The Year I Didn't Eat

by Pollen

  “You’re a smart dog,” I tell him. He doesn’t look up. When I was little, we used to go blackberry picking every summer. I had always scarfed down at least half of the blackberries by the time we got back. I consider following Sultan’s lead and eating some now. Maybe just one, for old time’s sake. I go through the numbers in my head, trying to figure out how many calories are in one blackberry.

  Too many.

  I head toward the oak tree, calling to Sultan every so often so he doesn’t get too far behind.

  Mum and Dad are planning something for tonight. I’m not sure what exactly. Robin’s coming over, and they asked me to make sure I was home and showered by six. Like I have anywhere else to be. Okay, I said to Mum. I’ll see if I can squeeze you in.

  It’s still going to be there. I know it is. She’s already got bored and moved on. Or, alternative theory: She came, read the note, saw the book, decided I was a psycho, and ran a mile.

  Who could blame her?

  I hear a scuffle and look up. Sultan’s chasing a squirrel, hell for leather. The squirrel zips up a tree, and Sultan stands at the bottom, barking, showing it who’s boss. He never managed to catch anything even when he was young, and now, he moves much too slowly. But he’ll keep trying. He doesn’t give up.

  “Sultan!” I call. He ignores me the first time, and the second. “Sultan! Sultan!” He looks up at me, like, Can’t you see I’m busy?

  “Suit yourself,” I say. I’m at the oak tree now. I boost myself up, reach up to the hole, and pull out the box.

  A stream of water pours onto my head and down my neck.

  “Bollocks!” I shout.

  For a moment, I’m confused. Then it comes back to me: the storm. Last night, I woke up to the sound of rain punching at my window.

  Someone didn’t put the lid back on properly. They slid it into the groove on one side, but not the other.

  Was it me?

  I slide the lid off with a jerk, pour out the water, then peer in.

  The book is gone. And everything else is soaked.

  Including a blue note.

  23

  “What’s up, Grumpy Guts?” Robin says, as soon as I walk through the door. “You look like you’ve just kissed a trout.”

  “I saw your car in the drive,” I reply. The thing with Robin is, you’ve got to meet him head-on. Even if you don’t feel like it. It’s a universal law of big brothers: If you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.

  He crosses the kitchen to give me a hug. “Good to see you, little bro.”

  I shrug. “You too. I guess. Is Dad home?”

  “Not yet, love,” Mum shouts from the kitchen. Robin rolls his eyes at me, to indicate that he disapproves of her listening to our conversation. “He’s stopping at Silk Dragon on his way home.”

  I’d forgotten we were having takeaway, mainly because I’m not. Takeaways are an anorexic’s worst nightmare. They’re greasy, the portions are huge, and (even worse) inconsistent. I have a strict no-takeaways policy, although I did agree to sushi once. Mum usually tries to persuade me to have something, and we end up arguing about it for twenty minutes or so. But today, she says right off the bat, Are you okay to have something from the cupboard? So I’m having my go-to cupboard meal: half a can of Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup, and two Ryvita Dark Rye Crispbreads.

  Robin asks me if I want to play Mario Kart, so we do that for half an hour until Dad gets back.

  “You should come stay with me for a weekend,” Robin tells me, as we hurtle through Bowser’s Castle. He’s playing as Koopa Troopa, as always. I’m Yoshi. He’ll win by about three seconds. It’s pretty nice doing something the same way we’ve always done it, where I know exactly what to expect. It feels comfortable, like a pair of old jogger bottoms. I can almost pretend things are how they used to be.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Seriously. I’ve got a sleeping bag. There’s this big wood near my flat, it’s probably full of caches.”

  “Okay.”

  Robin pauses the game, which is awful Mario Kart form. He looks at me. “What’s up?”

  I don’t look back. “Nothing.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He unpauses, and we carry on playing in silence. I’m not trying to be rude. I know Robin’s being nice, as usual. But it’s exhausting just trying to think of things to say at the moment.

  I’m still worrying about the letter. My first thought was that maybe I’d be able to decipher it, but when I unfolded it I realized that was never going to happen. I couldn’t even make out a single word. It’s a long letter: four sheets of A4. It must’ve taken ages.

  So, what do I do now? Write a reply, like, Sorry, but could you say that again?

  As if she’d bother. She’s probably already regretting replying in the first place. This is the perfect excuse for her to bail.

  On the final lap, I’m actually ahead. Just. The course ends with this massive staircase, then a big jump over a fire pit, then a sprint toward the line. I’m on the home straight, when a red shell whacks me from behind, and guess what? Robin beats me by three seconds.

  “Thanks for coming,” Dad says when he sees Robin. It’s weirdly formal, like we’re at a funeral or something.

  Robin grins at him and nods, like, No problem, you weirdo.

  Dad’s carrying two massive paper takeaway bags. He heaves them onto the kitchen table, then sits down. We sit down, too.

  “Listen,” Dad says. We listen, but he doesn’t actually say anything. He folds and then unfolds his arms. Then crosses his legs.

  “Shall we eat first?” Mum says eventually.

  First. What’s that supposed to mean? What else is happening?

  They’re finally going to shove you in a mental asylum.

  Dad turns to Mum, looking relieved. “Okay.”

  I microwave my soup while Mum and Dad sort out the takeaway. Saying Dad over-ordered would be a bit like saying Antarctica is chilly. I know I’m not the best judge, but we have a stupid amount of food, including a whole crispy duck, three main dishes, prawn crackers, loads of wontons, and spare ribs. All for three people. Mum empties all the takeaway cartons onto plates. Most families would eat from the cartons, but Mum hates the clutter, so everything goes onto plates and bowls. Mum then spends an hour after we’ve eaten washing up. Naturally, because Dad is Dad, this includes washing up the cartons so we can use them as storage boxes. I know every family is weird, but I guarantee you mine is the weirdest.

  Before Ana arrived, Chinese was my favorite takeaway. And the thing I loved most was prawn crackers. The takeaway we go to, Silk Dragon, always gives you a massive bag, about the size of a parachute. I would’ve happily eaten them all. I don’t miss a lot of food, really. You kind of just tune the idea of food out after a while.

  But I miss prawn crackers.

  We sit down to eat. The prawn crackers are right in front of me. I want to have one. But … they’re basically deep-fried flour. If you leave them in the paper bag for half an hour, you can pretty see right through it from all the grease. Plus, they’re Robin’s favorite, too. I try to think of it as a good deed: I’m letting him polish off the whole bag. You’re welcome, big bro.

  I eat my soup and try not to think about it.

  Robin’s telling us about his latest project, which is a table made from Japanese larch. He’s got a lot to say about Japanese larch. Apparently, it has so much resin in it that you don’t need to treat it: The wood is self-oiling. Robin seems to think this is an interesting fact.

  “You don’t even need to treat it,” he says, for maybe the fourth time.

  I’m still nervous about what Mum said. Do they have something to tell us? If they do, they don’t seem to be in a hurry about it. Mum’s picking at her food, which always makes me really anxious, because anorexia is part genetic. They found this out by studying twins. Identical twins are more likely to share their anorexia than non-identical ones, which means it’s not just about your home environment.

&nb
sp; If I’m vulnerable, Mum might be, too.

  When they start treating you for anorexia, they always ask about your family history. Has anyone in your family had an eating disorder? I said no, but then I realized I had no idea. It’s not the kind of thing you tell your kids about, right? Maybe Mum was ill, too. Apparently, anorexics can be split into three roughly equal-size groups: the third who die, the third who recover completely, and the third who relapse. What if Mum used to be sick, and she’s come out the other end—and then I make her sick again?

  She could do with losing a few pounds.

  The thought hits me like a train. I hate myself for thinking it, even if it isn’t really me. I don’t know anymore. Before I can do anything, I feel the vomit coming. My eyes bulge.

  “Max? What’s wrong?”

  I close my mouth as tight as I can, press my hands over it, and sprint to the bathroom.

  I’d barely touched my soup. You know when you’re sick, and you want to throw up, but there’s nothing there? Retching on an empty stomach is even worse than throwing up food. I spit. It feels like my whole digestive tract is on fire.

  “Everything okay in there?” Dad calls through the door.

  Not really, I want to tell him. There are two thoughts running through my head:

  They’re going to think I took something.

  If Mum is sick, watching her son throw up probably isn’t going to help.

  “I’m fine,” I say. It comes out so quiet, I’m not sure Dad will even hear me through the door. But I don’t have the energy to be any louder.

  “Can I bring you some water?”

  “Dad, I’m in a bathroom.”

  “Okay,” Dad says again. He sounds a little sheepish, and I feel bad.

  Loads of anorexics take stuff that makes them throw up or go to the loo. I never have. But right now, Dad is standing outside, wondering if I’ve started trying to destroy my body in a whole new way. And Mum might be wondering about doing the same.

  There’s only one way to fix this: I have to let them know I’m all right. I have to go out there, eat my soup, smile. Show them I’m in control.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say as I come out of the bathroom. “Everything okay?”

  “You tell me,” he says. He tilts his head and looks hard at me.

  “I’m just a bit under the weather today,” I say. “But it’s nothing to worry about. Honest.”

  He looks at me with that nervous smile I’ve gotten used to: that smile that says, I love you, but I’m scared of you. I see the same smile on Mum’s face when I go back through to the dining room, and on Robin’s. It’s the look you give a big dog off its leash: friendly but nervous, because you’re not quite sure what it’ll do.

  So I do what Robin would do: I make a joke. “Sorry about that.” I do this big, obvious shrug. “I guess I didn’t like your Japanese larch story very much.”

  Robin looks surprised for a second. I’m worried that I’ve misjudged things, and he’s going to be upset. There’s a little pause. Then Mum grins and turns to Robin. “He’s only saying what everyone’s thinking, love.”

  And we all start laughing our heads off.

  When we’ve finished eating, Dad packs all the spare food into cartons and Tupperwares. And there’s a lot of spare food. Pretty much half a duck, for instance, and half of Mum’s Kung Po chicken. I notice Robin’s polished off all of the prawn crackers, though. I offer to help clean up, because I like knowing exactly what’s in the fridge, but Dad tells me to stay and chat to Robin.

  “You say it like it’s some kind of punishment, Dad,” Robin says.

  “That depends on whether you’re going to carry on telling him about Japanese larch.”

  Robin crosses his arms like, I’ve had enough of this.

  “Leave him be, Joe,” Mum says. “Now, who wants a cup of tea?”

  I feel good. It’s weird: Twenty minutes ago, it was like the world was going to end, and now, I’m having a great time. My mood’s kind of like a swift: It can zoom off in any direction, then change course in an instant.

  Okay, it probably helped that Mum did eat some food in the end.

  Robin looks at me like he’s going to say something important. Apparently, everyone’s in this kind of mood today.

  “What?” I ask him. He doesn’t respond. “Robin, what?”

  He thumbs in the direction of the living room, where my Nintendo is. “Rematch?”

  Guess what? Robin wins again, using the exact same cheap and cynical technique: a shell in my back right before the finish line.

  “I hate Mario Kart,” I say. “And you’re a terrible person.”

  “I know, little bro,” he says. He pats me on the back, then scoots away before I can punch him.

  We drift back into the dining room and sit down with our cups of tea. At which point, Dad gets all serious again. “So, I wanted us … we wanted us all to have a nice meal together, because we’ve got some news. Nothing bad.” He glances at Mum. “I mean, uh …”

  Mum cuts in to save him. “I think what your father means is, it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Exactly,” Dad says.

  “I’m on tenterhooks here,” Robin says, and rolls his eyes at me.

  But I’m not finding it funny. Something in the way Mum and Dad are acting has put me on edge.

  “As you know,” Dad carries on, ignoring Robin. He’s speaking in little bursts, with long pauses. He sounds like a hermit who’s trying to talk for the first time in years. “Your mum and I … we’ve been going through … well, a bit of a rough patch lately.”

  I glance over at Robin. A second ago, he was slumped back in his chair, grinning. Now, he’s sat up straight, with this ultra-serious look on his face.

  “We love each other very much,” Dad says. “But we’ve decided we need to spend some time apart.”

  “What do you mean?” Robin says.

  Isn’t it obvious? I want to scream at him.

  Maybe Robin knows exactly what Dad means, he just doesn’t want to believe it. On the other hand, I really don’t want to have it spelled out. I’m holding on to some tiny, stupid hope that they don’t mean what I think they mean. It’s like when you know you’ve given a wrong answer in a test: You don’t want to look at the scores, because then there’s a chance. If they don’t explain, there’s a chance this isn’t happening.

  Too late. Mum gives Robin this stern look and says, “From now on, your dad and I are going to live our own lives. Separately.”

  “Oh,” Robin says. “Shit.”

  “Language,” Dad says. But you can tell from the way he says it he doesn’t exactly mind, given the circumstances.

  For the second time this evening, I want to throw up. But this time, somehow—God knows how—I hold it in. I hold in the questions, too. More than anything, I want to ask: What about me? What happens to me? But if I wasn’t ready to hear the other thing, I’m certainly not ready for that.

  They are going to get rid of you so bloody fast.

  I try not to listen. I picture myself taping her mouth shut and throwing her down a well.

  There’s one more question, too: an even scarier one. It bounces around inside me, squeezing my organs, kicking me in the stomach, making me feel even more horrible than I already did. Which is kind of impressive. The thing is, with this one, I definitely know the answer. There’s no fooling myself when it comes to the scariest thought of all. I look at Robin, and he catches my eye, and I know he’s thinking the exact same thing I am.

  It’s my fault.

  They’re breaking up because of me.

  I open the fridge.

  The orange glow pours out onto me. The kitchen’s dark, except for the light from the fridge. It feels a bit like I’m standing in front of an alien spaceship.

  Right now, I’m totally cool with being abducted and flown off to Mars.

  Robin left in a hurry after dinner, mumbling something about an early start—even though, when he was telling us about Projec
t Larch, he said they couldn’t do anything tomorrow because they were waiting for more wood to be delivered. But I don’t really blame him for not wanting to stick around.

  It must be really late. The main road runs twenty yards behind our back garden, and you can normally hear the odd car going past, even late at night. But now there’s nothing.

  I start taking boxes out of the fridge, all of the leftovers from last night. There’s three bits of sesame toast, some sweet-and-sour pork, some beef and black bean noodles. Plus the duck and a whole thing of rice.

  I pour it all out onto a plate.

  I look at it.

  I gulp.

  There’s so much food: one huge mound that domes out of the plate like Mount Fuji. Enough for at least two normal people and at least five of me.

  But I have to eat it.

  Because if I eat it, things are okay.

  I’m okay.

  Our house won’t feel like a prison anymore.

  And who knows, maybe our family will stay together.

  I’m not stupid. I know it’s not going to change things overnight. But if the problem goes away—if I pack Ana’s bags and kick her out of the door and never let her back in, Mum and Dad could change their minds.

  I want to eat it. I want this to all be over. I want to be able to sit down and eat a takeaway with my family, like a normal functioning human being. I want to shove chocolate bars into my mouth and swap sandwiches with my friends. I want to go over to people’s houses sometimes, or go to the cinema and eat popcorn. I want to play rugby, even if I’m shit at it. And this Christmas, I want to eat loads and then sleep all afternoon, like everyone else does, like you’re supposed to, and not worry about it.

  And the only way that’s going to happen is if I make it happen.

  I start eating.

  And I don’t stop.

  24

  I guess bulimics know how this feels. But I don’t. I’ve never felt like this, not really. The closest I’ve got is stuffing a Mini Roll in my mouth and swallowing it whole. I felt a rush then: a moment of pure bliss as it slipped down my throat, Ana struck dumb, for once, by the shock of it. After three seconds, the panic hit me. Grabbed me. I took the packet and shoved it into the back of the kitchen cupboard, then ran out of the house to stop myself from giving in. To put myself in control again.