt her feelings at lunch the other day. I rack my brain, trying to recall what I said.

  “Frannie, I may have an eating disorder, but I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I just meant that you may need some help, and moving home could be a better plan. I didn’t say you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

  “A second ago, you didn’t think I should even leave the hospital.”