Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “Look,” I tell her, “I know I’ve been a major bitch lately, but I just want you to know that I think you did the right thing for Grandpa. It must have been hard, huh? To put your father in a home?”

  “Yes,” she says. “It’s very hard.” I realize she’s crying. “It makes you feel old. And hopeless. Like your whole life is passing you by and you’re powerless to stop it.” She changes the subject. “I’m thinking of taking a trip for a few weeks. To Arizona to see Aunt Lillian. Do you want to go?” I tell her no. Then I feel her hesitate. “Do you want to have dinner with me?” she asks slowly.

  “Okay,” I say, just as slowly. “Mom?” I pause. “You really did do the right thing. I know it was hard, but Grandpa seems so much better off. I’m going to spend a lot of time with him, too. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

  “Thanks, Frannie. I appreciate that.”

  After we hang up, I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I roll over and wrap my mother’s coat around me, making sure the arms hold me tight, and I breathe in her smell; a smell so pungent, so much like her, that it makes my eyes sting with tears.

  16

  Why are you wearing Mommy’s coat?” Shelly snaps. “You guys are sharing clothes now? Now you’re a psychopharmacologist? Now you know everything?” I shake my head and say no, but she doesn’t believe me. She rolls over and faces the wall. I walk over to her bed. “You think you’re everything, Shelly,” I scream at her. “You’re the one who thinks she’s so great!” And I’m suddenly falling, falling, and I wake up in a panic, my heart pounding.

  My father sticks his head into my room. “Come here, Frannie,” he says like a giddy little kid. “I have something to show you.”

  I look at the clock and see that it’s one in the afternoon. I feel groggy and thickheaded, and it takes me a while to get out of bed. I lumber into his bathroom where he’s looking at himself in the mirror. The fluorescent light hurts my eyes. “Daddy, what is it?”

  He pushes a newspaper across the counter. It’s a recent copy of the Christian Times, a newspaper for singles. There’s a middle-aged man on the cover with blue eyes, sandy-blond hair, and a go-get-’em grin. Underneath is a short description of his habits and hobbies, and an address for how to reach him.

  “He’s very handsome, Daddy. You gonna call and ask him out?”

  “Ha ha. Nope, even better.” He picks at his hair. “I’m going to do it myself.”

  “You’re going to put in a personal ad? Are you crazy?” I stare at our reflections. My father’s all Dapper Dan, suited up for work. I, on the other hand, look like a fifty-year-old woman on a three-day bender, drawn and pasty, clutching my stained bathrobe. “If you’re going to do this, Daddy—which personally I can’t believe—then use a decent picture, something professional, one that shows your personality,” meaning, of course, he should put on a tailored suit, not the plaid jacket he wears with a striped green tie.

  “That’s a thought.” He tugs on his tie. I swear I see him wink. He draws in his breath at the sight of himself. “Actually, that’s a terrific idea. A picture is worth a thousand words.”

  The phone rings just as I am about to go to visit my grandfather. “Hello? Is this the Hunter residence?” a woman asks.

  “Depends,” I say. “Do you need money?”

  “No,” she laughs. “My name is Lauren, Lauren Weist.” She pauses when I don’t say anything. “I was Shelly’s roommate at Cornell.”

  “Oh yeah, hi. This is Frannie, Shelly’s sister.” I’m confused. Why is she calling me? “I was just about to walk out, Lauren. Can I call you back later?”

  “Actually, I was calling to talk to Shelly. I’m home for the summer from business school. I called Shelly’s apartment, but someone else answered. Did she move?” I try to say something, but can’t get any words out. “Frannie?”

  “Shelly’s not here. Lauren,” I say slowly. “Shelly had an accident.”

  Lauren’s breath catches. She starts to ask questions. No, I say to myself. No. Sweating, I hang up. No. Not now.

  Lauren immediately calls back. “I think we just got disconnected. What happened to Shelly?”

  “I can’t say,” I mutter.

  “Is Shelly okay?” she asks. I don’t answer. “Frannie, what’s going on?! Why aren’t you saying anything?” I know she’s frustrated, but I can’t speak. “Frannie, is Shelly okay?”

  “No,” I say finally. “No, Lauren, Shelly’s not okay.”

  “What happened?”

  “Like I said, she had an accident.” I take a deep breath. “Lauren, she died last December.”

  Lauren is quiet for a very long time. Finally, she says, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Jesus, no one told me.” Her voice catches. “Oh, shit. I don’t know anyone our age who died. I really don’t know what to say.” She starts to whimper.

  Suddenly calm, I tell her that it’s okay, that Shelly had anorexia and got thin, really thin. “She had complete organ failure,” I say. “She died in her sleep.”

  All I hear is silence, and then a rush of words: “God, Frannie, I didn’t know. I really didn’t know. How’s your mother? Is she okay? I can’t imagine…God, if there’s anything I can do. Why don’t I stop by your house? Say hello to your mom?”

  “Actually, my parents have split up, and my mom’s not living here anymore.”

  “Jesus, Frannie. I am so sorry. This must be so hard for you.”

  Tears spring into my eyes and I let them slide down my face. “You never think that something like this is going to happen to your family, but when it does, it feels so weird. You’re part of it, but you’re also watching it.”

  “Is there anything I can do? I have some of Shelly’s books, I can bring them over.”

  “Nah, don’t worry. You could send my mom a note, though. I think she’d like that. But keep the books. Shelly would want you to have them. I’m sorry you had to hear it like this.”

  “Frannie,” she keeps repeating, “I am so so sorry.”

  We’re about to hang up when I think about Chubby. Go backwards, she told me. “Lauren,” I start. “I know you probably want to make believe you didn’t hear this, but…I know you don’t know me, but…would you mind meeting me? Just to talk? I totally understand if you’re too uncomfortable. You can say no, I mean it.”

  “Of course I’ll meet you, Frannie. I’ll do anything I can.”

  “I have some questions, I guess. But if you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have to.” She tells me it’s fine, that she’d love to meet me, and we agree to have a drink tomorrow in the city. But before we hang up, she says something strange. “To tell you the truth, Frannie,” she says softly, “I was afraid for Shelly when we graduated. I was afraid that something like this could happen.”

  “Hey, Frannie, could you take out the salads, please?” The dining room manager on my grandfather’s floor points to a huge bowl of salad. I put plates on a tray, fill them all with salad, and wheel the tray into the dining room where I distribute them.

  From the corner of my eye, I see a line of old women eating. They chew almost in unison; their jaws drop from their faces as if manipulated by strings. Someone makes a hacking sound and phlegm is pulled from down deep. This pains me so much, I turn away.

  I’ve gotten used to being here. I tell all the women that I’m Max’s granddaughter. “My name is Mattie,” one women said once. “And I love Maxwell. He’s my favorite.” I beamed with pride as if he were my son. She beckoned me to lean close. “Find out what his plans are for next Friday night,” she whispered. “I’d like to escort him to dinner.” So, in addition to helping out in the kitchen, I arrange dinner dates for my grandfather and Freddie. I’m like the Heidi Fleiss of the Jewish Home. But I don’t care. I am so happy to have somewhere to go during the day, I don’t even mind wearing a hairnet all afternoon.

  Right before dinner, I walk into my grandfather’s room to say goodbye. Some guy is sitting on Freddie’s bed, mesmerized by the TV. I look around t
he darkened room, but I don’t see my grandfather or Freddie. When the guy doesn’t acknowledge me except for a slight lifting of his eyes, I walk back into the hall. One of the nurses tells me my grandfather and Freddie are in Friday night services, so I sit on my grandfather’s bed to wait.

  “Do you mind if I turn on a light?” I ask, studying him. I’ve seen him before, but I can’t remember where.

  The guy glances over his shoulder, then back at the TV. “Suit yourself.”

  I snap on the light on my grandfather’s side of the room. It doesn’t do much, but at least I can see him. He’s a stocky guy wearing a dark suit and polished loafers. The top button of his shirt is open and his tie is unknotted. His thick black hair is cropped short and he doesn’t have much neck to speak of. He’s handsome in a careless way: blue eyes, strong jaw, well-defined cheekbones, and a five o’clock shadow. I’ve seen hundreds of guys that look like him roaming the city: guys that went to Lafayette or Drexel, guys I danced with drunkenly at keg parties, that I pushed off me in bed, that I yearned would call me, but didn’t. I know I know him. Is he from college? God, I pray silently, please don’t let him be some guy I’ve slept with.

  I get up and stand next to Freddie’s bed. The guy has kicked off his shoes and is sitting on the edge, the clicker hidden underneath his palm. He presses the buttons quickly, not even blinking as he changes the channels. His face is bathed in fluorescent light. “You look like someone I know,” I say, watching him. He glances up briefly, then turns back.

  “People always say that,” he tells me, transfixed on the set. “Sometimes I think there are only fifteen people in the world and everyone is just a variation of them.” He doesn’t even look at me as he speaks.

  “Oh yeah? Well, then I’m Madonna.” I walk back to my side and sit down in a chair.

  The guy laughs. “Sorry to be rude.” He gets up. “But I just finished a really long day and I’m totally exhausted.”

  Shrugging, I flip through a book, wondering where the hell my grandfather is.

  “No, really. I’m sorry.” He walks toward me. “You could forgive me or something.” I ignore him. “Fine.” He mutters under his breath. “Be a bitch. This is great. This is just what I need.”

  “You know,” I say after a while. “You really shouldn’t sit so close to the television.”

  “So now you’re an ophthalmologist?” So now you’re a psychopharmacologist? So now you know everything?

  “I was trying to be nice. God, you’re really a dick. Who are you anyway?”

  “Richard Gere.”

  “You can’t be Richard Gere. Richard Gere has much more hair and,” I add, hopping off the bed, “a much nicer ass.” I grab my backpack and walk out the door. “Could you please tell Max that Frannie stopped by?”

  He jumps up behind me. “Hey, Madonna,” he calls to my back. “Nice hairnet. Really does wonders for your image. And you didn’t even see my ass.”

  “Thank God for that.” I walk toward the elevator, remove the hairnet I forgot I was wearing, and lift it in a good-riddance wave. What a Rat Boy.

  The next day, I drive Shelly’s car into the city to meet Lauren. I park and walk around. Soon I’m at Lonny’s office. In fact, I’m in front of the garbage can that Shelly threw her journal in. I know it’s not here; Shelly threw out the journal months ago, but I pick through the can anyway, just for a second, figuring it doesn’t hurt to look. I also look in the gutter and up and down the sidewalk. I know I won’t find it, I mean, there’s no way, but it makes me feel better knowing I tried.

  Lauren walks into the bar wearing a gray suit and high heels. She’s a pretty girl with curly blond ringlets that frame her face. We stand for a second, but it feels awkward to hug, so we simply shake hands. We both order vodka tonics.

  “That’s a nice suit,” I tell her. “Although I thought Shelly’s friends would end up working at a women’s shelter in Harlem, not a business school.”

  “A girl’s gotta eat,” she says wryly. “What do you do?”

  “Not much.” I gulp my drink. “I’m in between jobs right now.”

  “What were you doing before?”

  “Watching television.” I look at my hands. “This past year hasn’t been easy for me.”

  “I can imagine.” She pauses. “Actually, I can’t imagine. I have two sisters. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to them. It must be the most painful thing in the world.”

  “Are you close to your sisters?” I ask, wondering if I sound jealous.

  “When our medication kicks in, sometimes we manage.” We both laugh. “We’re each very different. My older sister, Jessie, is totally stoic, nothing ever gets to her, but I cry when I read Hallmark cards. I’m sorry, but some of those cards just choke me up.”

  I smile. “I never used to be that way, but now I cry all the time. I was watching a rerun of Family Affair, and when I heard Buffy screeching ‘Uncle Biw, Uncle Biw,’ and Mr. French was comforting her, I started fucking bawling. But you know what really gets me? It’s an old Gillette commercial.”

  “I know, I know!! It’s the one with the guy running toward this beautiful woman and he sweeps her up and twirls her around. And in the background is the song—Gillette, the best a man can get—that one?” I nod and Lauren sits back in her seat, shaking her head. “That one always got me, too. It’s funny. Shelly hated those ads. She thought they were such bullshit.”

  “She was lying,” I say, smiling. “I’ve seen Shelly totally lose it over an AT&T commercial.”

  Lauren takes a sip of her drink. “I hadn’t spoken to Shelly since graduation,” she starts. “I knew she was working for a law firm, but I was away, and we lost touch.”

  “Shelly isolated herself,” I tell her. “I doubt she was talking to anyone from Cornell. Not that she would have told me anyway. We drifted apart when she went up to school. Or maybe we weren’t that close to begin with. It was just…” I trail off, but Lauren finishes for me. “A Sister Thing. Frannie, like I said, I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, but I do know that the Sister Thing is hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t have one. One time Jessie and I were driving somewhere and she asked me to hold her sandwich. And I said no. I don’t know why I said no, I just did and suddenly, we’re having a major world war. I’m bringing up shit she did to me when she was twelve and she’s pinching me. I mean, she’s like twenty-five, and she’s pinching me. We didn’t speak for three weeks. But she called me and we went to the movies and during the movie, she asks me to hold her popcorn and we just laughed. The Sister Thing is an inexplicable force of nature.”

  I listen to Lauren, thankful I asked her to meet me. I’d always ignored Shelly’s friends in the same way, I guess, that I ignored Shelly. “The truth is, Lauren,” I tell her, my courage building, “I don’t know much about Shelly’s life at Cornell. Like how she felt about things, her boyfriends and stuff. I mean, was my sister ever in love?”

  For a second, Lauren looks pained. “Shelly and I talked a lot, Frannie, mostly during freshman year. You should know that Shelly was a genuinely warm, funny woman who everyone admired. And she was brilliant.” Lauren signals the waiter and orders us another round. I’m beginning to feel the liquor, and I think Lauren is too because she keeps rambling. “I could tell you so many stories of her generosity and kindness, and—”

  I interrupt her as the waiter brings our drinks. “It’s not that I don’t want to hear those stories, Lauren, because I do. But I really want to know why you said you were afraid for Shelly.”

  Lauren chews on her straw. “That was a stupid thing to say. I should keep my mouth shut.”

  “No, it’s important. I have to know.”

  She takes a deep breath. “Shelly was pretty fucked up about food during school, but I had my own issues, so we never discussed it. Besides, who our age isn’t fucked up about their body in some way? Anyway, Cornell was difficult for her. She put so much pressure on herself to pick a profession and ‘get on a track.’ Sh
e always said that, as if ‘getting on a track’ was going to solve all her problems. When I said that I was afraid for Shelly, I meant it in a general sense. That if she didn’t stay in therapy, she could get out of control. She’s the kind of person who had to have a plan. I mean, most people feel that way, I guess, but for Shelly, it was life or death. She couldn’t just be. She had to be something. When we graduated, she seemed happy about law school, but I also felt that if she felt overwhelmed, she’d self-destruct.”

  “Huh.” I suck my lime. “Lauren, I have to tell you…I wasn’t completely honest on the phone. You were right about Shelly self-destructing.” I stare at the television in the corner, high up, above Lauren’s head. “Shelly committed suicide.”

  “Holy shit.” Lauren blinks. “Holy fucking shit.”

  “We don’t have to talk about this anymore if you don’t want to.”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, it’s okay. I just need some air.” She grabs her purse, excuses herself, and rushes outside.

  I wait a long time. I’m disappointed when she doesn’t come back. I don’t blame her, I think as I dig into my wallet for cash. Just as I’m about to grab my backpack, Lauren walks toward the table. “I’m sorry, Frannie. I just couldn’t breathe.”

  I tell her that it’s okay, that I’m glad she came back. She studies me. When she finally speaks, her voice is even and controlled, as if she is carefully choosing each word. “Frannie,” she says, “I always thought that Shelly was really angry about something. She tried to hide it by studying or exercising, but underneath, I felt there was another person raging inside. I’m no psychiatrist, but I think it had to do with those boys when she was young. It’s as if she created all these diversions to help her forget, to contain her guilt or anger or whatever, but sometimes the smallest thing set her off. I always felt that Shelly was very fragile, and that she could collapse at any time. Is that an awful thing to say?”