Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  Something smells like rotted garbage and I focus on the smell that lives in my head, something noxious and evil that I birth through my nose and mouth as I breathe out. She’s alive, I think. She’s inside me now. I lower my head and try to blink away the hum but I’m carried off again and I can’t come back, this time it’s different, this time, it’s the real thing: the snapping and the heat and my head is splintering and I breathe in, but I feel like I am blacking out and blacking out and Jesus, someone help me …

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Diamond is next to me now, very close, but she sounds like she’s at the opposite end of a tube. All right all right all right echoes like a bad connection.

  “I don’t have a sister.” Was that out loud? I’m not quite sure where I am. I feel myself falling. “My sister’s dead.” I hold out my arms, but before I can steady myself, the ground rushes up to meet me.

  “I’m sorry,” Abby says on Saturday as she gets into the Subaru. “I didn’t mean to be such a bitch the other day.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  Abby reaches into the backseat to kiss my grandfather hello. “Cool hat, Max.” He’s wearing a baseball cap that says i love baywatch. “Do you like Baywatch?”

  “What a show,” he says. “Boom boom boom. What a pair of knockers!!”

  “Grandpa! I’d expect that from Freddie, not you.”

  “Ah, Freddie talks too much. I love Baywatch. That’s why Charlie got me the hat. Did you see my hat?” I think about Charlie for a second, then make myself stop. It’s been over two weeks and we still haven’t spoken.

  “I thought he was blind,” Abby hisses.

  “I think it’s selective blindness. He can only see when what’s her name—Pamela whatever—is on. Actually, I did catch him watching it once with his face squashed against the TV screen. It was really disturbing.”

  “Don’t worry,” Abby says, dismissing me. “Randy does the same thing.”

  My grandfather asks where I’m taking him. “We’re just going for a drive, Grandpa. Sit tight.” Abby looks at me questioningly. “I have something I need to do,” I tell her. “Just chill and enjoy the scenery.”

  We drive for about a half-hour through the suburbs. Summer’s almost over. I crack my window and breathe in the cool air. “Look at the trees,” I tell Abby, pointing. “Look at the colors. Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “Lovely, Frannie. Absolutely fabuloso. Since when did you give a shit about nature?”

  I shrug. “They remind me of registering for school in the fall, of new notebooks, you know, the feeling of starting over.”

  “Are you gonna burst into song now?” Abby asks. “Jesus, raindrops on roses, Julie.”

  My grandfather leans forward and asks what kind of car we’re in.

  “It’s a Cadillac,” I tell him.

  “I’ve never been in a Caddy this small. But boy, Caddies are nice cars. Nice, smooth ride. And they hug the curbs. And get very good gas mileage.”

  “This is the latest model, Grandpa, that’s why it’s small, and I think you watch way too much TV.”

  After a while, my grandfather dozes off. We drive for another fifteen minutes until I pull into the cemetery where Shelly is buried. It’s a small cemetery, miles behind Lindsey, close to the point where the land juts into the ocean. This point, or peninsula really, is about five miles long and is the place that gave Lindsey Point its name. Very few people know it’s here.

  Lindsey Point was Shelly’s favorite place when she was a kid. She’d ride her bike here and sit on the rocks by the water for hours. The cemetery was closed a long time ago, but my parents asked the county officials if they could bury Shelly here. They said yes and my sister is the first person to be buried at Lindsey Point in the past fifty years.

  As we stop in front of the gates, Abby asks me what I’m doing.

  “I need to pay my respects, okay? And I wanted you to be here.” I turn to my grandfather who is sound asleep, cradling his Baywatch hat. I think about waking him, but decide against it.

  “Abby,” I say, “please get out of the car.”

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  I nod. Slowly, she gets out and stands next to me. We walk into the cemetery. All the older plots have headstones that are broken or crumbling from old age and decay. In the back, as close to the water as possible, is Shelly’s. My parents got her a traditional, gray marble headstone, but they lopped off a corner to make it look like the others. Shelly would have liked that, they said. The inscription is simple: her name, the year of her birth, the year of her death, and her favorite quote: Hitch your wagon to a star.

  I stand in front of Shelly’s grave. I can hear the waves lapping the shore and the sound of the gulls overhead. I feel like I’m in the middle of something sacred; something vast and profound and much larger than myself. It’s a shame, I think, as I unfold a piece of paper, that I never shared this place—or this feeling—with my sister.

  With this in my head, I begin to read. “Shelly, Mommy asked me to say a few words at your service, but I wasn’t ready back then. But now I am, so here goes.” I pause. Then I take Abby’s hand.

  “The funny thing about having you as a sister is that you were always there. When we were kids, you were a pain in my ass. But now that you’re not here, I realized that a sister is a gift that can’t be replicated. A sister can make you cry with one look and shame you with one remark, but no one can make you laugh as hard; no one can keep you as honest; and no one can make you feel, with just a phone call, that you belong. You can hate your sister ferociously, but you will never stop loving her. Or needing her. Your sister is your history; she is your memory. Shelly, you protected me in ways I never realized. And what is so sad to me is that I never realized how safe I was now that I no longer am.

  “Our relationship flipped a lot. You were the younger daughter, but many times I looked up to you like you were my older sister. I relied on you because you were smarter than me and more capable. Maybe that wasn’t right, maybe it was too much pressure for you, but I couldn’t help myself. I don’t think that Mommy or Daddy could, either. I think all of us wanted you to be everything we couldn’t. And that was probably unfair, but it was only because we believed in you. And in how special you were.

  “I know that you wanted to be a lot of things. And I know you didn’t change legal history, or discover the roots of anorexia, but Shelly, you did change me. You gave me something to shoot for. You could recite Shakespeare and understand Freud, and not be embarrassed to dance in your nightgown with a couple of girls in a mental hospital. People love you, Shelly, perhaps no one more than me, and you deserved that love.

  “We went through some long stretches where we weren’t close, but Shelly, for all the times I didn’t listen to you or didn’t love you enough or pay attention or was jealous and spiteful and just plain mean, I’m sorry. It was a Sister Thing, and I hope that you forgive me. I wish I could have said all this before, but I didn’t know so much. I’ve been learning about you, Shelly, and it may be a long time before I have all the answers, but one day maybe I will.

  “Things are different now. Mommy is still Mommy and I realize now that she made you as crazy as she made me, but it’s not so terrible to be crazy like us. This guy I met, Charlie, thinks I’m adorable. Go figure. But he talks to me, Shelly. I actually found someone to talk to. Anyway, we’re not talking at this moment, but if he ever decides to speak to me again, I’m gonna tell him. You were right when you said that all you wanted was someone to talk to. Even at eight years old, you knew. Anyway, Mommy’s on her own now and doing okay. And Daddy is emoting these days, which is pretty fucking scary, but I know it’s for the best.

  “I miss you, Shelly, and I will continue to miss you every day for as long as I live. You inspired me, you inspired all of us to be better people. I keep feeling around, trying to find you. But I know you’re here, I just have to keep listening. ‘Frannie,’ you said once, ‘I just want us to be friends—like real siste
rs.’ Well we are, Shelly. You’re my real friend. You’re my sister. And nothing can ever change that. You will always be on my mind and in my heart.”

  When I stop, I don’t feel like crying. I smell the trees and the grass and the wild flowers around my feet. I suck in the sweet, salty air, hold my breath, and wait. What I feel is a freedom I’ve never felt before, it’s something I think is called deliverance.

  I turn to Abby. She’s crying. “Abby, it meant a lot to me for you to be here.” She nods, unable to speak. “I feel all these things for Shelly and I wanted to tell her.” I hug her, hug her hard, and then I say softly, “But I also feel them for you.”

  “I called him.” I twist a tissue. “Did I do the right thing? We’re having drinks later.” I pause. “I don’t know what I’m going to say. That’s why I came to see you—to help me find the right words.”

  “There are no right words, Frannie. But maybe I can help you figure out how you feel. What to say will just follow naturally.” Chubby rises to hand me another tissue. As she settles back down, I marvel at how much weight she’s lost. “You look really good, Marilyn. Oh, can I say that kind of thing?”

  She laughs. “You can say anything you want. Thank you. So why did you and Charlie have a fight?”

  “It was my fault. I’ve been depressed and I took it out on him. I can’t sleep, or I couldn’t for a few weeks. Bad dreams.” I count the pictures on the wall. I’ve been doing it more than usual, counting.

  “And these dreams? What are they about?”

  I roll my eyes. I knew this would happen. “Mostly about people dying. Do you think I should stop seeing him? I mean, he didn’t call me for almost two weeks.”

  “You told him not to. So who’s dying in these dreams?”

  “I don’t know.” Now I’m annoyed. “But I needed time to think. I still wanted him to call me. We were … are … in a relationship.”

  “But you asked him not to call you so you obviously meant it. You’re a smart girl, Frannie. You did it for a reason. Is Charlie in these dreams?”

  I shake my head. “My mother told me to wait. But I couldn’t. I had to talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I miss him.” Tears fill my eyes and I focus on the paintings. One looks like Europe. I really should go there someday.

  “Is Shelly in these dreams?” I nod and she scratches something on her pad. “Do you miss Shelly?” she asks softly. I nod. “Are you angry she’s gone?”

  “Of course. I’ve been doing what you said, going backwards, trying to understand, but everyone I talk to has a different opinion on the subject.”

  “What do you think?”

  I shrug. Suddenly warm, I take off my jacket. “Do you think Charlie wants to break up with me? Well maybe he won’t break up with me, but I’m sure he’ll tell me to get my act together.” I look at Chubby. “It’s hard to date someone who’s crazy.”

  “Is Charlie crazy?”

  “No, I was talking about myself. I’m crazy.”

  Chubby shifts in her seat. It’s hard to call her Chubby now, but that’s who she is. I tell myself I mean it in an endearing way. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Frannie. In fact, I’d say you were very sane. Do you want to be crazy?”

  “No. But I obsess a lot. I count things in my head. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “No, maybe it’s just your way of finding patterns, of putting your thoughts in order.”

  “But I don’t count things that matter.” I pause. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  She shakes her head. “In light of your family’s history, I think that you have dealt with things quite sanely.”

  “Do you think I should break up with Charlie?”

  She shrugs. “I can’t give you an answer. Frannie, you’re an intelligent woman. Trust your instincts. Listen to yourself.”

  “Then why do I feel like I always make the wrong decision? Like I’m letting someone down or missing an opportunity?”

  “Making decisions is hard for everyone. You can’t always control the outcome of your decisions, so you focus on their details to prepare for what will happen. But you can’t prepare, not like that. If you never choose, all you have is what may be. But sitting on decisions is very uncomfortable. The power of what may be is only illusory. There’s an expression: life happens while we decide how to live it. Real power comes when you make a decision and deal with its consequences. And that has to do with identity and self-esteem.”

  “I’ve learned a lot about Shelly,” I tell her. “Mostly things that were painful. I always thought she had this totally secure identity, like she was sure of everything, but maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she didn’t feel comfortable relying on herself. I think she was afraid to grow up.”

  “What else did you learn?”

  “I learned that I use men the way Shelly used food. To deny my self. I’ve fucked a lot of guys, but none that I liked. They all thought I liked them, even I thought I liked them, but I didn’t. Not really. In retrospect, they weren’t very likable people. But I didn’t think enough of myself, I guess. I gave up my power to speak. Anyway, instead of saying no, I would shut down, hate myself, and obsess, and it would somehow get flipped around, and I’d feel rejected when I didn’t even want the guy to begin with. Like how Shelly wouldn’t eat. You know, the denial of the self thing, I don’t know. Shelly talked about it once, but I didn’t understand. Now I do.” I pause. Then I tell her about Rat Boy. “It was like I totally lost myself. I gave him so much power. He treated me like shit and I went back for more. I know I wasn’t a victim. I know I had a choice. I could have said no. I want to be clear about that. But I don’t understand why I didn’t.”

  “I think that for you, not saying no was about protecting the guys’ feelings rather than asserting your own. Both you and Shelly were raised to take care of other people, even at your own expense. In theory, the people you take care of will take care of you, but it doesn’t always work that way. So you have to learn to be generous with men after you know they are worthy of your kindness and after they’ve earned your respect, not before.”

  “That could take forever.”

  She smiles. “Not always. Not if you believe you are worthy. But society doesn’t make it easy for women. Girls are taught to be good, to be nice. They aren’t always taught to be honest and to assert themselves, especially with men. And I agree with you. Shutting down while you’re having sex is a way to disconnect from your emotions. And it is like anorexia or bulimia because you’re doing something that’s emotionally and physically self-destructive. Unfortunately, it can assume a life all its own and it’s so hard to break the cycle once you’re in it. I must tell you, Frannie, you have very good insight when you let yourself.”

  “Yeah, I’m fucking Freud.” Chubby smiles. “The problem is,” I tell her, “I don’t think I can have sex with Charlie. I want to be with him, but I don’t want to lose myself. I want to be present, you know? I don’t think I’ve ever been present before.”

  “It takes time to believe in yourself, Frannie, and to learn to trust someone enough so that you don’t shut down when you’re with them. But you can have a relationship and still retain yourself.”

  I shrug. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Marilyn, it’s just that I don’t believe you.”

  She smiles. “So tell me about your depression.”

  “I think about Shelly. I cry. I wish I had paid more attention when she was alive, gotten to know her better. Sometimes I understand why she wanted to die. Sometimes it’s so painful.” I wave. “It’s just depression. It’s not like I’m going to kill myself.”

  “What?” Chubby says. “What did you just say?”

  “I said, ‘It’s not like I’m going to kill myself.’” Then I stop.

  “What, Frannie? What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the depression isn’t about why Shelly killed herself.” I pause. “Maybe it’s about why I didn’t.”

  “And? Wh
y didn’t you?”

  I struggle to think about it. “I can’t, Marilyn, I can’t.”

  “Why? What do you feel?”

  “Guilt, mostly. And anger. I try to talk to my parents about Shelly, but it’s too painful for them. I don’t have anyone to talk to about her.”

  “You switched subjects. Instead of talking about you, you’re talking about Shelly.”

  “It’s difficult for me to talk about myself this way.” I study the paintings again. Finally I say, “I know Shelly’s dead, but I can’t say she’s gone or—I know this is going to sound weird—but I can’t say she doesn’t know things. I feel guilty that I have a boyfriend and a new job and a best friend. I feel guilty that I’m moving on and she can’t.”

  “Frannie, you’re entitled to a life. Wanting to move on is healthy. Wanting to want things is healthy.” She pauses. “I can’t take away all your pain, Frannie, but over time I can help you to reconstruct your history to understand the way your family operated and how you evolved within it. Maybe that will help you to stop feeling guilty about things over which you had no control, and to value yourself enough to believe you’re worth thinking about and being cared for.” She smiles. “And maybe I can help you feel like you’re not losing yourself when you’re with Charlie.

  “I marvel at how you’ve coped,” she continues. “You’ve made decisions for yourself, good decisions. You’re making your own destiny; a destiny to which you’re entitled. It’s not luck; it’s not chance. Your destiny is a choice.” Chubby’s eyes water. “You and Shelly had a lot to contend with. You’re both sensitive, intelligent women with strong emotions; emotions that sometimes act like whirlpools threatening to suck you under.” She smiles sadly. I feel like her sadness is for Shelly, but maybe it’s for me, too. “You’re a brave woman. And you need to trust yourself and believe that you deserve to want and—” Don’t dwell on the dead, Paulie said. Stay among the living.