The Year I Didn't Eat

by Pollen

  When we finally got home, Mum and Dad acted all happy and smiley. Dad said he’d missed us, as if he’d never been there and we’d just decided to go on holiday without him. He gave me a big hug, even though he hates hugging me now, because I’m so thin. I started to wonder if maybe everything will work out. But he didn’t give Mum a hug.

  Since then, everything’s been really tense. It’s like … my parents have been walking on eggshells around me for a year. And now, they’re walking on eggshells around each other, too. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but it doesn’t feel good.

  Sorry, this is super-boring. I’ll shut up now. Thanks for writing to me. And if you don’t want to write back, I won’t blame you.

  M

  August 12

  OMG, THE SAME THING HAPPENED TO ME! I must’ve gone away like the exact day you sent that. That sounds like a big fat lie, doesn’t it? But I promise, I’m not bullshitting you. By the time that letter arrived, I was already on a plane.

  So, um, yeah. Hopefully you’re still hanging in there?

  I’m not going to lie, your life sounds like a mess. Total car crash, to be honest. So how about I tell you what’s going on in my life? It might make you feel a bit better.

  It was supposed to be just me and my dad going on holiday. But at the last minute, Dad told me Katya was coming, too. “Who the hell is Katya?“ you ask? GOOD QUESTION, my friend. I’d never even heard of Katya before I found out I was going on holiday with her. You know why? Because Dad only met her TWO WEEKS AGO.

  Well, I can inform you that Katya is a complete bitch. She tried to be nice to me for like five minutes, but got upset that I didn’t immediately start pretending that she was my new mum. And Dad took her side, because he starts acting like a total idiot whenever some woman he fancies shows up. Apparently, I “wasn’t trying hard enough,” and I needed to “understand that he had feelings, too.” Which I do. The only problem was, Dad felt the need to express those feelings by taking Katya back to his hotel room roughly every five minutes. If you know what I mean.

  I spent the whole holiday kicking around the pool on my own, while my dad screwed some woman called Katya. Katya what? Come to think of it, I don’t have a honking clue what her last name is. I bet Dad doesn’t either.

  But hey, maybe tomorrow really will be different, and my dad will dump Katya, and your mum and dad will sort things out, and everything will be sweet. You never know, right?

  The good news is, I’m back for the rest of the summer now. I’ll check you-know-where again tomorrow.

  E

  P.S. Happy birthday! You never said what presents you got. Spill the beans!

  August 14

  Okay, you’ll probably think I’m a total weirdo when I tell you what I got. But you asked, so here goes:

  —A new phone. That’s not too weird I guess.

  —A coat. By which I mean a massive furry parka. Who gets a coat in the middle of August, right? But I’m freezing all the time.

  —A soft toy fox. It’s for my dog, Sultan. Sultan’s birthday is two days after mine, so he always gets a present on my birthday, too (except this year I had to give it to him when we got back from Italy). I’m not gonna lie, he looks pretty cute carrying a toy fox around in his mouth.

  —A bee hotel. You’re probably wondering what the hell that is. The name pretty much covers it: It’s a hotel for bees. There are porters and a swimming pool and … Okay, I’m lying. It’s basically a set of little tubes for rare bees to make nests in. My brother made it for me.

  —A TON of books. Including two copies of this one I really wanted, called The Life of a Cuckoo. Somehow my mum and my dad both bought it for me. Given everything that’s going on, it was a bit awkward.

  You’re probably thinking, “Um, why did you ask for a book about cuckoos?” Allow me to nerd out for a minute. I don’t know if you’re into birds or whatever, but cuckoos are kind of amazing. Instead of raising their own chicks, they lay them in other birds’ nests, so the chicks grow up surrounded by complete strangers. And as soon as they hatch, they kill the other chicks, and gobble all of the food. The new parents don’t even realize what’s going on. Crazy, right?

  I guess being on your own makes you tough. Come to think of it: If Katya starts giving you shit again, you should definitely go all cuckoo on her. Wait—brain wave! I have a spare copy of this book anyway. I’ll leave it in my cache for you. Maybe it will inspire you, ha-ha.

  Anyway, things have got better here since I last wrote. It doesn’t seem quite as tense. Tonight, we’re all having dinner as a family—my brother’s coming over, too. I’m thinking maybe my mum and dad have worked things out. I guess I’ll find out.

  I’ll write back soon.

  M

  21

  My first-ever memory is from the Cheshire County Show, age four, when a goat head-butted my ice cream out of my hand. My second-ever memory is from a holiday to the Black Forest. It must’ve been the following summer, when I was five. We were at a campsite deep in the forest, where one night they spit-roasted a whole wild boar. I remember walking through the trees, under stars so bright they cast shadows in the forest, toward a big, orange fire in the distance.

  What’s your first memory? What about the first birthday party you can remember, and the first Christmas? I bet at least one of them involves food. I asked Mum and Dad about their first date once. Mum said, “We went to an Italian place. I can’t remember much except that your dad had spaghetti with clams, which seemed very grown-up to me.”

  The big moments in your life, the ones that really matter? They all involve food. We use food to celebrate, to commemorate, to keep kids happy when they’re driving us nuts. Food is what keeps us alive. But it’s way more than that. For most people—for normal people—it’s a pretty big part of what makes their life worth living.

  If you’re anorexic, you carry these happy food memories around with you, every day. I think about this a lot. Probably too much. If you’re addicted to drugs or alcohol, you can always think back to a happier time, before those things were part of your life. But if you’re addicted to not eating, every memory you have turns sour on you.

  This probably won’t work.

  Lindsay’s not stupid. She’s bound to see right through it. On the other hand, she’s nice enough—trusting enough—that she might believe me.

  And it’s not like I’ve got anything to lose.

  I weighed myself this morning: —. I’m now five feet tall: half an inch taller than I was the last time I saw Lindsay. The jury’s still out on how much anorexia stunts your growth; it probably depends on how long you have it for and how bad it is. But for the first time ever, I’m taller than Aunt Jess.

  That means my BMI is now under —. Lindsay’s going to hate me.

  Since I weighed myself, I’ve drunk four pints of water, eaten one slice of toast and spread, and half a cucumber, which was the best way I could think of upping my weight without adding too many calories.

  Still a few calories, though. You could have done without the toast.

  I’ve also taken the wrappers off two Kit Kat Chunkys and one Snickers. I didn’t want to just throw the bars away, so I wrapped them in a tissue and left them in my bedside drawer. I guess I’ll give them to Ram when I see him.

  There’s one wrapper in my pocket and two in my rucksack. I don’t know which is where: I thought it would be more natural if I didn’t. At some point, if everything goes to plan, I’m going to get my phone out of my pocket and drop a wrapper on the ground. And then, when Lindsay gives me my worksheet—I get one after every session—I’m going to open my rucksack right in front of her.

  If you pull this off, she won’t bother you. She’ll leave you alone.

  I’m trying. But she doesn’t understand. She needs to think I’m eating, so she can see how hard I’m trying.

  It probably won’t work. But I’ve got to do something.

  “How was your holiday?”

  We’ve been having th
is conversation for ten months now. It’s always exactly the same. Five minutes of smiley small talk about my life, and then she starts asking the questions I don’t want to answer. How do you feel? Any dizziness, numbness, or pain?

  Bad. Awful. Yes, yes, and yes.

  Say whatever you need to say to shut her up.

  “It was good,” I tell her. “I saw a honey buzzard.”

  This is my practice lie. The lie before the yeah-I’m-totally-eating-loads-of-chocolate-bars-what-are-you-talking-about lie. I want to see if I crumble under pressure, or if I have some kind of tell Lindsay can spot a mile off.

  But she’s delighted. She swallows it whole. “That’s brilliant, Max!” she says, as if I’ve just cured cancer.

  Then she pauses. Normally, she’d ask about a million follow-up questions. Where did you see it? Was it flying? Was it a male or a female? She gets pretty excited when I volunteer any information whatsoever about my life. But right now, she looks a little lost, like she doesn’t know what to say next.

  Which never happens.

  “Max,” she says eventually, in that I’m-about-to-say-something-important voice that you can spot a mile off, even if you’ve never heard it from that person before. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about your holiday? It can help to talk through these things, even if it feels painful.”

  And then I twig: She knows what happened.

  I shake my head.

  “These sessions are your chance to get things off your chest,” she says. “Anything you say will stay in this room.”

  She wants me to open up to her. She wants me to say, My brother left home because he’s sick of me, and then my dad left our holiday early because he couldn’t stand the idea of spending any more time with my mum, or with me, or with both of us. I haven’t seen any of my friends in a month, and I’m not sure I want to, except for the girl who I’m in love with or something, who calls me a dickhead when I see her or ignores me completely, and who still hasn’t replied to the note I left her three days ago. Oh, and I’m now officially “dangerously underweight,” but I still feel like a whale.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Max, I know this all must be very upsetting for you. But your mum and dad both want what’s best for you. They’re both on your side, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. It’s not okay, but I figure going along with what Lindsay’s saying is the best way of ending this conversation ASAP.

  “And if you are worried about anything, you can contact me anytime.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “So,” Lindsay says, trying to sound cheery again. “What have you got planned for the rest of the summer?”

  Well, gosh, Lindsay, I’m not sure. I thought I might join a lacrosse team or start learning to play the flute. What does she want from me? I’m going to sit in my room and read and play video games. Like always.

  I shrug.

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m going on holiday next week. To Devon.”

  “Cool,” I say. It’s kind of impressive how Lindsay can sustain a conversation all by herself. “Have fun.”

  “I’m taking my dog with me,” she says.

  I look up. “I didn’t know you had a dog,” I say. I know I’m being tricked: This is a way to get me to talk. But I want to know about the dog. Then I think: Could she have made up the dog? Is she allowed to lie to me, like I lie to her? Are there rules about what psychologists can and can’t say to get gullible idiots like me to talk?

  “I’ve got an Australian shepherd,” Lindsay says.

  “Oh, cool,” I say. Except I mean it this time. “What’s he called?”

  “She’s called Sheila,” Lindsay says.

  I laugh. It’s literally the first time I’ve laughed in a week. No, wait—the second time. I laughed at Evie’s letter, too. “Cool name. She should meet Sultan some time.”

  Lindsay beams at me. “That would be wonderful, Max. What breed is Sultan again?”

  “A red setter.”

  “I love red setters,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. If she’s lying about wanting our dogs to meet, she’s really bloody good at it.

  I’m wondering if she’s going to do an I-told-you-so. You see, Max? There’s still plenty to be happy about. Go play with your dog and smell the roses. But she doesn’t. She probably wants me to join the dots myself.

  “Okay, Max, I think we should probably call it a day.”

  Wait. What?

  We haven’t talked about my weight once. She weighed me at the start, as usual, but she hasn’t mentioned it at all. I’ve lost another pound since I was last here. I figured I was at least going to get a lecture. I thought today might be the day Lindsay decided I need inpatient treatment.

  But … nothing. Has she made a mistake?

  Hooray! Mission accomplished. Now get the hell out of there.

  “Thanks for coming in today,” she says, getting up out of her chair. “Say hello to Sultan for me, won’t you?”

  22

  I’ve started making a list of all the reasons why—everything I can think of that could have nudged me in Ana’s direction. It’s not like I think it’s going to fix me. I’m starting to doubt that anything can fix me. But ever since Italy, I’ve had this feeling, like, maybe if I understand better, I can learn how to live with this. We can all learn how to live with Ana.

  I haven’t written any of it down. From now on, stuff like this stays in my head. But that’s okay. It turns out, Ana’s made me pretty good at remembering stuff. Finally, I get to use one of her weapons against her.

  Reason #1

  We’re kind of health conscious, as a family. For example, I have never knowingly eaten a meal at home that didn’t contain at least one vegetable. Most people would consider this a good thing. But I reckon you can take it too far.

  Reason #2

  Food is never just food in my house. There’s always a conversation. For instance, did you know that almost all bananas are clones, and that in the 1920s, we used to have a tastier kind of banana, but it got wiped out by a fungus? Probably not, right? But I did, because Dad talks about stuff like this 24/7. I guess how I’d put it is, we always put a lot of focus on food. I’ve been trained to think about where it comes from, who made it, what they got paid. Again, this should be a good thing.

  Reason #3

  As well as being health conscious, we’re also pretty particular. Especially Dad. Sure, he never gets mad, but that’s partly because everything in our house is exactly the way he wants it to be. All of our books are alphabetized. Our herbs and spices are alphabetized, for crying out loud. Mum’s a bit like this, too, and I think it’s rubbed off on me, however much I didn’t want it to. When I see something slightly out of place, I get this prickly feeling in my neck. I can’t stop thinking about it until I’ve put it right. (Robin is definitely not like this, by the way. When he was at home, his bedroom looked like it had been raided by the FBI. I can’t even imagine what it’s like now that he doesn’t have Mum nagging at him all the time.)

  Lindsay told me once that anorexia can be related to OCD: People who have one often have the other. I don’t have OCD, but I maybe have some of the same traits. Like, when I was little, I always used to wash my hands in this particular way: I’d rub the soap exactly four times across each hand—first the back, then the palm. If I got it wrong, I had to start over. I kind of grew out of it. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe it just grew into something else.

  Reason #4

  This isn’t a new one, but … the money/waste thing. For a family who has never been poor, we’re totally neurotic about money. And the absolute worst thing that can happen in our house is if we let some food go bad and have to throw it away.

  For me, the money part only really kicked in on that first trip to Italy. But I’d probably sucked it up by osmosis before then. Now it’s the main thing I think about—when I’m not thinking about food, of course.

  Reason #5

  My parents want me to be
an overachiever. Or to put it another way, they want me to turn out different from Robin. Don’t get me wrong: They’ve never told me this. They never would. But it’s true. There was this one evening last year, right before I got ill. I overheard them. Dad was telling Mum about how much I love zoology—which I guess is true—but made me feel like a total dweeb. Anyway, Mum was like, Do you think we have a science genius on our hands? Dad replied, It would be a nice change from a creative genius, and they both started laughing. This was before Robin got his apprenticeship, when he was just a guy who made the odd birdhouse but didn’t really know what to do with his life.

  They wanted me to be the stable, sensible, high-flying one. The one who alphabetizes his herbs and spices. The one who’s always in control. In which case, this year must have been the biggest letdown in history.

  So there you have it. Five reasons why I turned out the way I did, maybe. Do they add up to anorexia? Do they explain why Ana decided to climb into my head? You wouldn’t think so, right? Maybe there’s some extra element I’m forgetting. Some broken wiring in my brain I don’t know about.

  What I do know is, I don’t see any of these things changing. I’m not sure I even want them to change. If finding a way to live with Ana means changing who I am, what am I supposed to do?

  So far, nothing. I’ve been to my cache twice since Tuesday. The book is still there. My note’s still there.

  Third time lucky, right?

  I’ve got Sultan with me today. Walking him is one of the few chores Mum and Dad still ask me to do, but I usually take him to the quiet patch of farmland behind our house, rather than the Common. Because when you’re out and about with Sultan, people come up and talk to you all the time. He’s too cute. In fact, even when I don’t have him, they sometimes come up and say, Where’s Sultan?

  Once we get to the heather on the far side of the lake, I reach down and unclip his leash. He trots over to a clump of brambles twenty yards in front of us, roots around. I assume he’s looking for somewhere to pee, but when I get closer, I realize he’s eating the blackberries.