Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “You’re only saying I’m beautiful because I made you! Fuck you, Charlie. Why don’t you date a skinny girl instead of a fat pig like me!”

  “Fine!” he yells.

  “Well, I’ll tell you something, Charlie. You’re a fucking RAT BOY!”

  He’s silent a second. Then he says quietly, “I can’t believe you called me that.” Silently, he hangs up. I hold the phone for a long long time. It’s over, I say to myself. And in a strange sort of way, I’m relieved.

  It dawns on me about mid-afternoon when I’m standing on the toilet in the ladies’ room, trying to see my body in the mirror over the sinks, that Charlie and I may have broken up. I stare at my piggy face, hating myself. Hysterical, I call Abby, who orders me to spend the night. We stop off at the supermarket and everything reminds me of Charlie. I can’t stop crying, even when we’re standing at the checkout counter behind a handsome guy and Abby combines our Diet Cokes and cigarettes with his stuff and tells the clerk we’re all together. She turns around and sees the tears streaming down my face. “Jesus, Frannie.” She hustles me outside. “At least wait till we get home.”

  I lie on Abby’s couch and wail. Randy calls and Abby tells him that we’re in a Code Blue and she can’t talk. When he calls back, Abby tells him to get a life. He hangs up on her. She tries to call him back to apologize but he won’t answer.

  “I’m really breaking up with him this time,” she swears, handing me a tissue. “Our lives were so much better when we didn’t have these stupid guys.” I make her examine my legs under the bright light in her bathroom. “Tell me the truth,” I beg, “do you think they’re fat?” Over and over she promises me that my legs aren’t fat. With no boys to talk about, we smoke cigarettes, order pizza, and pick at the crust. I lie on her floor, watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High, and eventually doze off to the sound of garbage trucks. I wake up in a panic with Abby shaking me. Apparently, I was screaming in my sleep.

  I don’t hear from Charlie for a day and a half. I walk around in a trance. I tell myself I don’t need him, that this break is good for us. When I remember how he installed a phone in my car, I cry in the bathroom at work, knowing I don’t deserve him.

  “I don’t think we should see each other for a while,” I tell his answering machine. “I need time to figure things out. I’m sorry for making you crazy. Please don’t call me although I’m sure you weren’t planning to.” The second I hear the beep, I want to erase my message, but I can’t. And of course, he doesn’t call back.

  On Friday night, I walk into the 92nd Street Y. I find a room where a bunch of chairs are set up. Pia just started reading, so I take a seat and try to listen. It’s difficult to concentrate because there’s a buzzing in my head.

  “My next poem …” As Pia drones on, I study her. She looks healthy and filled out; her brown skin is clear and her hair looks lush and full. She’s still small, but she doesn’t look anything like the waif I met in the hospital. She looks absolutely beautiful.

  She reads her poem with a rhythm that goes up, down, up, down, and I am soothed by the beat. “AND then WE went TO the …” I say the words silently “AND then WE went TO the …” Suddenly I hear the name Rochelle Hunter. I look up. Pia is peering into the crowd. Instinctively I know that she’s looking for me. I lift my hand and she smiles.

  “As I said, I’d like to dedicate my last poem entitled ‘Hunger Point’ to Rochelle Hunter. But first, I want to share something she wrote.” Then she reads, “‘There’s this hidden 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.’”

  The crowd is silent. Pia takes a sip of water. “Shelly Hunter was a friend of mine who, instead of attending Harvard Law School or studying psychology at Stanford, killed herself last December.” She pauses. Someone in the room gasps. “I don’t want to turn this reading into a polemic, but it’s important for me to say aloud that mental illness is a dangerous disease. And just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It is there; it exists. And it can be deadly. Shelly helped me with my lifetime struggle with anorexia. She was probably one of brightest women I’ve ever met, but she was vulnerable, like we’re all vulnerable, to self-hate, self-denial, and self-destruction. So now she’s guiding me in other ways, a star above, if you will.” Pia pauses. The room is silent. “So Shelly, baby,” she says, looking up, “this one’s for you.” And she begins to read.

  I can’t concentrate on the poem because I’m reeling from the shock of hearing Shelly’s journal entry. It stays in my head like a mantra. All it takes is one more step and I’ll be safe. One more step to say yes, to let go, to fly. One more step. One more step.

  Pia comes over after the reading. She hugs me. “I was going to tell you about the journal,” she says, “but I decided not to. I hope you’re not angry with me.”

  “Angry? Why would I be? I’m very flattered that you asked me to come.” I smile at her. “You really look awesome,” I tell her. She thanks me and turns to some people who congratulate her. I want to talk to her, but she’s surrounded. “Can you wait a second, Frannie?” she calls to me.

  Ten minutes later, she leads me to a chair. “I’ve wanted to call you,” she says, “to see how you’ve been.”

  “I’ve been okay,” I tell her. “Some times are easier than others. By the way, do you have the rest of Shelly’s journal?”

  “No. Only that part. She read it once to me and I asked her for a copy. Why?”

  “I’ve just been trying to figure out stuff, I thought it might help. Shelly threw out her journal when she left the hospital.” I pause. “Can I ask you something, Pia?” She nods. “Why do you think Shelly killed herself? I mean, she was getting better, right?”

  Pia takes a deep breath. “I don’t know, Frannie. She always said that for her, there was a tenuous link between life and death. Shelly walked a fine line.” Her eyes mist. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? She was a great person, I mean I don’t want to martyr her because what she did was awful, but she really did make a difference in my life.”

  I start to cry. Pia hugs me. “Frannie, I’m so sorry. This must have been so hard for you.”

  “It’s been very hard,” I tell her. “But I thought I dealt with it. I grieved, I was depressed. What else is there to be? But now she’s in my head all the time.”

  “You probably did deal with it on some levels, but Frannie, it’s very complex. With Shelly, I don’t know. She was very rigid. She made up her mind to do things and there was no stopping her. Sometimes she’d say that she wanted to die, that it would be so much easier than the struggle. We’d all get pissed off at her and tell her that the struggle is all you’re given and when you’re dead you’re dead, and all that bullshit, but Shelly didn’t buy it. I don’t have any answers, Frannie, certainly no more than you’ve probably come up with. But I do feel that some people, people like Shelly, are born with more sensitive souls. And they can’t soothe themselves no matter how much you love them or will them to live.”

  “But Shelly’s death was a choice.”

  “Shelly may have had a choice, Frannie, but truth is, she may not have had a chance.”

  Vicky takes me out for a business lunch to discuss a Rascals opening in Stamford. She studies the menu and I watch her closely, figuring she’s doing competitive research.

  “I can’t stand the menus in these places,” she says, putting it down. “Everything is so fattening.” She unfolds her napkin. “I can’t find one thing I
can eat without feeling guilty.” I’m surprised. Vicky is thin, but curvy and perfectly proportioned. “What are you having?” she asks, as if it’s vital that she knows.

  “The chicken stir-fry. They said it’s low-fat.”

  She smiles. “We know that’s a lie. It’s probably delicious, but loaded with grease and I shouldn’t.” She shrugs. “What the hell.” She takes out her Day-Timer, makes a few marks, then closes the book. “I never had a weight problem,” she tells me, “but now that I’m approaching forty, I find it hard to look at myself in the mirror. So I’ve started a diet.” She talks to me as if I’m a confidante instead of her assistant.

  “You have a great figure,” I tell her. “Really, you’re perfect.”

  “Hardly. I’ve let myself go, so now it’s time to pay the piper.”

  Our food comes and I watch Vicky eat. She cuts chicken, vegetables, and noodles into bite-sized pieces as if she’s dissecting something. Just like Shelly. Pick up a string bean, inspect it, chop it up, let it sit. In the glare of the white sunlight, I can see where Vicky’s face is lined around her eyes and where her lipstick bleeds. As she hunches over the table, worried about being forty and fat, she looks ferretlike.

  I excuse myself and go to the ladies’ room. I examine my face in the mirror. I can see where I’ve lost weight in my face; my cheeks are drawn and my features are prominent, especially my nose. My eyes bulge in my shrunken face and I look pale and unhealthy and ugly. Like a skinny ghost girl. Like a girl who is dead but inhabiting a body. I tremble with rage. “I WILL NOT END UP LIKE YOU!” I say to the mirror. “I am not YOU. I am ME. I will not end up like that. It wasn’t luck. YOU HAD A CHOICE. You made the wrong fucking choice.”

  When I return to the table, I savor my lunch. I enjoy every chunk of chicken, every water chestnut. I eat ravenously and greedily, relishing the sweet soy sauce on my tongue, the hard vegetables I gnash between my teeth. I can’t lift the fork to my mouth fast enough; I can’t chew, I can’t swallow to meet the pace of my hunger and my sudden desire to be filled. When I’m finished, I order dessert. I rub my stomach, aware that I am full. I feel the food inside me. And it feels good.

  I walk into the kitchen. “Daddy, I’m home!” I look around. There’s a note on the counter:

  Frannie, I’m at the gym for my kayaking lesson. Come meet me and we’ll have dinner together. Just you and me. Love, Dad

  At the health club, I walk outside to the pool. Five men wearing life preservers and goggles paddle through the pool in bright red kayaks while an instructor calls instructions. A sixth man is in the deep end, practicing what it’s like to capsize. Every few seconds I see him come up from the water and then disappear. I feel as though I’m watching a cartoon.

  My father waves his paddle. “Just a little while longer, Frannie!” he yells, exhilarated. “We’re almost done.”

  I watch for a few minutes as the men splash around, the noses of their kayaks bouncing off one another. The man in the deep end keeps thrusting himself under and coming up. My dad paddles toward him. The two of them go under and come up in sync like they’re performing a weird water ballet. I hear my father sputtering. From this far away, it sounds like he’s laughing.

  Kayaking lessons aren’t the only thing my father’s doing. He’s also taking ballroom dancing, skeet shooting, wine tasting, and Mediterranean cooking. He’s a one-man activity fair. All this has to do with the new woman he’s seeing. Her name is Ruthie and they met in group. They go out for dinner and to the theater and dancing and to potlucks. She’s been trying to get him to go to a bluegrass festival in Kentucky. She wants to rent a truck, fill it with hay, and sleep in it. He doesn’t want to go and I don’t blame him. I don’t know if he’s happy, but he’s sure as hell tired all the time.

  I wait for him in the lobby while he changes. Occasionally my eyes water as I think about Charlie. I pick up a pay phone, dial slowly, and hang up when I hear his voice.

  “Where do you want to eat?” my father asks when he finally emerges from the locker room. His hair is slicked back and his whole forehead is exposed. I never realized how big his forehead is; it’s smooth and rounded like an eggshell. “Why don’t you dry your hair?” I ask him. “I can wait.”

  “It’s not wet. It’s gelled.”

  “Excuse me. I didn’t know you were suddenly Vidal Sassoon.”

  “Ruthie says it makes me look younger.” He squints. “What do you think?”

  “I think it looks wet.”

  We decide to eat at Rascals for old times’ sake and when we get there, I’m surprised that I don’t recognize anyone. When the waitress comes over, it takes me a long time to decide what to order. “What are you having, Daddy?” I gnaw on a breadstick.

  “Ribs. With an extra side of barbecue sauce.”

  “I thought Ruthless had you on a diet.”

  “Frannie, just order and stop worrying so much about what I’m eating.”

  I sit with the menu. My father fidgets and the waitress breathes heavily. “Frannie. Our waitress doesn’t have all day.” He smiles at her.

  “I just can’t decide.” The waitress can’t be a day over twenty. She’s wearing a name tag that says sylvania. Her pants are too baggy, her shirt is wrinkled, and her tie is stained. “What do you think I should have?” I ask her.

  How the hell should I know, you fucking idiot, I bet she’s thinking. She shifts her weight from one foot to another. Her behavior annoys me and I’m about to tell her so, when it strikes me that I must have looked the same way. It’s only temporary, I tell her silently, bloated with maturity, it gets better. Then I remember I called Charlie a Rat Boy. I can’t believe I said that. God, I hate myself.

  “I’ll have the chef salad with ranch dressing on the side and extra crackers. And please bring an extra plate.” The girl flees as if released from a cage.

  My father wants to know what the extra plate is for. “Your ribs,” I tell him.

  I look around for Paulie. When Vicky hired me, I wrapped a bottle of champagne in one of my dirty duck aprons and sent it to him with a note safety-pinned to the bib:

  I’m hanging up my apron, but I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. Thanks for everything. I’ll make you proud. Love, Frannie AKA Wanda.

  When he called to thank me, he got all choked up. As I look around the restaurant, I start to cry.

  “What’s wrong? Mommy said you had a fight with Charlie. You haven’t made up?”

  “No, we did. I’m crying out of joy.”

  “Please, Frannie. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me, but don’t be obnoxious.” He leans forward. “You know … if you talked about …” He trails off.

  “I know, Daddy. I just don’t feel like talking right now.”

  “Fine. Just wanted to let you know I’m here.” He gets up. “I have to call Ruthie.”

  “Please don’t invite her to dinner. She’s like a child who constantly needs the channel changed.”

  “Tonight’s the anniversary of her husband’s death. She asked me to check in.” He walks away and I sit and sulk.

  “Frannie! Don’t tell me that you’ve lost your job and you need some shifts!” Paulie walks over and I stand up to hug him. “We miss you around here,” he says. “How’s the job?”

  “Good. Everything’s fine.” I smile. “But I want to ask you something and I don’t want to be out of line. So if I’m saying something inappropriate, I’m sorry, okay? Anyway, I met a guy … Forget it, you don’t need to hear this.”

  “Am I complaining?”

  “I’m just all fucked up. This guy is the best thing that ever happened to me and I completely went off on him. I guess I’m depressed and I know it has to do with Shelly, but I can’t figure out how. I know, well, Vicky told me about your son and I thought you might … I just thought you might have some clue as to what’s wrong with me.”

  He stares at me, and for a second, I’m afraid I pissed him off. “Frannie, when someone you love dies, it hits you in w
eird ways. When Tommy died, Vicky clammed up. And me, well you know me, I hate to talk about anything emotional, but I started blurting it out to everyone.” For a second, Paulie is lost in thought. “Tommy died of SIDS. Did Vicky tell you that?” I shake my head. “It wasn’t our fault. Neither of us could save him. But we blamed ourselves and in our worst moments, blamed each other. In the end, it cost us our marriage.” We both look up to see my father walking toward the table. “All I can tell you, Frannie, is that you have to move beyond your own guilt. You can’t dwell on the dead. You have to stay with the living.” He squeezes my hand. “And there’s no one more alive than you.”

  “Mom? Can I ask you something?” She walks quickly on the treadmill next to me, pumping her arms. It’s a mini Spa Day. We’re getting our nails done and she’s paying for both of us to have massages, but there won’t be any haircuts. According to my mother, Collette met some guy and took off for Lisbon. “I bet the bitch is holed up in a motel in Las Vegas, shooting up heroin,” I said. My mother laughed. She hates Collette. The last time she saw her, Collette asked my mother to stop talking about Shelly. “It’s bad for the shop,” she said. “It brings down morale. Death is so unnatural.” To which my mother snapped, “How the hell can you say that? You look like the goddamn Grim Reaper.” And the honeymoon was over.

  My mother has her Walkman on so she can’t hear. I shake my hand in front of her face. She slows her treadmill. “Do you want something?”

  “I was just wondering … Mom, would you be embarrassed if I never got married?”

  “Of course not. It’s your life, Frannie honey. If you don’t want to get married, don’t.” She looks at me. “Does this have to do with Charlie?”

  I nod. “He hasn’t even called me.”