by Pollen
Are you sure you didn’t put more than an ounce of ham in your sandwich?
Is that your sixth grape, or was the one you just ate your sixth?
How much did that apple weigh again?
You don’t know. You’re not sure. You’re not in control anymore.
I don’t know if I mentioned it, but I already think about food 90 percent of the time. If I don’t write stuff down, I’m pretty sure I can wave good-bye to the last 10 percent of my sanity.
“Can I ask a question?” Dad says.
“Of course,” says Lindsay, swiveling her smile thirty degrees. “Go ahead, Mr. Howarth.”
“Rebecca and I,” he says, reaching over and putting his hand on Mum’s. I could swear she flinches. “We’ve been trying our best to make this work for Max.” He looks at me. “Because we love you, buddy. We’ll do whatever we have to. And that diary … well, I think you’re right, Dr. Hughes. You’re dead right. That diary’s now in charge. And to be honest, it puts a big strain on the family.”
He turns to look at Mum, like this comment is aimed especially at her. She smiles weakly at him. I reckon she’s thinking the same thing I am: What am I supposed to say to that?
Dad carries on. “But at the same time, it’s given Max a way to organize things. And I worry about taking it away.”
“I understand,” says Lindsay. “Max, what do you think about that?”
“Um,” I mumble.
I should be happy, because Dad’s stuck up for the whole diary idea. But I’m not even thinking about that. I’m focusing on what Dad said: I put a big strain on the family. Okay, this isn’t exactly new information. For instance, Robin told me the exact same thing three days ago. But it’s new to hear Dad say it.
“It’s … I don’t know,” I stutter eventually.
“That’s okay,” says Lindsay. “I think your dad makes an excellent point. This could be a little disruptive. At the same time, I do want to try it because I think it might help you be a little more relaxed around food. So how about we give it a go for two weeks, and we’ll talk about how it went in our next session. If we need to come up with an alternative plan, that’s fine. And, Mr. Howarth, if you have any concerns at all, you can call me anytime. Okay?”
Dad actually gets up and shakes Lindsay’s hand at this point, like he’s just bought a used car from her. With his genes, no wonder I’m such a weirdo.
February 13
Dear Ana,
Some days are normal. Some days, everything is okay, and I eat three square meals, pretty much, even if those squares are ridiculously small squares.
Some days, I can almost pretend there’s nothing wrong.
Today I got up, ate my toast, and took Sultan for a walk on the Common. When I got home, I read a book for a bit, then played Zelda. Then I helped Mum make lunch: quiche and salad. And I ate it all without making a fuss.
No, it’s more than that. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed eating my lunch! I wasn’t adding up the numbers in my head with every mouthful or worrying about whether my slice of quiche was bigger or smaller than Mum’s or whether it represented exactly a quarter of the total. I was just … eating it. Chewing it, swallowing it, tasting it.
I didn’t even think about you once.
After lunch, I did some math homework until Robin came home. He’s been at the workshop a lot lately; it kind of feels like he’s been avoiding me since the Incident. But today, he asked me if I wanted to go to the Common and look at birds. To be clear, Robin has zero interest in looking at birds. But that made it even nicer, like he was doing it for me. We didn’t see anything particularly special: coots, mallards, herring gulls, Canada geese, and one shelduck. But I didn’t care.
Tea was okay, too. We had oven pizza—margherita, which is my favorite because the toppings are basically uniform, so there’s no decision you have to make about which slice has the most ham, or the least. I cut my slice with protractor precision, made a little salad, did the numbers, made sure I was happy before digging in. And it was all fine. We had a completely normal conversation about the new tapir enclosure at the zoo. The only wobble was dessert, when I said I’d have some apple pie, then, uh … I kind of ended up feeding most of it to Sultan under the table. But it wasn’t a big deal.
The whole day was completely uneventful. Completely normal.
It was the best day I’ve had in weeks.
And now I’m sitting here, trying to figure out why. What’s the pattern? Is there some kind of rule I’m missing? What made today different from yesterday or the day before? How did I manage to stay in control? Because if I can find out what happened, I can repeat it. I can stack up normal days until I’m living a normal life.
Maybe it was to do with the cooking: I was always involved. Or maybe it was because I only ate things that divided into easy-to-measure portions. But then I remember the last time I felt normal. It was about two weeks ago, and I’m pretty sure we had spaghetti with meatballs—aka, the most impossible-to-portion food in the world.
That blows that theory.
Is it because I’m not keeping a food diary anymore? Maybe—I have to admit, it’s not been as bad as I thought it would be. But that’s mostly because I’ve been reciting the numbers like some kind of monk’s chant so there’s no way I can lose track. And like I said, this isn’t the first time I’ve felt like this.
Maybe it was the weather or a blip in my brain chemistry, or—who knows—the way the planets were aligned. Was it a full moon? I could be a kind of reverse were-eater: I stop being crazy about food when there’s a full moon.
Wait a second—I just realized something. I’m tearing my hair out trying to figure out how to control my anorexia. But needing to control everything is part of the problem. It’s an anorexic’s—sorry, a person with anorexia’s—solution. I don’t need to give you ground rules, Ana. I’m sick of rules. What I need to do is kick you out of my head for good, and never ever let you back in.
9
We’re on our way to Auntie Jess’s house to babysit for the weekend. I figured it would be a good way to show Robin that I really am sorry about the Incident. Plus, a change of scene is supposed to make you feel better, right?
Robin’s really quiet on the drive over. I can’t tell if he’s decided he’s mad at me again or if it’s something else.
“How’s work?” I ask him, trying to start a conversation.
“Fine.”
That’s all he says.
When we arrive, Auntie Jess and Uncle Rich are loading stuff into the car. Lots of stuff. They’re only going away for two days, but the back seat of the hybrid Uncle Rich keeps telling us about is so full you can barely see through the rear window.
Auntie Jess has made a long list of things we should do while we’re staying, and an even longer list of things we shouldn’t. For example, we have to make sure James drinks water or Ribena, not Coke. We can’t eat the Gouda in the cupboard, which they got from Holland last year and are saving for a special occasion of some kind. We can’t use the downstairs toilet. Even though she’s written all this down, Auntie Jess still talks us through each item. It takes about an hour. Uncle Rich sits in the car the whole time, beeping the horn every so often and shouting, “Jess, we need to go.”
Even Mum, who tries her best not to say anything negative about anyone, admits that her sister is a tad high-maintenance. I guess it runs in the family. On Tuesday, Mum called her to talk through the meal plan for the weekend. We agreed she’d buy stuff in for tonight: steak pies with new potatoes and French beans. Tomorrow morning, Robin and I will go shopping for the rest of the food, so I can keep track of everything.
When Auntie Jess finally leaves, the first thing I do is go to the fridge and check the nutritional information on the steak pies.
It’s a lot. I knew it was going to be heavy, but it’s way more than I thought. Each one contains more than half the calories I eat in a day. I’m already feeling pretty nervous about this weekend’s eating, given a) James and Lou
ise will probably ask awkward questions, because that’s what kids do; and b) I’m still getting used to the whole no-diary thing. It wasn’t too bad when I was at home because I could work everything out in my head in advance. But I can’t do that here. And I’m sharing a room with Robin, so it’s not like I can even lie about it.
You’ll end up like a sumo wrestler if you eat one of those.
I put the pies down on the side, go over to the fridge, and push against it as hard as I can, because I need to do something with my body other than scream.
A moment later, Robin comes in. “What kid sits down quietly and starts doing watercolors …” He’s talking about Louise. But he trails off when he sees me. “What’s up?”
“I can’t eat those pies,” I tell him.
“No problem,” he says. “But you have to have something else instead.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. Sometimes, he’s exactly like Dad.
We go and peer into the fridge together.
“Cheese?” he says.
A lump of cheese is my usual fallback at home, when Mum and Dad and Robin are having something I don’t want to eat. Something I can’t eat. It’s way easier than meat. Every piece of meat is different: There are seams of fat, dark bits, and light bits. You never know quite what you’re going to get. But cheese—at least, hard yellow cheese—is the same all the way through.
I nod.
“But not the Gouda,” he says, in this high-pitched voice that doesn’t really sound anything like Auntie Jess.
And in spite of everything, I burst out laughing.
The next morning, we all walk to the supermarket together. Louise is delighted about this. James isn’t. The whole way there, he lists useful things he could be doing if we weren’t dragging him to the supermarket—things like putting the washing on, mowing the lawn, and getting ahead with his math homework.
“Sure,” says Robin. He gives James a yeah-right look. “Or watching the rest of that season of Bob’s Burgers.”
James scowls.
But Louise is thrilled. She keeps asking me about what we’re having. And then suggesting changes. I LOVE pizza. Can we have ice cream instead of yogurt? I’m not sure how to tell her, If we do that, I’ll go Hulk-crazy on you.
As usual, Robin knows what to do. “Signed off by your mum,” he explains. “She’ll go nuts if we change things now.”
Louise nods solemnly.
I spent hours figuring out the meal plan for this weekend. It goes like this:
Friday
Tea
Steak pie, new potatoes, and French beans
Sponge cake
Saturday
Breakfast
Toast and cereal
Lunch
Ham-and-tomato sandwiches
Yogurt
Tea
Pizza, garlic bread, and salad
Sliced peaches with cream and digestive biscuits
Sunday
Breakfast
Muesli
Lunch
Shepherd’s pie and peas
Apple crumble
Actually, it’s more complicated than that. There are really two columns: one for me, one for everyone else. Mine doesn’t include sponge cake or garlic bread, and it has stewed fruit instead of crumble … you get the picture.
I’ve stuck to the rules: I haven’t written down the calories anywhere. But if you asked me, right now, I could tell you the exact number for every item on that list. Even the ones I’m not actually eating.
When Mum showed it to Auntie Jess, she was delighted. Apparently, she asked if I could plan all of James’s and Louise’s meals. Turns out I’m much better at feeding other people than I am at feeding Max Howarth.
When we get to the supermarket, Robin grabs a cart and just says, Lead the way, little bro. I get the fresh veg first: lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumber for the salad. Carrots for the shepherd’s pie. Easy peasy. When we get to the bakery section, James and Louise both demand iced buns. Robin refuses. While they’re distracted, I grab the bread I want: Hovis Soft White Medium. I know from looking in their bread bin last night that it isn’t what they normally have, and I’ve been worrying about whether they’ll kick up a fuss. I put the loaf in the cart and cover it with a bag of salad so they don’t notice it. Fortunately, they’re still arguing about the iced buns.
Hey, crazy thought. Maybe they have, like, actual lives, and don’t care what kind of bread you get?
When we get back, we have lunch, which goes okay, then watch four episodes of Bob’s Burgers back to back. There’s only one awkward moment, which is when Robin talks about bingeing—as in, on TV—then realizes what he’s said, and stops dead and looks at me.
I decide to wind him up and try to act like I’m shocked. Like I’m about to cry. I last for about two seconds, then burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” James asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
He scowls at me.
“Hey,” says Robin, pausing the TV and getting up from the sofa. “Who wants to play a board game?”
“Ummm …,” I say.
I like board games: They’re one of the few social activities that doesn’t involve eating or drinking. But James is nine, and Louise is only seven. At our house, we normally play things like Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit, whereas when the Donalds come over, they usually choose the Game of Life, which is what Robin witheringly calls a game of chance.
So, yeah, I’m kind of skeptical whether we’re going to agree on anything. I give Robin an eyebrow wiggle that I’m hoping he’ll interpret as It will be rubbish and/or How about a jigsaw instead? But either he’s ignoring me, or he doesn’t understand. He turns to Louise. “Wanna show us what you’ve got, Louise?”
Before I can say anything, she’s bounding up the stairs. We follow her up.
The games cupboard is in Louise’s bedroom. Actually, it’s pretty much the same size as her bedroom. It’s like a walk-in wardrobe, but for games. There are literally hundreds of boxes in there, stacked right up to the ceiling. Board games, jigsaws, boxes of Lego. We all peer in, like Egyptologists who’ve discovered a new burial chamber.
“Boggle?” says Robin, after maybe twenty seconds.
Louise looks at him with a screwed-up face, like she’s been sucking on a lime.
“Okay then,” he says breezily. “Um … how about Risk?”
“Don’t play Risk with her,” says James. He looks at his sister and narrows his eyes. “She guilt-trips you into un-invading areas you’ve won, so she can win them back.”
“I think that’s called diplomacy,” says Robin. “Okay then, cards? Farmer’s Bridge?”
“Farmer’s Bridge?” Louise sniffs the air suspiciously? “I’ve never played that.”
“Me either,” says James. “It sounds weird.”
“It’s great,” Robin says. “And super-easy to pick up. Right, Max?”
He reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a Tupperware box stuffed with decks of cards.
“Right,” I say, mainly because I don’t think there’s much point in saying anything else.
Farmer’s Bridge actually is pretty simple. Each round, you guess how many tricks you’re going to win, and you only score if you win exactly that number. You start with one card, then two, then three, and so on all the way up to eight, and then back down. There’s a bit of skill in predicting your tricks and knowing when to win or lose them. But it’s at least 50 percent luck.
As soon as we sit down at the table, before Robin’s even started shuffling the cards, James asks, “Can I have a snack while we play?”
I’m pretty sure my jaw actually drops, like in a cartoon. We finished lunch at 1:30. Since then, James has eaten an apple, a Snickers, and three custard creams. It’s 3:26.
“Sure,” Robin says. “I think I saw some Doritos in the cupboard. How about those?”
I doubt Auntie Jess would be too keen on this idea, especially after all those biscuits—which is probably why James
looks like he’s won the lottery. But I’m not going to get involved. Robin goes into the kitchen, then shouts back to us: “Tangy Cheese or Cool Original?”
“Cool Original!”
“Tangy Cheese!”
They answer at the exact same time, then turn and scowl at each other. They’ve had this argument before.
But Robin is a peacemaker: He opens both packs and gives them one each. Fine—as long as no one makes me have any. I’ve not eaten Doritos since I’ve been ill, but I still know the numbers on the back of the pack. I can recite calorie counts for things I haven’t had in years off by heart. I can tell you that the fruit flavors of Pop-Tarts—Frosted Blueberry, Frosted Raspberry, and Strawberry Sensation—are the most calorific. And I can tell you the calories in any dish on the McDonald’s menu, even though I’ve only eaten there once in the past year, and all I had was an apple pie.
Yeah, I know. This is the worst party trick ever. I am the world’s most boring encyclopedia.
James doesn’t do well in the first couple of rounds, mainly because he’s too busy stuffing his face to concentrate. He’s like a machine: He scoops up the next handful of Doritos while he’s still chewing the last, and crams it in on top, then dips his hand into the bag again. At one point, he turns to look at me like, What’s up? and I realize I’ve been staring at him for five minutes.
So he doesn’t play well, and neither do I. I wonder whether he’s going to get huffy about losing, but he doesn’t seem to care much. He finishes the Doritos by pouring the powder at the bottom of the bag into his mouth. Louise is stuffing her face, too, but apparently she can concentrate on eating and kicking our butts at the same time. She’s winning by fifty points, and we’re only four rounds in.