“Make it quick.” I feel as though someone is watching me. “Come on, Abby. I think they’re assembling for a seance downstairs.”
“Randy said something to me the other day and I want to know what you think about it. Check this out. He wants to go back to Bermuda.”
“So what?”
“Fraaaaannie,” she clucks, “what if he asks me to marry him? Bermuda is for people who are getting engaged or on their honeymoon. Don’t you think it means something? I told him I’d go. Do you think that was stupid?” She pauses. “I don’t know if I want to marry him. He’s okay, but maybe he’s not the one, you know. What if—”
“Abby, I really gotta go. Let’s talk about this when I get home.”
“But he already bought the tickets.”
“And you already said you’d go. You don’t have to marry him. If he asks, just say you need more time.”
She’s quiet a second. “Well, it is a free trip and I do need a vacation. Did I tell you I was lead counsel on—”
“Save it. I’ll call you later. Go to Bermuda. Have a good time. But don’t get engaged unless you call me first.” Jesus, I say to myself, hanging up. How does she function when I’m not around?
“What did you do to my mother?” Charlie asks as we wait for Anita and Eric.
“I didn’t do anything. She just had some wine. What’s the big deal?”
“She’s plastered. I can’t believe you.”
I look around. Grandma Gert is snoring in a recliner with her head back, her glasses on her head like a second pair of eyes, and Dr. Hirsch is holding a golf club, putting balls into a little plastic cup. “Did you ever think she might need it?”
“We’re here!!” Eric and Anita burst through the door, carrying their son, Barry, who is wrapped in blankets. Eric has a thick beard and a short-cropped Afro, and Anita is a heavyset woman wearing a pair of slacks and a huge cape. For some reason, I thought Anita would be tall and thin with golden-blond hair, prancing around in a thong. But she’s not; she’s just regular.
Eric shakes my hand. “Hi, Frannie. Charlie didn’t tell me you were so pretty.”
“Back off. You already have a wife.” Charlie kisses Anita and takes Barry from her. He walks over to the stairs and sits on the bottom step, cradling his nephew. Watching him stroke the baby’s head makes me want to tell him that I love him. Because maybe I do.
Charlie’s father looks at his older son. “Nice to see you, Dr. Hirsch.” He leans forward to hug Eric, but Eric pulls back. “Good to see you, too, Dad. Where’s Mom?”
“Resting,” Charlie and Dr. Hirsch say in unison. Charlie casts a mean glance at me and I shrug.
“So you got the couch?” Eric asks Charlie, who nods. Eric and Anita recently moved from New York to L.A. and gave Charlie their extra couch. “How did they get it through the door?”
“I don’t know. I guess they stood it on its side.”
“But the elevator isn’t that tall,” Dr. Hirsch interjects. “Did they take the top off?”
“Maybe they used the stairs,” Charlie says. “I was at work. The super let them in.”
Eric is thoughtful. “There’s no way they can take the top off the elevator. Are you sure that elevator is too short?”
“When I came home, the couch was in my apartment. They got it in somehow.”
The conversation goes on for another five minutes and I listen to all the intricate ways the movers could have gotten Charlie’s new couch into his apartment. I feel the faint stirrings of anxiety, but I breathe deeply and the moment passes.
“I’m going to talk to Anita.” I stand up. “Does anyone want anything?”
To a chorus of no’s, I make my way into the kitchen. Anita is sitting with Barry.
I touch Barry’s head. “He’s a beautiful baby.”
“Thanks.” She kisses him and plays with his finger. “He wasn’t always this cute. A few weeks after he was born, we were in the park and an old man stuck his head in Barry’s carriage. When he pulled his head out, he told me I had a lovely carriage.”
I laugh. “Well he is certainly cute now.”
Anita looks around. “So Agnes is upstairs?”
“Yeah, she and I went shopping. We had some wine.” I stop before giving more graphic details, remembering Anita’s alcoholism.
“That’s nothing new,” she says dryly. “So you’ve been dating Charlie how long?”
“Five months, give or take. I really like him. He’s a great guy.”
“Yeah, he’s a sweetheart. Hopefully, he escaped the Hirsch curse.”
“The what?”
Charlie walks into the kitchen. “Hi, Anita. I didn’t tell you how nice you look.”
“Come here, handsome, give me a kiss.” Charlie leans down and she kisses him on the lips. She lingers. Horrified she’s gonna slip him some tongue, I cough loudly.
“So you’ve met Frannie?” He puts his hand on my shoulder.
“She’s pretty.” Anita hovers over Barry. “But I thought I was the love of your life.”
“Will you excuse me?” I ask. “I’m gonna go upstairs and change for the big fiesta.”
“I’ll come with you.” As we climb the stairs, I hear Dr. Hirsch and Eric arguing if Reconstruction began in 1866 or 1867.
When we get up to his room, Charlie immediately starts kissing me. “Charlie,” I whisper, “your mother’s next door.”
“She can’t hear us. Come on, you got me so horny!”
“I did? I thought it was Anita?”
“What? Oh, the kiss. She always does that. She’s been trying to get me to fuck her since the day she got pregnant. I guess Eric won’t. Did you smell her? She’s been boozing!”
I stare at him. How can someone who appears so normal come from such a ridiculous family? We have two hours until everyone else gets here. I wonder if Charlie would be mad if I went home. “You don’t have to drive me to the airport,” I’ll tell him. “I’ll just take a cab.”
I lie back against the pillows, a little concerned about the Hirsch curse. “By the way, Charlie, about your parents. What’s the Hirsch—”
He cuts me off. “They’re great, aren’t they?” He beams. “A little quirky, but whose parents aren’t? And they really like you. I can tell.”
I wonder how they’d act if they didn’t. “Your grandmother wishes I was Bonnie.”
“My grandmother thinks you are Bonnie.” He pulls out a photo album and points to a small girl with a Dorothy Hamill haircut. In the picture, a younger, more vulnerable-looking Charlie has his arm around her. They’re laughing. A sign above their heads says camp lakeview. “This is Bonnie.” I stare at her. She does look like me.
Somewhere I have a picture of Shelly and me when I visited her at Camp Galaxy. In it, we have our arms around each other and we’re standing in front of Shelly’s bunk. In my memory of the picture, we’re just girls, not too fat, not too skinny, just girls. I have to find that picture, save it for my kids, maybe show it to my daughter Rochelle when she asks who she’s named for. But I won’t tell her it’s a fat farm. I’ll save things like that for when she’s older. Out of context, they seem horrible and they’re not the whole truth anyway. Like Chubby says, they’re just pieces of a larger puzzle. Now, when I think back, those moments seem minor in light of everything else, or perhaps in light of everything else, they finally make sense.
I touch Bonnie through the plastic. “She’s cute,” I tell him. “She’s really cute.”
“She’s sixteen. This is the last time my grandmother ever saw her.”
“She’s still cute,” I say, smiling. “And you look happy.”
“I didn’t know how to be unhappy. But I know I’m happy now. With you. Frannie, you make me happy.”
I kiss him, a long lingering kiss. “Me too, Charlie. I’m happy, too. I’m gonna take a nap, okay?” He nods. Before he walks out of the room, he reminds me that after dinner, the whole family likes to play Trivial Pursuit. “Does your dad play?” I ask fe
arfully.
“Of course. He takes it very seriously. We have to calm him down sometimes, remind him it’s only a game.” Charlie grins. “It’s really fun.”
I lie in Charlie’s bed and pick up the phone. “Mom?” I say. “It’s me, Frannie.”
“Is everything all right? Are you being nice?”
“Of course I’m being nice! I called to tell you something.” I pause. “Remember all those times when I said you and Daddy were crazy?”
“Where are you going with this, Frannie?”
“Nowhere. I just want to tell you I’ve met your match. Meeting Charlie’s parents makes me feel like you and Daddy are Mike and Carol Brady.”
“Thanks, Frannie. I appreciate that, I guess.”
“Hey, Mom, I gotta go. But I love you. And Daddy, too,” I add, thinking of Shelly. “And Grandpa. I love all of you.”
“Frannie, honey.” She laughs. “Let’s not go too far here, okay?” But before she hangs up, she whispers like a child, “I love you, too, Frannie. You’re my girl.”
I hear a door open downstairs. The rest of the Hirsch clan are arriving. What a freak show this should be. They really need some therapy around here. In fact, I bet they could get a group rate.
I lie on my back and count the cracks in Charlie’s ceiling. What if I’m becoming too therapy-friendly, like too self-righteous? Am I a fanatic? Do I sound like a fanatic? Oh God, I’m like New Age. Soon I’ll be channeling with Shirley MacLaine. I must discuss this with Chubby. I can’t get in too deep. Before you know it, I’ll be buying crystals and having my charts done. Relaxed against the pillows, I breathe deeply and begin to fade. There’s no way I’m giving up meat. No way. The rushing ebbs. The waves recede. I allow myself to drift. And soon, because I can, I let go.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With heartfelt thanks to the brilliant and fearless Judith Regan and her remarkably talented editors, Jennifer Gates Hayes and Kristin Kiser, and for the invaluable advice and generous support of the following individuals: Carolyn Fireside, Bill Contardi, Mike Lubin, Caron K., Mary Morris, Mona Simpson, Jonathan Dee, A. Elizabeth Mikesell, Dr. Nan Jones, Frances Jalet-Miller, Sheri Holman, Kitty Stewart, Andrea Amadio, Dina Siciliano, Steve Reynolds, Abbe Bates, Brock Pennington, Ben Schrank, Dawn McAvoy, and Lisa Sewell.
Finally, with love and gratitude to the Blue Mountain Center, and to my gifted and gracious agent, Alice Fried Martell, a woman who is as wise as she is kind.
About the Author
JILLIAN MEDOFF is also the author of Good Girls Gone Bad. She has been a writer-in-residence at the MacDowell Colony, Blue Mountain Center, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She lives in New York City.
www.hungerpoint.com
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“Rich with sweetness and depth…. It’s about families: the terrible things they do to each other, the lengths they go to save one another.”
—Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“An exuberant meditation on life…. At once heartbreaking and funny, a debut novel that is strong and honest…. Medoff displays unwavering honesty in capturing the silent fears, thoughts, and secret confidences of women, and a real talent for making those truths not morosely tragic, but simply human and funny.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Medoff’s successful debut chronicles both the struggles and the ultimate triumph of a heroine who must graduate from cracking wise to attaining actual wisdom.”
—Glamour
“[An] affecting…funny novel that confronts the terrors of anorexia and other modern ills with empathy and understanding.”
—People
“Uproariously funny…promising and revealing and tailor-made for readers fighting memories of…stolen self-esteem.”
—Newsday
“Frannie is a wry, witty heroine who manages to be both sarcastic and poignant…. Medoff skillfully captures Frannie’s impotence in the face of food and her parents’ well-meaning but destructive love [and has] accomplished a rare feat: capturing the delicate emotional nuances of bulimia and anorexia.”
—Boston Herald
“Medoff tells this tale with irreverence and a wicked sense of humor…. Ultimately, the book is about hope, the ability of the human spirit to triumph….[Frannie] shines a spotlight on the messages society sends young women in confused times, and takes you with her on her journey to learn who she is and to build a life for herself.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“In her seamless first novel, Jillian Medoff explores the relationship of women to food, sex, men, and each other…. Frannie’s voice is bright, wry, vulgar, and brilliantly contemporary…. [Frannie’s] personal grace, strength, and warmth embody the power and ultimate success of Hunger Point.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Sometimes after heartbreak, survivors emerge from a great loss with a restored dignity and a greater capacity to love. We cheer when Frannie surfaces with a new boyfriend, a better job, and a stronger self-image; we knew she was a winner all along.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Medoff has written a novel that is so powerful, painful, and shocking that the memory of her message will last much longer than it would in a nonfiction format. [She] has embossed the symptoms and patterns of eating disorders into characters. Her heroine, Frannie, is more than a fictional device. She’s a remarkable feat of writing skills…. There’s humor without comedy; there is sadness without pathos. So the messages come across without effort.”
—Oklahoman (Oklahoma City)
“Hunger Point delivers one of the most fully realized narrators to come along in years—a sultry, suburban Holden Caufield. It also details, in sections alternately hilarious and harrowing, the turbulent relationships women forge with their own bodies.”
—Paper
“If it’s possible to carry off a novel on the strength of the heroine’s voice alone, then that’s precisely what first novelist Medoff has done…. Refreshingly candid.”
—Booklist
“Memorable…. Believable characters (especially Frannie’s loving grandfather and her egotistical friend Abby) enliven the narrative…. Frannie [is an] appealing character whose story is engaging.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Witty…[and] harrowing.”
—New York Post
“In her first novel, Medoff—and Frannie [Medoff’s heroine]—save themselves with funny dialogue and by pulling themselves together.”
—Dallas Morning News
“The wisecracking heroine of Jillian Medoff’s bitterly funny Hunger Point deals with her dysfunctional universe by gorging herself on sex.”
—Vanity Fair
“It’s easy to identify with Frannie, as she begins to realize that no matter how much she loves her sister, she may not be able to save her…. When Frannie finally takes control of her life, we cheer for her.”
—Seventeen
“The novel is Frannie’s semi-picaresque odyssey from self-loathing to self-acceptance and sanity [and] is as recklessly candid as perhaps only a first novel can be.”
—New York Times
“Food is drug, penance, and whip in Medoff’s Hunger Point, a novel of starving and gorging.”
—Village Voice
“Jillian Medoff’s Hunger Point tells [the anorexic’s story] through the horrific, bewildered eyes of the anorexic’s sister…. [This book] is among the few current novels that talk about the soul.”
—Allure
“[A]ppealing details in the first part of [Hunger Point] multiply in the second half, creating a world not unlike Anne Tyler’s…. The Hunters’ lives become kookier, and Medoff begins to explore how the members of this dysfunctional family deal with the death of a sister and daughter.”
—Time Out New York
Copyright
HUNGER POINT. Copyright © 1997 by JILLIAN MEDOFF. All rights
reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition February 2007 ISBN 9780061745706
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